Beautiful Death by Christina Moore Page A

that you would get called your full name and scolded by your parents no matter how old you were.
    “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me…”
    The look Ash shot him said he was indeed not kidding. Tristan gave him a look back, letting him know he didn’t buy it, but inside, below the tingle around his navel, he was a little worried. What if Ash was telling the truth? What if all those outlandish things really existed?
    Shit.
    When they reached the front door, Ash brought one of those slender, leather-clad legs up in a quick kick. The wood shattered, sending broken splinters and dust inward.
    A snorted sort of snicker shot out of Tristan’s mouth. Guess they weren’t hiding the fact that they were there. “That’s one way in.” He expected a sneering look for his comment, but the one he received was pleased. Ash was enjoying himself.
    Ash looked into the dark interior and yelled, “I know you are here!” He lowered his voice to a husky sort of growl. “I can smell the blood from here.”
    Tristan looked to Ash again, wide-eyed. His face was masked by the shadows of the building but he could clearly see the dark smile.
    Inside, the floorboards creaked loudly announcing their progress through the house. To the right a narrow stairway with no railing led up. Most of the steps were broken and burnt, proving a hell of a trip up, or down. To the left they passed the open side of the house where the living room had been. The whole place reeked of mold and smoke, and looked like it was ready to come down any second. He wondered how safe they were.
    “Wait,” Tristan whispered. Ash kept on walking, ignoring him. “He-ey,” he hissed and reached out. He grabbed the edge of Ash’s kimono sleeve, pulling him to a stop. The other man turned, expression clear of any emotion as he looked up at Tristan. He snapped his hand back to rub his palm across his pants. He’d broken out into a sudden cold sweat, though it wasn’t hot inside the house. He didn’t know why he stopped Ash, only that he felt an overwhelming sensation suddenly. Something told him, “bad, evil. Stop.” But more than that, “danger.” He didn’t understand the feeling, couldn’t even begin to explain it, only that he’d had it once before, more than a year ago. Right before the car accident that killed his family.
    Ash’s eyes softened and his lips almost curved into a wry smile. Without saying anything, he turned away and started towards the back of the house again. After a few seconds of gathering himself, Tristan followed behind, sticking close to Ash. Still, he couldn’t shake off that bad feeling. He was ready to leave. Screw talking to whoever they were supposed to, coming here was a bad idea. He just knew.
    They reached a doorway and that was when Tristan noticed Ash had pulled his katana at some point. He stopped and let the armed man go first into the next room. Ash disappeared past the threshold. Fifteen deafening silent seconds later, after there was no screaming or sounds of anything trying to eat Ash, Tristan let out the breath he’d been holding and followed in after him. There was no one there but them. 
    “Who paints their kitchen red?” Tristan mumbled under his breath. As he looked around, taking in every inch of the space, he realized it wasn’t that the room was painted red, but that it was covered in blood. Raw meat scattered across the entire kitchen—the floor, the walls, the countertops—stuck to every surface. It looked like someone had tossed a rack of raw meat into a blender and turned it on high, forgetting the lid. There was just so much carnage. And as he met the cloudy brown gaze of a single, extracted eyeball sitting on the countertop directly across from him, he realized what he was looking at.
    Oh fuck. It was a person.
    Tristan took a step back, but couldn’t turn away. He felt dizzy and lightheaded, the smell of blood overwhelming. He could almost taste the salty tang of it in his mouth, coating his tongue