“Head injury. I must be confused.”
He stopped abruptly. His fingers delved through my hair, searching for the wound. Except there was no wound, and it felt more like a scalp massage from a highly trained masseuse. I bit my lip to keep from sighing in pleasure.
“Where did you hit your head?” he asked. His voice was a soothing rumble.
“A little to the left . . . Yup, right there.” My eyes closed, and after a few glorious seconds, I murmured, “Don’t forget the other side too.”
His hand dropped away. “You hit your head twice? On opposite sides?” There was a hint of amusement in his tone, and I realized he’d caught on to my ruse. I considered standing my ground to see if I could get another minute of massage then decided it was best to let it go. Hopefully, he’d gloss over my fake head injury. If not, I’d have to add it to the list of things to cringe over later.
We’d reached the second floor, and he steered me into a large room. The space was in much better shape than the rest of the house and lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Definitely a library. Loads of dark paneling, the faint scent of aging paper, and a cozy window nook confirmed my suspicion.
The ghost was seated behind a huge polished desk while his dog unsuccessfully chewed a bone on the carpet. The poor thing couldn’t get a hold of it—his teeth kept sinking straight through the chew toy. It didn’t stop his enthusiasm though.
I asked my question again, annoyed I still didn’t have an answer.
“How do you know Ivy?”
Caden had gone silent beside me. His stillness made me uneasy.
The ghost looked up from a pile of scattered papers. He ran a hand over his mustache and frowned. “Well, my dear, Ivy Jennings is dead.”
Chapter 6
“You were supposed to ease into that news, Oscar!” Caden snapped. The force of his outburst made Loki look up from his chew toy.
A ringing started in my ears, becoming a buzzing saw that drowned out the ensuing bickering. Ivy was dead? That wasn’t possible. Ivy had years of elite training under her belt. She was the best in her class. By age ten, they were already recording her feats in the supernatural history books. She was untouchable, destined for greatness! The literal princess of the Spellwork Organization.
Dipping my hand into my jeans pocket, I pulled out my phone. There was a spiderwebbed crack on the screen from my fall. I ignored it and swiped to open my messages. Ivy’s name stared back at me. I scrolled through the texts I’d sent her, all marked with a read receipt. All except for the ones I’d sent two weeks ago. Those were marked unread. I hadn’t even noticed when I sent her the texts earlier this morning.
Ivy seldom answered me—she probably had a million other more important things to do than message her cousin—but she always read them.Always.
Until she didn’t.
My hand shook as I replaced the phone in my pocket. Numbness spread through my body, but I couldn’t numb my mind. It raced from one thought to the next, a furious slideshow of Ivy’s greatest moments and my less-than-talented upbringing, all culminating in a horrifying realization.
I sat down hard in a wingback chair. If Ivy Jennings was dead, it meant I’d been activated in her place.
Nooo . . .
Nausea churned my stomach. This wasn’t supposed to happen—ever! No one had planned for it. Not in any real sense. It was always this hypothetical thing, like aliens invading or the zombie apocalypse. Movies were made about them, but they weren’t real.
“How? When?” I croaked, glancing between Oscar and Caden. The prick of tears stung my eyes, and I swiped them away. I had so many questions, but Ivy came first. She always came first.
Oscar folded his hands together and leaned forward on his elbows. “We’re still gathering information. The council has kept it quiet until now. As far as we can tell, it was an ambush that took out the entire team. We’ll hopefully know more soon.”
I blinked. His words took longer to settle in my mind than they should. A lump of grief clogged my throat. I needed to call my mother and have her check on my aunt. Unless they’d already been informed. News like this would travel fast.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The man nodded and rose from his chair. He floated straight through the desk and came to hover beside the hearth. Tugging on his vest, he cleared his throat.
“The name is Oscar Clarke. I’m a Spellwork training mentor, at your service.” He bent at the waist in a curt bow. “Due to the tragic circumstance of your cousin’s passing, I have been assigned as your guide. We have a lot of ground to cover, and we’ve been tracking demon activity in the area for a few weeks. It’s coincided with the murder at the country club, which, conveniently, is our first case.”
Our first case?So it was a murder. Why couldn’t I stop blinking? I probably looked deranged.
“But you’re a ghost. None of the other mentors are ghosts.”
Oscar barked out a laugh. “Don’t I know it! However, I think you’ll find you’re lucky to have me. Back in my day, I was a highly prolific paranormal investigator.” He puffed out his chest. “Now, I’m sure you’re thinking times have changed. The kids always say that. But I challenge you: have they changed?”
