The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,9

knocking on the door of someone fated to die?

Since she was likely the first person to ever wonder that, she went with her gut and gave the door a timid tap. Nothing happened, so she knocked more loudly, then, when the home remained silent, wished for Grif’s celestial ability to unlock doors with the wave of a hand. Edging to the window, she tried peering inside instead. As threadbare as the curtains were, they still obscured what they were meant to. No light or movement could be seen within.

Drawing away, she bit her lip, then smiled to herself.

“You’re being stupid, Kitty-Cat,” she said, using Grif’s pet name for her to both chide and comfort herself, though she knew he certainly wouldn’t use it on her now. But, according to him, she was already disobeying celestial law, so what was earthly law compared to that? And what did that matter when weighed against a man’s life? If the wrong way of doing something was the only way, then was it really wrong?

The man from across the street popped his head back out of his home as she walked back down the stairs and reached her car’s trunk. “I forgot something,” she told him before he could speak, and hoisted a Maglite over her shoulder for her best Rosie the Riveter pose before heading back upstairs.

“Day-um, girl,” the man called after her, though he didn’t follow. Everyone, she thought smugly, respected Rosie.

Squared with the door once again, she gave knocking one final try. When there was still no answer, she shrugged, dropped her bag, then held her arms straight out from her body and whacked at the window’s edge.

It wasn’t as straightforward as it looked in the movies.

The blow made a striking thwack, vibrating up her arms, but did little else. A chuckle from behind turned into an insincere cough as she shot a glare over her shoulder at her amused audience of one. Early birds, she thought, turning back around. So annoying.

Pivoting, she used her wrists, elbows, and shoulders in tandem to whip the flashlight forward. This time a crack instantly splintered up the pane. Encouraged, Kit channeled her frustration, fear, and the swivel of her not-inconsiderable hips into the head of the flashlight.

Glass shattered gloriously, a tinkling destruction that made Kit wince and give thanks at the same time. Avoiding the jagged glass, Kit used the flashlight to push the dingy curtain aside, and peered into the still, soundless room. Smoke residue lingered in the air, a metallic reek like nothing Kit had ever scented before. Musty sweat hung heavy, too, and Kit spotted a lumpy mattress dropped mid-floor.

Wrinkling her nose, Kit searched for movement. “Hello?”

Her voice disappeared into the room, as if sucked into a black hole.

“See anything worth saving, sweetheart?” the man called from behind.

Kit didn’t answer, but took comfort in his presence. It reassured her that there was life outside of this stale cavern.

The window was too far from the door to unlock it from outside, and too high to risk climbing through without serious injury from the glass. So, lifting the Maglite again, she began hammering at the lock. If Grif’s report said that Jeap was in this home, then he was there.

Surprisingly, the knob gave way more easily than the glass, and she was pushing the door open a moment later. The toxic smoke and stranger’s sweat enveloped her in an unwanted embrace, but otherwise, the stillness of the room made Kit think of Halloween and haunted mansions and rooms meant to startle. That was pretend, though, frightful experiences manufactured to emphasize the fact that you were alive. Whatever awaited her on the other side of this threshold, she knew instinctively, held true horror.

Picking up her purse, she stepped inside anyway.

The man outside stopped laughing.

Kit shuddered as the silence enveloped her, but continued edging into the home. If air could blister, this air would be rife with boils. Yet, the front room itself was less frightening than surprising. It looked much like her dad’s old tool shed. Kit eyed the cans of paint thinner in the corner with confusion, gaze canvassing the household cleaners—none of which appeared to have ever been used on this room—and paused when she spotted the lighter fluid. Had Jeap and his friends been building something in here? Repainting the walls? Re-varnishing furniture?

But no, the only furniture she spotted was an entertainment unit, chipped and wobbly, the top two drawers missing so that darkness loomed inside like eyeless sockets. The walls