Page 18 of Avidian
“Kitty Kat.”
My skin crawls. There’s only one person in the world who’s ever called me by that name, and it sure as hell didn’t sound the same on his tongue.
What the fuck is going on here?
My pulse thunders in my ears, and I glance around the room, half-expecting Damien to materialize again. But there’s nothing—no flicker of his ghostly form, no mocking grin. Silence, heavy and suffocating, pressing against me like a weight.
It’s a coincidence, I tell myself, though the thought doesn’t comfort me. Spirits don’t often share their secrets with one another—not in the afterlife, not in the in-between. But that fucking nickname…
My hands clench into fists at my sides, the chill in the room forgotten as something hot and sharp rises in my chest. If this is Damien’s idea of a game, he’s playing with the wrong person.
I pace the room, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound breaking the suffocating quiet. Coincidence, I repeat, trying to convince myself. But the unease won’t leave, gnawing at the edges of my mind.
I take a deep breath and think. But the name lingers, echoing in my head like a taunt. Whatever Damien is hiding is more twisted than I imagined. And if that name is more than a coincidence, then the stakes are now a hell of a lot higher.
The only person who’s ever called me Kitty Kat is Cade. And Cade is dead.
What the hell did I get myself into?
Damien spoke to me like he knows me—like he knew I was coming. Could Damien reach my family in the afterlife? Could he reach Cade? But why? And how?
I yank my ponytail free, running a shaky hand through my hair.Get a grip, Kat. The fucking name rhymes—it’s a shallow jab from some asshole spirit who doesn’t want me solving this case. That has to be it. Spirits love their tricks, their cryptic bullshit. This isn’t about Cade. It can’t be.
But I can’t stop thinking about him now, or about my parents. I haven’t let my mind go there in years, and yet here it is. All because of a dumb nickname.
Kitty Kat.
The timing couldn’t be worse. I had that dream about Cade the other night, told Malachi about the accident, dredged up things I’d buried deep for a reason. Now my brain is trying to connect dots where there aren’t any. That’s all it is, my head playing tricks on me.
But a darker thought creeps in, and it makes my stomach churn. What if all the spirits I’ve pissed off over the years have found a way to torment my family in the beyond?
My breath catches, and I stop pacing, gripping the edge of the dresser to steady myself.Relax, Kat. My fingers curl against the wood.You’re overthinking again. You’re letting your mind get away from you. The rational side of me tries to take control, grounding me. I’ve been through worse. I’ve faced spirits far more malevolent than Damien and lived to tell the tale. This is no different. It’s noise—a distraction meant to throw me off.
Focus.
I need a plan. Damien’s cryptic bullshit aside, I still don’t have anything solid to tell Marco. Hopefully, he’ll give me a few days before demanding answers. He usually gives me space when I’m working a case, and I’m counting on that now.
Do I contact Carmen again? The thought nags at me, but I push it down. I can’t keep pulling from the same shallow well and hoping for clarity. Carmen’s answers won’t fix this puzzle—not entirely. And I don’t know if I can handle summoning Damien again.
One step at a time. I need to piece together what I have, block out the noise, and figure out what the hell Damien knows—and why he’s focused more on me than his own death. Why not tell me who killed them?
Chapter Seven
RULE 7 OF THE NEW ORDER: KEEP YOUR ENEMIES CLOSE AND LEARN THEIR WAYS—SOMETIMES THE BEST VICTORY COMES FROM PRETENDING TO BE THEIR ALLY.
“I’ve been morethan patient, and my father has treated you well. But that can change if this isn’t resolved soon.” Orin’s voice is cold, echoing in my ears as he pins me against the wall.
It’s been two excruciating days since Damien showed up, and since then—nothing. Not a single sign of him, not a whisper from Carmen. But Marco wouldn’t rush me this soon. No, this is Orin trying to push me.
“I wasn’t aware Marco was in such a hurry,” I reply, forcing myself to stay calm, even though every inch of me wants to shove him aside.
Orin’s lips quirk up on one side, his eyes gleaming with mock sincerity. “I always have my father’s best interests in mind,” he says, stepping back with a wink. He opens his mouth to say something else, but then a soft knock interrupts him.
“Excuse me, miss, I brought you lunch. May I come in?”
I turn toward the door as a young redhead, wearing an apron and balancing a tray, pokes her head inside. She’s barely in her teens, far too young to be working in the kitchen.
“Yes, thank you,” I say, motioning for her to come in. She steps forward, carefully setting the tray on the side table by the window.
