Page 17 of Ghost With the Most
Revise clause 9. Beneficiaries change—confidential. Burn after review.
Zelda hovered behind me, her breath catching. “That’s from a will, isn’t it?”
I looked up toward the empty mouth of the alley, heart pounding. “O’Connor was there,” I murmured. “And someone didn’t want Beau to make that meeting. I’ll bet they don’t want Beau talking now, either.”
The golden mist still clung to the corners of the square, secrets still unraveling in echoes behind us. But the path ahead? It was narrowing. And someone was running scared. Zelda met my gaze for a long moment. And then almost in sync, we raced to the funeral home.
7
We sprinted down the alley, boots slapping pavement slick with condensation and fallen petals. Somewhere behind us, a woman was shouting about stealing her sister’s boyfriend and her Tupperware, but I tuned it out. My whole focus zeroed in on that flicker of a shadow. Tall, wiry, with a lurch to his gait that didn’t quite match his usual self-importance. Ramsay O’Connor.
“You got eyes?” I called, dodging a rusted bin.
“He cut through the back lot!” Zelda’s voice rang ahead of me, her dress flaring behind her like a spell all its own. She vaulted over a low fence with the ease of someone who’d once hexed her way into the Olympics for ‘a laugh’.
We reached the edge of the funeral home grounds just as the side door slammed shut. A lock clicked.
“Damn,” I panted.
But Zelda didn’t stop. She slammed her palm against the old wood, calling power up through her bones, through the soles of her boots and into the grain. The enchantment flared, a hot pulse of static, and the door gave with a groan that sounded like it was personally offended.
We burst inside.
The temperature dropped like we’d stepped into a freezer. The air was too thick, layered with lavender oil, embalming fluid, and the telltale tang of paranormal activity. Lights flickered above us, casting long, swaying shadows through the corridor.
“Front parlour,” I whispered. “If he’s trying to hide something, it’ll be there!”
I darted through the embalming prep area that was full to the brim with cold steel, jars of chemicals, and a forgotten cup of coffee that had grown its own eco-system. My wards itched under my skin. The dead were restless. Watching. I reached the front parlour just as the doors creaked open on their own to reveal Ramsay reaching to swipe through the protective line of my salt circle.
“Don’t,” I said quietly, stepping forward.
He hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough to confirm everything I needed to know. He fixed me with a sharp smile, and the moment his hand brushed the charm, I felt it. The air snapped taut like a rubber band drawn to its limit. My skin prickled, the fine hairs on my arms rising in warning as a wave of magic shimmered just beneath the surface of the world.
“You don’t want to do that,” I added, letting my voice thread with the kind of calm that usually preceded storms or executions. “It’s not going to go how you think.”
Ramsay’s smile faltered. Not fully. Just the slightest hairline fracture at the edge of his composure. But I’d spent enough time around charming sociopaths to know that cracks always meant something was trying to break through. He slowly straightened, pulling his hand back and dusting it against his vest like he’d simply been brushing lint off his ego. “You’re very confident for someone living on borrowed time.”
The hallway felt narrower now, the shadows stretching long and strange against the polished floor. Wards hummed behind the wallpaper, the magic woven into the structure groaning like a restless sleeper sensing intrusion. My fingertips itched, the protective charms in my jeans pockets vibrating against the thread of something dark coiled beneath the floorboards.
“You came here for answers,” Ramsay said smoothly. “Let’s not pretend otherwise.” His eyes flashed. Not surprise. Not fear. Resentment. Like a child denied their favorite toy.
“Be careful what you dig up, Miss Hearst,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “Assjacket’s soil is full of bones. And not all of them stay buried out of politeness.”
I leaned in, just slightly, letting my pendant catch the dim light as it pulsed faintly. “And you should be careful which ghosts you piss off. Because some of them talk. And at least one of them wants to burn your name into every wall in town.”
The hum of the wards shifted briefly, but I felt it. A warning pulse. Like the building itself didn’t appreciate its occupant’s secrets spilling so freely. Maybe it wanted to keep them. Maybe it just didn’t like me. Either way, I had what I came for. I stepped back, slow and deliberate. “You didn’t kill him with your own hands,” I said. “That’s not your style. But you were part of it.”
Ramsay didn’t move, but the temperature dropped another notch. Not from his magic. From Zelda’s, as she joined us in the parlour.
“Well?” she asked, voice low.
“He didn’t confess,” I said. “But he might as well have.”
“On a scale of one to ‘evil sorcerer mid-divorce,’ how cursed is he?”
I exhaled. “Cursed enough I’m going to need bourbon and a backup plan.”
“Same,” she said brightly. “I brought cupcakes. Not those ones,” she clarified. Her green eyes flicked to Ramsay, and her expression shifted from theatrical delight to something sharper. Colder. She dropped her satchel to the floor, and from it came the sound of clinking glass, the hum of containment charms, and one faint, angry meow—probably Fat Bastard, kept close for emergencies. She ignored it, stepping further into the room.
