Page 24 of With All My Haunted Heart

I firm up my energetic barriers, sigils humming in the air around me. They’ll act as a shield to keep the ghost from siphoning my energy or impaling me with a knife. The gray mass of crackling energy contorts itself into new shapes as I approach the kitchen again. Hands behind my back, I draw barrier sigils as I walk the perimeter of the room, keeping the spirit trapped inside with me so I won’t have to chase it all over the house.

Rather than begin my usual banishing ritual, I open my bag and address the spirit directly. “Your time in this home is about to be over.”

The floor rumbles with a distorted echo of deep-throated laughter, like the spirit is amused by my confidence. Gotta love being underestimated by the dead.

“You don’t get a choice in whether you go,” I say as I dig through my bag of supplies. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as the cloud collapses in on itself, the energy coalescing into the approximation of a body near the oven. “But you can decide whether you come willingly or by force.”

As my fingers graze the jar of ground cinnamon I brought with me, a chill stretches from my right shoulder down my back to my left hip. I fight to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Touch me again, and you don’t get an option.” I pull the cinnamon and a cypress candle from my bag and rest them both next to the lepidolite. “I read that spirits enjoy these kinds of scents.”

That laugh again. The cinnamon flies across the room, spilling all over the floor. A frigid presence clamps hard over my hand.

The cold pressure only lasts a second before the sigils flare to life and throw the spirit back. It tsks at me, shaking its head as the shadows become denser, more tangible. Thank god the ghost at Dea’s apartment all those years ago wasn’t this powerful. I would have been screwed. Now, though, it’s the poltergeist before me who should be afraid.

“Okay then, the hard way it is.”

Cabinets rattle. A glass shatters on the tile floor. I trace containment sigils with lightning speed, boxing the spirit into the center of the room, where it can’t reach anything else to throw at me. Digging into my bag again, I pull out four pyramids of black obsidian and set them outside the barrier, trapping the six-foot shadow.

The obsidian pulses with grounding energy. The spirit thrashes against the barrier as the black crystals leach away its malevolent power. I stumble as I return to the table, my knees suddenly watery and my head spinning. I close my eyes, firming up my connection to all the different bits of magic I’ve cast, each demanding a portion of my attention. A painful throb starts at the base of my skull. I’m pushing the limits of my focus.

Just a little further, I tell myself. We’re almost there.

I grab the lepidolite and funnel magic into the containment sigils along its smooth surface. I don’t need the ghost breaking out once it’s safely inside. “Time to go, big guy.” I delight in the surge of anger the poltergeist displays as I set the crystal on the floor and nudge it past the nearest piece of obsidian.

There’s a sudden pop and a whoosh, and then the ghost is sucked into the depths of the crystal.

Immediately, the kitchen feels a solid five degrees warmer. I grab a sturdy cloth and scoop up the purple crystal, careful not to touch it with my skin. This magic is notoriously fickle, and direct contact with a living person could release the ghost within.

Unsteady, I clean up the spilled cinnamon and broken glass, store my supplies and the covered crystal in my bag, and stumble for the front door.

Outside, I find Marisol and Jackie waiting near the end of the driveway, underneath one of the large oaks. I wave them over as I deposit my bag in my car.

“Done already?” Jackie asks, a note of suspicion in her voice.

“With the first part,” I confirm. “The ghost itself is gone. I’ll do a final sweep to clear out any lingering energetic funk, add some protective stones to the four corners of the home, and finish up with strong wards to keep anything else from sneaking in.” I stumble, catching myself on the car as my head swims. “Just need to eat first.”

“Come on.” Marisol links her arm through mine and leads me toward the front door. “The pork should be done any minute now. I have a potato salad in the fridge already, too.”

“You don’t have to do that. I have a granola bar in the car.”

Jackie laughs. “Marisol won’t take no for an answer when it comes to food. Let us pay you with a good meal.” She pauses, tilting her head to one side. “Unless you don’t eat meat. I know a lot of you witches are vegan or whatnot.”

I snort a laugh. “That’s no more true than all lesbians being vegan.”

“The meat is ethically sourced,” Marisol chimes in. “We get it from a local farmer in the next town over. All pasture raised and everything.”

“Sounds amazing,” I say, and I mean it. There’s a lot to do before I can leave, and a good meal will make it easier to protect the home the way this couple deserves.

But as we eat and laugh, my mind keeps going back to Elle. To the soup she’s making for dinner because Xander said I’d like it.

My chest is tight with something that feels dangerously close to longing.

It’s late by the time I leave Jackie and Marisol’s house.

They plied me with food, followed me around the house while I cleared out the last remnants of the poltergeist’s spectral energy, and chatted endlessly while I protected their home from future ghostly invasions. Their gentle ribbing and clear love for each other were a welcome distraction, and I leave with an open invitation to come for dinner again soon.

As I make my way back to Midnight Manor—back to Xander and Elle and a tomorrow dedicated to dealing with the malevolent spirit trapped in the sphere of lepidolite in my back seat—an anxious, jittery feeling leaves me on edge. My time at the manor is temporary, so why does this drive feel like going home?

Because Xander is family, I reason, absentmindedly tracing a calming sigil on my thigh. That’s all it is.