Page 3 of Edge of Wonder

“The ghost, you mean?”

“Yes, of course, the ghost. I already paid half your fee. A bloody fortune if you ask me,” he added under his breath.

I flashed him a smile. “Vanquishing ghosts isn’t cheap, and I’m the best there is. You didn’t mention this was a rush job. I charge extra for that.”

Andrew scraped a hand through his stringy hair, his scowl deepening. “Just get it done. My uncle left me his house when he died, but I refuse to share it with him after the fact.”

“Relax,” I said and drained my glass. “I’ll make sure your uncle crosses over, and then you’ll have the house all to yourself. I’ll expect the rest of my money then.”

Andrew shoved aside his lunch and threw a handful of coins onto the table. “You’ll get your money as soon as the ghost is gone. But I should warn you, my uncle was a grumpy old man in life and apparently a troublemaker in death. He’s scared away every worker I sent out to repair the place. Tools have gone missing. Doors open and close on their own. Strange sounds are coming from the attic, and he even knocked a painting off the wall. You’ll have your hands full with him.”

I waved away his warning. “A single ghost isn't even a challenge. I guess you haven’t heard of the haunting at Lancaster Manor. Now that was a test. Six evil spirits and a banshee for good measure. The manor’s entire foundation nearly crumbled beneath my feet.” Reaching into my rucksack, I pulled a thin booklet from its depths and placed it on the table. “A well-known publisher documented my exploits in one of their special editions. Take it. It’s on the house.”

Andrew pushed out of his chair. “Keep your propaganda and just do your job. I’ll be at the inn.” He slapped a ring of keys next to his bowl and gave a half-hearted wave to the barkeep as he stalked out of the pub.

I reached for the keys and the booklet and then tucked them both inside my rucksack. The items landed next to a packet of letters held together with string. I stared at them for a moment before closing the bag and signaling the barkeep for a refill.

Another drink was warranted. Maybe even a third. I’d almost forgotten about the letters, and even though I planned to stay in a full-blown haunted house for the foreseeable future, I needed to take the edge off a different kind of haunting.

Twelve months' worth of correspondence had piled up at my last known residence before I’d gone to collect it. Even after all this time, just seeing my mother’s familiar handwriting gave way to feelings of guilt.

But that’s why the letters keep coming, isn’t it?

Years ago, I walked away from everything I’d ever known, and after a lengthy period of scraping to get by, fortune and fame finally followed. A destiny of my own making. Unlike the one that had been plotted for me since I was a child.

My mother might be an oracle, but I’d had my fill of mirrors and their vague depictions of my future. The words fateful encounter sent icy shivers down my spine, and as far as I was concerned, destiny could find some other sucker to babysit a potential princess hell-bent on fulfilling a doomed prophecy.

I had better things to do.

And even if the life I’d chosen had hurt those closest to me, at least I was living it on my terms. The guilt that slipped through now and then was a price I was willing to pay.

Of course, an extra pint never hurt to numb the feelings, either.

Taking a deep pull from my drink, I surveyed the locals packed into the crowded pub. The back of my neck tingled, and I couldn’t shake the feeling of being hunted. Once it started, the only remedy was to move on to the next job.

I never stayed in a place long enough to settle down, and this small fishing village was no exception. The plan was to clear out Andrew’s persistent ghost, get paid, and then skip town. With luck, I’d be gone before anyone could track me—or worse—before the letters arrived. And they would. They always did.

Destiny be damned.

I tipped my mug in a mock salute and muttered, “Your move, princess. Catch me if you can.”

***

The Granger cottage was nestled inside a small clearing of trees a few miles from town. A sign at the base of a long, overgrown trail warned visitors to keep away, and when I finally reached the cottage, I saw why. Even without the rumors of a haunting, the place looked grim.

Thick vines choked the exterior walls, and weeds sprouted like miniature forests through a jagged cobblestone path. The roof was riddled with holes that barely supported a crumbling chimney, and at the entrance, a wooden door was secured with a rusty chain.

I climbed the rotting porch steps, wincing as they bowed and groaned beneath my weight. The sound was a sad accompaniment to chirping birds and the soft rush of water from a stream at the edge of the property.

Dropping my pack at my feet, I drank from the canteen strapped to my side. The cool water soothed my parched throat, and I wiped my brow with my sleeve. Even in the shade, the heat was oppressive, and as the sun dipped below the treetops, I wasn’t sure the evening air would usher in any relief.

I walked the perimeter of the wrap-around porch and peered through the filthy windows, trying to get a feel for what lay inside. Shadows darkened the first floor, and except for a long workbench pushed against the wall, most of the furniture was draped in gray dust cloths. Various odds and ends covered the table, and when I cupped my hands around my face to examine them closer, I realized they were parts of a clock.

More clocks hung on the wall, their hands eerily still as if their movement had ceased along with their owner’s heart.

According to his file, Julian Granger had been a recluse and an eccentric. He had few friends and even fewer family members, and he’d spent his days holed up in his house, repairing clocks.

“A peaceful existence, if you ask me,” I muttered as I unlocked the front door and stood at the entrance. Stale, humid air washed over me, and I wrinkled my nose at the musty scent.

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