“That's the plan.”
“Carry on, then. But do get some rest before sunrise, Miss Salem. You will be needed tomorrow, bright and early. Preparation for the trials must continue as planned.”
Ah, yes, the dreaded trials that absolutely nobody in Darkbirch wants to undertake.
“Yes, sir,” I reply with a smile so fake it hurts my face. I bolt before he changes his mind.
Sunlight stabs through the library’s gothic windows like some celestial middle finger. Crap. Hours have passed. Been here all night. My eyes feel like they've been sandpapered, but at least I didn't face-plant into a book and start drooling. I respect books too much. Instead, my cheek is smashed from leaning against the hard oak table and my neck feels like someone tried to wring it out overnight.
But I found a few dragon texts I somehow missed before, buried in a wrong section, and they are actually decent. Not the “rawr, burn villages, hoard gold” garbage they feed first-years. These scaly bastards had their crap together—magical systems that would make our professors weep, fancy noble houses, the works. They even played nice with humans sometimes.
I squint at another journal by some lady named Margot Hedder who apparently had a dragon fetish for House Braynor.
“Military branch,” I mumble, trying to decode handwriting that looks like a drunk spider fell in an ink pot. “Seriously, Margot, would proper penmanship have killed you?”
My eyes slam shut involuntarily. They burn like I've been staring at the sun. Or a dragon's ass. Whatever.
Deep breath. Ezekiel, my many-times-great-grandfather, wasn't just some dusty old potion-brewing ‘pa from theSalem family highlight reel. Dude was a research nerd like yours truly. Probably why I can actually commune with him, even if I got the ghost-whisperer gene way later than Esme did with Grandma Esther. Two brains are better than one, especially when one belongs to a centuries-old magical genius.
I close my eyes and try to summon him, but nada. Just grave-silence and that annoying sunbeam making dust particles look all magical and crap. Great. He's probably still ghost-exhausted from last night's supernatural beatdown.
Something shifts beside me. A presence. I catch movement in my peripheral.
I whip my head around and nearly fall off the bench.
Helena—freaking Helena Salem—is just casually sitting there, eyeballing Hedder's notes like she materialized for Sunday book club. She gives me this “why-are-you-screaming” look as I try to regain some dignity.
“You can't just ghost-pop next to people!” I hiss.
She shrugs, half-smiles. No words, but I feel her—this weird mix of badass warrior queen and gentle mentor energy pulsing through our ancestral connection.
“You look like crap,” I tell her, then wince. “I mean, tired. Really tired.” She nods, like, duh. “Will you bounce back from this?”
Another shrug. Her hair cascades over shoulders that seem more see-through than yesterday. Her once-vibrant red velvet dress looks like someone took an eraser to a painting. Faded. Worn out.
“Ezekiel and Angus?” I ask. “They make it?”
One curt nod. At least there's that.
I clear my throat. “So, um, thanks for the supernatural backup. Not that I'm complaining, but why pick the B-team Salem when Esme's the ghost whisperer extraordinaire?”
The words taste bitter. Like chewing aspirin. I'm so sick of being thought of by everyone as Salem Lite, the knockoff version you buy when the real deal's out of stock.
But by my ancestors, I'd give anything to have her annoying perfectionist ass back here right now. It's weird—when she's around,I'm practically allergic to her presence. Now? I keep turning to make some smartass comment and she's not there to roll her eyes at me. Typical Esme, disappearing when I finally have something worth saying.
Helena just gives me that dead-person stare, her ghost-chest doing this fake-breathing thing as she eyeballs Hedder's crusty old journal. She's laser-focused on it, and not in a casual “oh neat, reading material” way.
“Okay, spill it. You didn't just materialize here for my sparkling personality, did you?”
She shakes her head, still fixated on the notebook.
“You've seen this before? Like, when you were alive-alive?”
A nod.
“You actually read this thing?”
Her whole ghost-vibe shifts. Her eyes go all soft and sad, like someone just kicked her spectral puppy. I mentally flip through my Salem family trivia cards.
