The small flame of the match danced in the dark, casting long, jittery shadows against the walls. Bella kept her hand steady, the weight of the pistol a familiar comfort in her grip, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Elias?" she breathed, the name tasting like ash. "You’re supposed to be dead. He buried you. I saw the grave."
The man chuckled—a dry, raspy sound that made the hair on her arms stand up. He flicked the match, and the sudden darkness felt heavier than before.
"Graves are just places where people put things they don't want to look at anymore, Seventh sister Bella. Or things they're too afraid to keep."
Ethan shifted beside her, his movement a soft scrape of leather against the floor. "Who is this?" Ethan demanded, his voice low and sharp
