Grave Intentions
Jennifer Seasons
Chapter One
Highgate Cemetery, London
October 31, 1847
Early morning…
Thea Blackwood knewshe was being watched. Possibly by a policeman. Probably by her mother’s ghost. Either way, it wouldn’t stop her from getting the damn shot.
She crouched in the dew-soaked grass, skirts bundled up over one arm and her camera tripod planted with military precision between the graves of Reverend Elmsley and a long-forgotten Countess of Shoreditch. Fog curled low over the mossy stones, thick as clotted cream, winding around her boots and up her sleeves like fingers from the other side.
Perfect predawn light. Perfect stillness. And—if the spiritual rumblings were to be believed—a hell of a good haunting.
She adjusted the lens plate, her fingers sure despite the chill. Thea knew this cemetery better than she knew her own townhouse. Every creaking gate. Every angel with a cracked wing. Every path she’d taken in daylight and darkness, chasing whispers from the veil.
Now she was trespassing. Again. But only because she was sure,sure, that if she got the exposure just right today, her mother would finally show herself. Dead three months, and stillCeleste Blackwood managed to make Thea feel late to every conversation. Typical.
A twig snapped behind her. She didn’t flinch.
“Miss Blackwood.”
Thea resisted the urge to grin. Even when he said her name like it was a court summons, Alaric Ward managed to make her stomach twist in inappropriate, cravat-ripping ways.
“Inspector Ward,” she said, not turning. “How lovely of you to join us. You, me, and the swirling, howling beyond.”
He didn’t answer right away, just stood behind her like a thundercloud in a suit. “You pick today of all days to do this?” he asked finally.
“You say that like it’s a bad idea.”
“It’s All Hallows’, Thea.”
“Exactly. The veil is thinnest. The air is charged. Prime ghost-hunting conditions.”
“It’s also primegetting arrestedconditions.”
“How festive,” she murmured, fiddling with the lens. “Shall I etch that on our wedding invitations?”
His footsteps were deliberate now, measured, heavy enough to carry warning. Still, she could picture the crease between his brows, the faint tic of his jaw. “You’re trespassing,” he said, flatly.
“I’m mourning.”
“You’re violating no fewer than three cemetery ordinances.”
“And I brought biscuits,” she said, gesturing toward a tin beside her camera case. “Would a criminal bring custard creams?” She heard the soft exhale through his nose. The exact sound he made when she was getting on his nerves, which was often. In her opinion, he needed the exercise.
She turned her head just enough to glimpse him out of the corner of her eye—overcoat damp with fog, hair raked back like he’d run his hand through it ten times before finding her. Healways looked like he’d just emerged from a scuffle. Probably with his own morals.
“You swore you wouldn’t do this again.”
“I swore I wouldn’t do itwithout supervision.” She looked up at him properly this time. “Fortunately, you’re here. We’re practically married, after all.”
That earned her a grunt. Not even a growl. He never rose to her bait the way she wanted him to, which was part of the problem.
Thea returned to her camera, ignoring the burn of his gaze. She was used to being stared at—by clients and reporters. But Alaric’s stare wasn’t cold or curious. It was…intense.And infuriating. And sometimes, when he forgot to guard it, it was a little bit like reverence.
