Page 21 of With All My Haunted Heart

The space isn’t full, not by a long shot, but someone—Xander, probably—has arranged the shelves with a designer’s eye. There are hundreds of books, and from a glance, I imagine some of them came with the house. Massive decorative old tomes sit on high shelves while rows of hardcovers and well-loved paperbacks are placed at eye level and lower. Books that must have been read and loved by past guests. According to Xander, the previous owners also ran a B&B from this manor, but the property hasn’t been in use for years, not since they retired to Florida.

There are armchairs in corners, nestled in groups of twos and threes, and a long, thin table at the center of the room that could easily seat eight people.

I make a beeline to the table with my books and spread out to prep for my trip today. Unable to fall asleep after I kicked Xander out of my room, I found a local couple in an online forum who have been struggling to banish an aggressive ghost. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to test out the B&B’s safety measures. I reached out to offer a pro bono clearing, and I woke up this morning with an invitation to go to their home this afternoon.

I pull my experimental grimoire out from under my pile of books to take notes. This grimoire, a thick leather-bound notebook spelled to be both fireproof and incapable of being lost, contains a full record of my magical trial and error. I have a second grimoire, protected by the same set of spells, that holds all the finalized, functional versions of my new sigils and spells. That one, I left in my room. I won’t have anything new to add until the B&B is fully haunted and the protections thoroughly tested.

Working my way through the research texts, I collect various theories on why some people’s spirits are trapped while others move on, and what tends to attract ghosts to particular locations. Many gravitate to abandoned spaces where they know they won’t be banished. When ghosts do inhabit lived-in spaces, they’re usually drawn in by sensory experiences, familiar scents, sights, and sounds.

“Mind if I join you?”

My startled yelp fills the otherwise silent library. “Holy shit, Elle! You need to wear a bell or something.” I press a hand to my chest, heart thundering beneath my palm at her sudden appearance. She was only a few feet behind me when she first spoke.

The corners of her lips tilt, for just a second, before she smothers the smile. Elle moves with fluid grace, her laptop pressed against the stomach of her heather gray hoodie, as she crosses to the other side of the table. “Are you always this jumpy?”

“I don’t know. I don’t usually have women creeping up on me while I’m reading about ghosts.”

Her nose crinkles with amusement, and she types a password into the laptop she’s set across from me. “Is it okay if I work with you? I need to run an updated profit and loss statement for the investors and figure out if our budget can sustain hiring a real chef.”

“It’s your house,” I say, then tip my head considering. “Or your B&B, I guess. Is that weird? Living where you work? Knowing you’re going to have strangers staying in what’s effectively your home?”

“I don’t know. I don’t usually have strangers sleeping in my house,” she says, an imperfect echo of what I said moments before.

“Hmm.” I let the noncommittal noise hum in my throat like she has so many times in the week that I’ve known her. Elle doesn’t rise to the bait, which is just as well since I shouldn’t be baiting her. We fall into a companionable silence, her typing and clicking while I flip pages and scribble notes.

My already slow research screeches to a halt. I can’t get through more than a page or two without glancing up at Elle, watching her work. The way her brow furrows when she sees something she doesn’t like. The way she has to keep brushing her hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears only for the rosy locks to fall forward again. The way the light from her laptop screen reflects off her green eyes.

In a rare moment of actual focus, when I’m writing down a list of flowers believed to attract spirits, Elle breaks the silence. “What exactly are you researching? And what do lilacs have to do with it?”

When I glance up, her head is tilted to read the notes I’ve scratched for myself. “The lilacs are a possible incentive for any spirits who agree to haunt this place. According to this author, they find the smell immensely rewarding.”

“We’re going to pay the ghosts in smells?”

I lean in, my forearms resting on the books. “Do you have a better idea? It’s not like ghosts use money. Our best bet is to make their afterlife as enjoyable as possible.”

“Reasonable.” Elle reaches for my notes, turning the grimoire to face her. A flush of embarrassment washes through me to have her hands on something so personal, but I can’t find the words to ask her to stop. I don’t want to dim her curiosity. Her interest. “What’s four hundred seventeen hertz for?”

“It’s the frequency that best resonates with spectral energy.” A flutter of something tightens my chest. “It also corresponds to the sacral chakra. The one responsible for creativity, emotional resilience, and pleasure.”

“What does it feel like?” Elle looks up at me then, and I realize how closely we’re leaning together. Mere inches separate us. The spice of her scent envelops me. “Magic,” she clarifies when I’ve gone too long without answering.

It’s a complicated question. It depends on how much magic I’m channeling and for what purpose. Whether I’m using crystals as amplifiers. Rather than try to put all these variables into words, I hold out my hand. “It’s easier to show you.”

Elle hesitates, her gaze flicking to my hand, before ultimately sliding her palm against mine. “Now what?”

“Depends,” I say, suppressing a shiver. “What would you like to feel?”

Her brow furrows, and she shudders, fingers trembling against mine. “What did you do for Alex the other night?”

My heart clenches at the memory. Fucking Barrett. I hate how cruel he was, how careless with Xander’s heart. “It was a calming sigil. It files down the worst edges of tough emotions.”

“Something like that would be okay.” Elle glances from our hands, pressed palm to palm, up to my face. “What’s next?”

I suck in a lungful of air, drawing magic into my body as I do. “Now, I channel the magic to the tips of my fingers.”

“The opening of the straw,” she says, nodding.

Warmth creeps up my neck. It’s such an odd analogy, but she’s taken it to heart. “Right, and then I draw the appropriate sigil along your skin so the magic knows what to do. Sound good?” I wait for her to nod, and then trace the calming sigil along the back of her hand.