Fog wreathed theheadstones like it, too, needed a moment to catch its breath. Silence settled, heavy, holy, and edged with awe. From just beyond the veil, two familiar figures hovered.
“Well,” said Alice, hands on her ghostly hips as she floated a scandalous six inches above her own stone, “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Celeste was quiet. Still. Watching Alaric shake out his bruised knuckles, tuck that ridiculous waistcoat tighter, and glance at the Blackwood family plot with a jaw set like justice.
“I mean, that’sour boy,” Alice went on, her grin so wide it nearly cracked the ether. “Did you see the way he decked that man? Bam! Right in the jaw!”
“He didn’t have to do that,” Celeste murmured at last, voice quieter than the wind.
Alice turned. “Pardon?”
“That wasn’t for show. That wasn’t to impress Thea. No one was here to see, to witness. That was—” She blinked hard. “That was forus.”
Alice beamed so hard she practically glowed. “Darling, you’refeeling things.I could cry. If I had tear ducts. Which I do not.”
“Don’t make it weird.” Celeste rolled her eyes.
“Oh no, we’re celebrating,” Alice crowed, twirling midair. “He bled for us, Celeste. Foryou.For your azaleas and your bloody lilacs and the daughter who never listened to a word you said but somehow turned out perfect anyway.”
Celeste pressed her ghostly lips together. “She did, didn’t she?”
“Andhejust punched a man for trying to steal your funeral urn. That’s practically a vow recital, if you ask me.”
“He’s not so bad.”
“Oh-ho! Iknewit. Do you hear that, world?” Alice yelled into the swirling mist. “Celeste Blackwood approves!”
“I saidnot so bad,” Celeste snapped. “Let’s not write the invitations just yet.”
Alice looped her arm through her daughter-in-law’s with spectral satisfaction. “Oh, we will. I’ll even haunt the cake.”
*
Down at Metro Station…
The Metropolitan Policestation was lit like a mausoleum atdusk, lamplight flickering, shadows yawning across floorboards, and the scent of old ink and damp wool heavy in the air.
Alaric rubbed a hand across his jaw, smearing dried dirt from Highgate down to his collar. His coat was torn at the hem, his left knuckle was split, and the bastard grave robber’s blood had long since dried in the crease of his palm. There were bruises blooming beneath his waistcoat and a wretched stain on his trousers he was certain wasn’t his—but none of that mattered.
Not when he had to sit here filling out forms while Thea Blackwood was likely upstairs in her grandmother’s townhouse, curled up in some dim little sitting room, mourning the mother she’d just lost—again.
Damn it.
He shifted at the narrow desk, scowling at the forms spread out before him.Name of perpetrator. Date and time of arrest. Location of incident.
“Highgate Cemetery,” he muttered, pen scratching furiously. “In the morning. All Hallows’. Because the gods enjoy irony.”
“Talking to yourself, Ward?”
Castlebury’s gruff voice emerged from the doorway, carrying with it the aroma of pipe smoke and the weariness of a man who’d seen too much—all of it stupid. The chief inspector stepped into the room, his eyes sharp despite the hour.
“I’ve had worse days,” Alaric replied, not looking up. “But only barely.”
Castlebury grunted and leaned on the opposite desk. “So. Two would-be robbers, three damaged headstones, one sacred plot nearly desecrated, and a camera plate that somehow managed to go off without a living soul manning it.” He paused. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about… ghost interference, would you, Ward?”
Alaric stilled. Slowly set down his pen. Met Catamount Castlebury’s gaze. “No, sir. But if I did, I wouldn’t put it past any of Thea’s ancestors to hurl a gargoyle to make a point.”
Castlebury’s mustache twitched. “Damn peculiar family, that one.”
