A sad smile played over PJ’s lips. “His daughter’s birthday was coming up. As he waited, he thought about how to approach getting her the playhouse she desired. With barely two coins to rub together, it seemed an impossible feat, but he knew about a second-hand market around the corner that gave him some hope.”

  Jasmine grew teary as she looked down at the bloated corpse. How many innocent people had to die at the hands of this monster? He was just a man with a family, and he became her pet, useful for one time only.

  PJ continued. “He was called forward. The man at reception told him to go downstairs to the kitchen to meet the management.” She placed a finger to her temple. “I saw it through his memory. Descending the steps. A dingy kitchen—no, a laboratory. A little girl standing next to the counter, cooking. Steam pouring. A stale smell in the air. The girl met his eyes. Something rushed at him, tiny and unrecognizable. After that…”

  “Pain?” Jasmine finished.

  “Pain,” PJ echoed. She opened her eyes and cricked her neck. Her hands scratched her sagging flesh as though the creatures had invaded her body and were beneath her skin as they spoke. She grunted, leaving raw red marks across her arms.

  Mr. Hughes took her hands delicately in his own, keeping her from doing damage to herself. It was a tender point of contact and something it seemed he was used to. Once again, Jasmine wondered about their relationship. How long had they known each other? Had this happened before?

  “Easy,” Mr. Hughes soothed her, lowering her hands to her lap. “It’s okay. It’s over.”

  She looked at him earnestly. “I’ve given you what you came for?”

  Mr. Hughes nodded. “Yes, Phyllis. All that and more. I thank you.”

  PJ nodded sadly. Her eyes met the corpse. “Would you mind clearing that out of my place? It’s starting to stink. I’m happy to help you, but not at the expense of my home’s niceties.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Hughes replied. He turned to Jasmine. “You’ll help me this time around, won’t you?”

  “That’s it?” Jasmine asked, turning between the pair. “That’s what we get?”

  Mr. Hughes looked at Jasmine as though she had spat in PJ’s face. “We’ve got what we came for and more. We have a point on the map. A place to investigate. You’re lucky to have had the chance to enter this temple. There are few with the privilege.”

  Jasmine lowered her gaze to PJ. “I’m sorry. I meant no offense.”

  “None taken,” PJ assured her. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d really appreciate some peace and quiet. Taking a reading like that takes a lot out of a woman. Especially one who borders on the cusp of death as I do.”

  Mr. Hughes motioned to the body. They tucked the tarp around the corpse, and Jasmine took the head while Mr. Hughes took the legs. They carried the dead man from the trailer, leaving PJ to close her eyes and nod off in her chair.

  The cool night air soothed Jasmine’s skin. She hadn’t realized how clammy she had become or how desperately she needed fresh air after that concoction of perfume and death stink. Guided by Mr. Hughes, they deposited the body of the man into the trunk. When the trunk slammed closed, Mr. Hughes clapped his hands. “Don’t worry. I know a dumpster where we can get rid of this guy. There’ll be no trace of him come morning.”

  Jasmine put her hands in her pockets as she neared the passenger-side door. “There’s not any chance that your dumpster in question lies along Jemaine’s trash route, is there?” She gave Mr. Hughes a knowing smile.

  “How do you know of Jemaine?” Mr. Hughes asked.

  Jasmine shrugged. “Just an educated guess, I suppose.”

  They drove in silence along the dark roads, working their way back to the city. The headlights shone on the asphalt, giving the illusion that the road was like a treadmill beneath them, and they were static. They passed quiet houses and empty gas stations until they eventually were driving down a long, wide street with large dumpsters lined along the brick walls.

  With a cautious glance around, they worked together to swing the man into the dumpster. On the count of three, he flew inside, finding his forever bed among the trash bags. Mr. Hughes turned back to the car without a word.

  “That’s it?” Jasmine asked. “No reverence, no respect, no grieving for an innocent man?”

  Mr. Hughes studied her for a moment. “Feelings will get you killed in this place.”

  “They’ve served me well so far,” Jasmine contended.

  Mr. Hughes nodded. “No grief from me. Just a means to an end. If you want to say your prayers, then do so. We’ve only got so many hours until morning comes, and we’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ll wait in the car.”

  Jasmine signed the cross over her body, silently offering a farewell to Toby. It seemed the least she could do, given the circumstances, and far more than she had done for the others who had suffered that night.

  When she finally climbed into Mr. Hughes’ sedan, he was waiting with the engine idling and a hand on the gearshift.

  Jasmine took a long breath. She turned to face him, her mind decided. “I suppose…given all that you’ve done and shared with me tonight, I should probably live up to my end of the bargain.”

  Mr. Hughes’ grip tightened on the steering wheel.

  Jasmine sat back in her chair, eyes on the road ahead. “Let’s go somewhere to talk. I’ll tell you what I know.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  They found an empty corner table, away from the harsh halogens of the diner. The place was kitted out with fading posters of former celebrities who had once visited and a few shelves lined with trophies dotting the walls. A young woman took their orders—two espressos and two cheesecakes—before leaving them both in peace.

  Mr. Hughes sat in stony silence, looking starkly out of place in the establishment. The lights highlighted his gray hue, and he had an air of another time about him. Jasmine found herself studying him, then looking away when he met her gaze.

  “I don’t often eat out,” Mr. Hughes stated.

  “Your girlfriend is a lucky woman,” Jasmine quipped.

  Mr. Hughes saw no humor in it.

  The waitress returned with their orders. Jasmine and Mr. Hughes exchanged a glance before pounding their espressos, and Jasmine couldn’t help but note Mr. Hughes’ apparent disinterest in the scalding beverage. Jasmine looked forlornly at her cheesecake, knowing it would taste of ash. She took a bite anyway, and her suspicion was confirmed when it slushed tastelessly between her teeth. She reached for the pepper and sprinkled it on top.

  “Interesting technique,” Mr. Hughes observed.

  Jasmine shrugged. “We all have our quirks.”

  “Let me give that a try.” Mr. Hughes took the pepper from Jasmine and shook a liberal helping over his own cheesecake so that it was more gray and brown than white. He scooped a mouthful. “Not too shabby.”

  Jasmine cocked her head, a question on the tip of her tongue that she was unafraid to ask.

  Mr. Hughes waved a hand. “As nice as this is, I believe you brought us here to talk.”

  “I did,” Jasmine agreed.

  “So, go on, then. Speak,” Mr. Hughes stated, staring intensely.

  Jasmine chuckled. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with the napkin. “Where to begin?” She cleared her throat. “I did know Deshawne Pierce.”

  Mr. Hughes gave a wolfish grin.

  “I also knew the circle,” Jasmine added. “Or, some of them, at least. About a year ago, I encountered Deshawne Pierce in a bar. I had no idea who he was, and I had no idea what he was about. All I knew was that he was charming, good-looking, friendly, and I was drunk.”

  Jasmine dove into the tale from the beginning, filling Mr. Hughes in on all of it. She told him of the morning after, when she woke up in the penthouse suite. She described to him the cakes and drinks and the revolver loaded with silver bullets that sent her reeling off the balcony. She told him of awakening at the construction site and finding Eddy and the Nest.

  “That place has been good to you, huh?” Mr. Hughes asked.

  “It has,” Jasmine replied. “Might be why holding my friends hostage wasn’t a great idea to get the information you needed.”

  Mr. Hughes waited patiently for Jasmine to continue.

  She explained her meeting with a dark stranger one night, omitting Qadir’s name. Though he was pivotal to the story, she found herself strangely protective of the man. Maybe it was because he had saved her life multiple times, first in an abandoned tool shed and later on a rocky bluff, or maybe it was because her father had shown a fondness for him, too. In a way, it was almost like having a long-lost brother she hadn’t been aware of.

  The whole time Jasmine filled Mr. Hughes in, detailing her reunion with her grandmother and her working her way into the pack, he remained respectfully quiet, patiently waiting for Jasmine to finish her tale. Jasmine got emotional as she spoke of her quest into the inner ring of the Weres, of Kendrick and Delilah, and their training into the hell-hide forms. She told him of Eli, though she also kept him nameless—not that it seemed to matter. She saw a recognition in Mr. Hughes’ eyes that made her feel uncomfortable. She told him of the Meat Shack and the zombie attack, leading all the way to Deshawne and his missions that culminated in their attack up on the bluff.

  “It should have been a simple mission,” Jasmine explained. “Cover for the circle and meanwhile work undercover to tear them apart. Everything was planned and coordinated. We had two Were factions on our side and the element of surprise.” She sighed. “But it wasn’t that simple.”

  “It rarely is,” Mr. Hughes pointed out.

  Jasmine nodded solemnly and finished her tale. She told him about the circle and their ritual, paying special attention to their intended sacrifice of infants. When she described Deshawne’s attempt to steal her undead immortality and channel it for unknown nefarious purposes, his ears pricked up.

  It was at that point that Jasmine tweaked her story. She knew better than to give anyone all the information on Deshawne. If anyone knew he was living an eternal life strapped to a rock in the depths of a lake beneath the rocky bluff, they might be tempted to free him. It would also put a hole in the watertight seal of the last year of operating with Eli and Eddy to ensure the Deshawne “suicide” went uninvestigated. Too many lives were on the line.

  “It was when the ritual was disturbed by my brethren that it tore him apart,” Jasmine revealed. “The circle attacked, spawning spirits and undead of their own, and the battle was fought up on the bluff. Deshawne was ripped to pieces by his own greed, and we slayed the circle up on the rocks where they stood.” She looked down at the table, seeing her grandmother’s final moments in her mind’s eye. “We had no choice. It was all we could do to survive. To keep the children alive. We did what we had to. We gave everything that night. It’s not one that I’m happy revisiting.”

  For a long time, Mr. Hughes stared at Jasmine with that same intensity that had Jasmine wondering if he wasn’t reading her mind. Eventually, he gave a soft sigh and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Jasmine. That’s a really disappointing answer for me.”

  “I can only give you the truth,” Jasmine maintained. “There it is. I can’t determine whether that should please you or not. You asked, and I answered. It’s that simple.”

  “You don’t understand,” Mr. Hughes clarified. “I’m not disappointed with you. It’s just…I was really hoping that you would be able to find a way to connect me with the circle of peers.”

  Jasmine smirked. “I knew that was your intention from the start. I just knew it.”

  “You don’t understand,” Mr. Hughes protested. “I’m not into playing sides and harnessing the power of the darkness for nefarious gain.”

  “Then what are you looking for?” Jasmine pushed. “Because all I know is that those who align themselves with the circle are playing on the side of evil, and I’ve done all I can to minimize the chances of their reach. So what is it you want?”

  Mr. Hughes straightened in his seat, lacing his fingers together on the table. “I want to die.”

  Jasmine frowned, taken aback. The waitress walked past, carrying a tray with a milkshake and burger for a lone customer at the far side of the diner. Jasmine was almost certain she was slowing to eavesdrop on their conversation.

  Mr. Hughes sat back and took a long breath. “I am sorry for my bluntness.”

  “No,” Jasmine replied. “It’s about time you got to the point. What do you mean you want to die? Who…or probably the better question is, what are you?”

  Mr. Hughes stared off into the distance, losing himself in his own head. “I am a revenant. One of the vengeful dead. Well, I suppose that’s what I was meant to be.”

  “The vengeful dead?” Jasmine repeated.

  Mr. Hughes continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “I’ve lived a long life on this earth, longer than anyone I know of. I never wanted immortality. I don’t want to live forever. When I came to you, it was in the hopes that you would be able to lead me to the circle of peers. I believed that their necromantic powers would be able to help me find the sweet release of final death when I was ready.”

  “What made you believe that?” Jasmine asked. Curiosity made her lean in closer.

  “I had experience with them in the past,” Mr. Hughes claimed. “A long time ago. A man named Tylindale MacConaugh brought me into the world of the undead, using the dark arts to turn me into one of the first awakened on this planet.” A sad smile stained his face. “Not that it was all plain sailing at the time.”

  Jasmine sipped her drink, trying her best to conceal her magnified interest. This man mentioned her father. Did that mean that he knew they were related? If he did, he showed no sign. “What happened?”

  “It was the sixties,” Mr. Hughes answered. “I was an unwilling volunteer. My murderer fled. I died. Dr. MacConaugh found me by chance and was kind to me as he used me for his experimentation. He was reassuring and worked his magic on me, ensuring that I would once again live.” He scoffed. “Though, it’s not always that simple, is it? Even the undead are meant to have their time. Eventually, all creatures wither to dust, given enough years. But my journey was not so smooth.”

  Mr. Hughes leaned closer to Jasmine. She could smell something on him that she couldn’t describe as she looked over his gray skin. “When I was first turned, I went after those who had stolen my life. I chased them down with knives and fury, and brought their own deaths upon them. I was furious, driven by anger.” A nostalgic smile returned to his lips as he waved a hand. “You’ll find it in the papers if you look hard enough. Old mob history. A story for another day.”

  “Sounds like an eternal hell,” Jasmine mused, trying not to show her understanding of the parallels of her own situation.

  “It is.” Mr. Hughes frowned. “I’ve tried many times over the years, Jasmine. I don’t know what went wrong with the transformation, but immortality stuck. I’ve lived for longer than anyone is meant to. I’ve walked among the living and the dead, and yet I can neither live nor die, not truly. I’ve thrown myself off buildings. I’ve aggravated mobs to litter me with silver bullets. I’ve slept in fire. On all occasions, my body has fought for me, returned me to this state, and pinned me into this plane of existence. I want out, once and for all.”

  For the first time since meeting him, Jasmine felt sorry for the man. Her fingers tightened into fists, and her nails left small crescent shapes in her palms as she found herself connecting with him on a deeper level. Was this how she was doomed to live? Was Jasmine immortal, an experiment also created by her father? Was the man sitting before her a vision of her own future?

  An idea popped into her head. “Wait! You can kill the undead. I was informed that severing the head from the body would do it. A clean strike, and you’re off into oblivion.”

  Mr. Hughes looked at her with pain in his eyes. “Have you tried it?”

  Jasmine shook her head.

  “Good,” Mr. Hughes retorted. “You’ve never known a greater hell.”

  He chose not to expand on this, leaving Jasmine with a thousand moving pictures in her head.

  “Can’t you just carry on living?” Jasmine wondered, now speaking from her own curiosity. “Isn’t immortality a gift? There are millions across the world who would give up everything for an eternal existence.”

  “Everyone wants what they don’t have,” Mr. Hughes returned coldly. “The long-married man craves a night of frivolity. The poor envy the rich. The rich find misery in their freedom and crave the simple life. We all want what’s on the other side of the bridge.” He scowled. “For the last sixty years, the world has continued to move on. When I was first turned, the Beatles were taking the world by storm, Kennedy was in power, and we lived through the Cuban missile crisis. Now picture where we are. I’m telling you, when you have forever to live, you slip outside the world. You find yourself on a treadmill, the world blurring by. Foods and friends and art and music change. It’s a marathon you can’t keep up with. I already don’t know this world, Jasmine, and I am tired. Fatigued. Exhausted. With every passing day, I feel more and more disconnected from the earth beneath my feet.”

  “Maybe try finding a hobby?” Jasmine offered, already knowing the suggestion was unhelpful but feeling more desperate to see some light at the end of the tunnel.

  “I have.” Mr. Hughes twiddled his thumbs. “I built my empire. I found those in the city that needed help, and I gave it to them, employing the underserved to put them to good use. I ran my outfit because it gave me something to do, something to focus on and help the days go by, but even that motivation has turned to ash.” He met Jasmine’s gaze. “I just want out. I’m done.”

  Jasmine recalled the man who had found her in the Nest a couple of nights ago and held her friends at gunpoint. She tracked their journey in her mind, trying to work out at what point it had come down to this. What he was asking for was assisted suicide through a cultish group of assholes who, while their numbers had thinned, she believed were still somewhere out there.