Page 21 of Ghost With the Most
“I’ll flicker a light or two,” he promised, his grin softening into something that belonged to no one else. “Maybe rattle a windowpane. Real subtle stuff.”
I stepped back reluctantly, giving him space as Zelda stepped inside the room. Her lips were already moving in steady rhythm, voice lifting in a chant that felt older than bones, curling through the candlelight. The salt circle flared once, bright enough to make me blink, and then softened into a gentle gold glow. The kind of gold you’d find in a dream just before waking. The candles flickered, casting long shadows that didn’t feel ominous anymore. Just sacred.
Beau turned to me one last time, his expression unreadable.
“I hope wherever you end up,” I said, voice barely more than breath, “they’ve got bourbon, good music, and people who appreciate your flair.”
“And I hope you figure out whatever it is you’re running from,” he replied. “When it catches you, because it will, you better stare it down and make it regret ever chasing you.”
I smiled through the burn behind my eyes. Because that? That hit a little too close to the bone. “Dramatic to the end.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, darlin’.” He paused. “You’re wasted in Savannah,” he murmured, low and warm. “But not for long.”
I blinked. “What?”
He winked. “You’ll see.”
Then, with one last wink, one that might have broken me if I hadn’t been so damn proud of him, Beau Moran stepped into the light.
He didn’t fade, he moved… forward, upward, through. The gold shimmer swallowed him like silk catching fire, the flames burning brighter than any star. When he vanished, it was like the room exhaled. The salt circle crumbled. The air still held the faint scent of bourbon and beeswax, like he’d left just enough of himself to say I was here.
Zelda came to stand beside me, her arm brushing mine. “Well, he was kind of a pain in the ass,” she said, not unkindly.
“Yeah,” I murmured, blinking hard.
She nudged my elbow. “Drinks on me?”
“You always say that.”
“This time I mean it.”
We turned toward the front door, walking slowly through the funeral home that had, for the first time in a long time, nothing left to say. The sun had started to rise, soft and pink and full of promise. The veil had lifted. The ghost was gone.
But somehow, I wasn’t alone.
9
Zelda’s kitchen looked like an apothecary had exploded inside a boho thrift store.
Hanging herbs brushed my hair when I ducked under the crooked doorway. Dried lavender, mugwort, sage bundles bound in twine, some of them humming faintly if you got too close. The air smelled like rosemary and oven heat, with undertones of something vaguely alchemical and possibly illegal in five states. There were open spellbooks on every available surface, pages curling at the corners, some scrawled in Latin, some in runes that shimmered when I squinted. A half a lemon floated inside a teacup, bobbing in something thick and green that bubbled softly when I looked at it too long. Across the room, a large cat (possibly judging my fashion sense) stared at me from inside an oversized mixing bowl like I’d interrupted his nap and he was thinking of suing.
Zelda was barefoot, of course, perched on the edge of the counter like chaos incarnate, drinking something effervescent and gold from a cut-crystal goblet. Her lipstick was smudged in that signature way that suggested she'd either just hexed someone or made out with her Alpha in the pantry. Possibly both.
“To Ivy,” she said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. “The ghost-whisperer-slash-soul-saver herself.”
I let my bag thump to the floor and collapsed into the chair that looked the least likely to be cursed. “If I never smell ectoplasm again, it’ll still be too soon.”
Zelda poured me a glass of her sparkling mystery potion without asking. “You look like someone who needs wine and carbs.”
“Obviously. Got both?”
She grinned. “Please. This is my house.”
With a flick of her fingers, the oven groaned, rattled ominously, then belched out a curl of smoke and spat a perfectly golden garlic knot onto a plate. The plate levitated for a second, wobbling like it was being held by an invisible and slightly tipsy waiter. Zelda snatched it midair and presented it to me with all the pride of a culinary goddess descended from Mount Sass.
I bit into the knot. Garlicky, buttery divinity. “Okay. You get one brownie point.”
“Just one?” she asked, mock-offended.
