Page 52 of A Match Made in Coven
He had hit rock bottom.
Just as he kneeled down to pick up the broken glass, the room turned frigid once more, and the ghost of Mary Callidora materialized before him. Lorcan’s breath misted in the icy air, and he felt a surge of anger.
“What do you want? I don’t understand you,” he screamed. The ghost did her usual thing and wailed in response, her cry echoing off the walls.
Lorcan snatched the largest shard of glass from the floor and brandished it at her. “I’ll throw it again,” he threatened. “Don’t think I won’t.”
The ghost challenged him, her lifeless eyes boring into his. Lorcan’s jaw clenched, and with a roar of exasperation, he hurled the already broken piece of glass at her. Again, it flew through her and smashed against the shelves, sending books and trinkets tumbling to the floor in a chaotic avalanche.
As the last of the debris settled, Lorcan stood panting, his heart racing. The ghost hovered before him, silent and unmoving. Lorcan raked a hand through his hair, his mind reeling.
What was he doing? This wasn’t him. He was a collected wizard, a decent person. Not this broken, angry shell of a man. He didn’t throw things at people—dead or alive.
He stared up at the ghost and apologized. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this, and you didn’t deserve that”—he pointed loosely at her gushing wounds—“either.”
If ghosts could stomp their feet, Mary Callidora would be stomping hers now. She looked more exasperated with him than ever.
What was Mary Callidora trying to tell him? What secrets lay buried under the tragedy of her death?
He was desperate to find a deeper meaning in a spectral encounter that likely had none. He sat back on his heels, letting out a long sigh that echoed in the cold, empty room.
But then the ghost floated closer, her eyes still unblinking but somehow softer. She pointed a finger toward the mess he’d made.
“What are you, an anal-retentive ghost who can’t stand clutter on top of being annoying?”
Mary gave him a curt wail in response that sounded more like a huff.
“Okay, okay.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I’ll tidy up.”
Lorcan swept the glass shards into the bin with a spell and started to manually collect the fallen books. A glint of gold caught his eye. It came from a carved golden coffin, another family heirloom, that lay capsized on the floor with its lid ajar from the impact. Curiosity piqued, Lorcan reached for the coffin, his fingers brushing against the cool metal.
The moment he touched it, the ghost wailed—eager this time, if he had to guess. He was detecting a pattern in the way Mary howled. “What is it? What’s so special about this coffin?”
The ghost pointed at the coffin, her opalescent finger trembling with urgency. Lorcan frowned, but obliged, lifting the lid.
Lorcan peered inside, then back at Mary. “It’s empty.” He watched for her reaction. But instead of disappointment, the ghost wailed louder, her translucent hands gesturing. “Mary,” he tried again, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure what you expect me to—” He started lowering the lid, and that’s when she lost it. Her wails sharpened into near-screams, her form flickering.
“Alright, alright!” He kept the coffin open. “You’re committed to this thing, huh?” With a sigh, he crouched down for a second look, running his fingers along the inside. Just wood. Just—He paused. His fingertip brushed something small, a sliver of metal embedded near the base. A lever. He flipped it and as he did, a stack of letters spilled out from a hidden compartment, fluttering to the ground like fallen leaves.
Lorcan’s eyes widened as he picked up a letter, his gaze skimming over the faded ink. “My Dear Mary,” he read aloud. “Thy beauty haunts my dreams, a vision of grace most divine.” He could sympathize with the sentiment as he took in the rest of the text. “How I long for the day when we may walk hand in hand through the gardens, free from the prying eyes that seek to keep us apart. Until then, I shall content myself with these stolen moments of quill and parchment. Eternally thine, Lysander.”
Wait, wasn’t Lysander his ancestor who had supposedly slain Mary?
He grabbed another letter, this one in a different handwriting. “My Beloved Lysander. The whispers grow louder with each passing day. I fear some among my coven look upon our love with disdain. They speak of bloodlines and powers as if our hearts were mere chattels to be bartered. But know this, my darling—my love for thee is as boundless as the night sky. Mary.”
He’d found love letters, a secret correspondence between Lysander Black and Mary Callidora. His ancestor and the ghost who now haunted him had been in love.
Lorcan’s head snapped up, his eyes locking with the ghost’s. “Is this what you wanted me to find? Is this the key to understanding what happened to you?”
The ghost nodded, relieved and sorrowful. Lorcan scratched his head, trying to make sense of this new revelation. If he rushed to Sarah Michelle with the reveal that Lysander and Mary had been in love, she’d only tell him he’d proven Lysander had a motive. That the stabbing could’ve been a mad act of jealousy.
“Just because you were in love doesn’t mean Lysander didn’t kill you,” Lorcan muttered, more to himself than to the ghost. “Crimes of passion, isn’t that what they call them?”
The ghost screamed in disapproval. Lorcan flinched, realizing he’d struck a nerve. “All right, all right, I’m sorry.” He dipped his head in a silent offering of peace. “But you have to admit, this doesn’t exactly clear Lysander’s name.”
The ghost’s face contorted with anger, and for a moment, Lorcan thought she might attack him. But then, as quickly as it had come, the rage vanished, replaced by a look of profound sadness. She shook her head, her eyes pleading with him to understand.
And then, without warning, she poofed into thin air, abandoning Lorcan alone with the letters and his thoughts.
