Page 27 of An Inheritance of Monsters

Footsteps sounded behind me and whirled around. Crispy held his camera, the boom mic resting one his shoulder, one eyebrow arched. “Who are you talking to?”

I glanced back at the darkened stacks of the warren. The shadows were empty now, his presence gone.

“I was just… talking to myself.”

Chapter8

Juno

Crispy hoisted his shoulder-mounted camera, groaning under the weight. “Okay, okay. That’s enough library shots.”

“Let’s go to the garden and start planning the historical segments.” I nibbled the end of my pencil, resisting the urge to flip to the back of my notebook and begin sketching Voraal.

I’d spent the last half an hour sitting at a desk, scribbling the beginnings of the voiceover while Sierra wandered around the library, reaching out to touch the spines of books, looking pensively down over the mezzanine.

Crispy would later turn this into filler shots, background segments for the narration.

He was doing great. My work, on the other hand, was suffering—mostly because I just couldn’t tear my mind away from the monsters.

So many questions sprang to mind. Could other people see them? Would the monsters show themselves as they grew less wary of the guests?

And, foremost in my mind… why wasIthe one they had chosen to appear to?

Was it only because of my ability to see ghosts?

And yet these monsters weren’t dead. I’d touched ghosts, even walked right through them. They were incapable of taking solid form.

Walking through one felt a lot like walking through an intensely cold, fine mist.

The monsters were warm. Solid. Physical.

They existed on this plane as much as we did, even if physics seemed to warp to their demands instead of the other way around.

“Stop chewing your pencil,” Crispy growled, trying to swipe it from my hand and pulling me from my thoughts. “You ruined a good shot.”

I leaned back, holding it overhead, but before Crispy could go for it again, his phone rang.

A cheery little tune erupted through the library as he fished it from his pocket, holding up the screen so Sierra and I could both see.

A picture of a little girl popped up, underlined by the name Sofia.

Crispy tapped the screen, bringing up video. “Hola, mi tesoro. Daddy misses you.”

Sofia’s giggles filled the air along with a high-pitched, “Hiiii!”

The little girl had Crispy’s big brown eyes and black curls that hung nearly to her waist. He was a single dad, and she lived with his grandparents whenever he traveled for work. But after years of filmingSpirit Squad, and plenty of phone calls, Sierra and I had gotten to know her quite well across the screen.

“Hi, hermosa niña,” I cooed, waving to her. Sofia had a mouthful of banana, waving a big chunk of it in her chubby little three-year-old’s fists.

Sierra waved, but today her smile seemed forced.

Crispy held the phone aside, pointing to the window, and we nodded. He trailed away, his voice occasionally rising to an audible pitch as he praised the little cutie for whatever she’d learned today.

Sierra finally looked at me, her arms wrapped around herself. Her pale blue eyes were narrowed. “You’re not going to fall apart on us, are you?”

I stopped chewing the pencil. A thousand retorts popped into my head.

Such as,I’ve discovered more about this manor in two days than you would in a year, but would you eventryto believe me?

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