Free Black Heart Loa by Adrian Phoenix

the fuckers who’d killed her would never draw in another breath, let alone enjoy another day.
    Layne never had the chance to say good-bye to his sister. And knowing it would be too dangerous for him while she was still inside, Poesy hadn’t tried. To keep fromspiraling into madness, to keep their personalities from blending and meshing, ghost and Vessel couldn’t interact.
    Instead, she’d given Gage a message to pass along to Layne.
    It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known. Gage has orders to kick your ass on my behalf whenever he catches you blaming yourself. Kick your ass hard. I love you, little brother. I wish I could stay, but I can’t.
    “Love you too,” Layne whispered into the wind.
    Layne had learned over the years to create his own Fortress of Solitude within his mind and had managed to keep his sanity intact. He sure as hell couldn’t say the same of his memories. A possession’s most deadly moment occurred when the departing passenger, accidentally or otherwise, ran the risk of hooking into a Vessel’s memories and unthreading a few as they vacated the premises.
    “No one wants to tell you, because they love you, bro,” Gage says, “and don’t want to see you hurt, but it’s happened again.”
    “Shit. What did I lose this time?”
    “See that woman over there? The yummy little brunette?”
    “Yeah, man. You kidding? That’s McKenna, our gorgeous shuvani.”
    “Yeeaahh. And she’s your wife too, bro.”
    “Fuck me. My wife?”
    His and McKenna’s relationship had never truly recovered from that loss. So even though he’d learned to love her once more, he’d forced himself to walk away before he broke her heart again.
    You deserve a man who will always remember you, buttercup.
    Most Vessels plummeted into despair and madness by their late teens or early twenties and ended their lives in messy and desperate ways.
    Layne was twenty-five. He knew the odds were stacking up mile-high against him.
    Clang! Clang! Clang!
    Seemed like the Hecatean master—or former master, actually, since the Brit was technically dead—refused to be ignored.
    Layne tightened his wet-fingered hold on the handlebar’s rubber grips, then focused his attention inward to the bubble of static encircling Augustine, keeping them both safe from any accidental memory/personality merging.
    Huh. Wonder if mental conversations fall under the texting/talking on cell phone no-no category while driving?
    Deciding that they probably did, Layne compromised with his stunted sense of caution and reduced the Harley’s speed, reluctant to pull over to the roadside.
     Layne sent.
    An image of Augustine as he’d appeared in life formed in Layne’s mind. Tall and lean, with penetrating, deep-set gray eyes and an unruly shock of nut-brown hair that kept tumbling over them, the Brit was aristocratic and elegant—or had been, anyway—in a tailored pale gray suit and French blue shirt, a cigarette held carelessly between two long fingers.
    
    Even inside Layne’s head, the illusionist “spoke” with a lofty British accent. <“Heard,” huh? I think eavesdropped is the word you’re actually looking for.>
    
    
    A blazing flash of white light freeze-framed the gray sky, then thunder cracked directly overhead. Layne’s heart catapulted into his throat. “Christ!”
    Ozone saturated the air. Layne felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. His skin prickled. Too fucking close. Blinking away retinal ghosts from his vision, he peered through the curtain of heavy rain, trying to make out