Page 103 of Dead Vengeance

Little shit.

I’m about to bolt upstairs to get changed when his knock hits the door. I recognise it. Genuinely, how do I recognise that knock already? Pavlov’s necromancer over here, all but salivating for another taste of those lips.

I don’t care if he sees me in my pyjamas. I’m not making him wait another second.

I rip the door open, and he steps back, like he wasn’t expecting his welcome to be quite so fiercely enthusiastic. Which is fair.

“Thank you.” The first stupid words out of my mouth.

He smiles, but it’s awkward. Like he doesn’t know what to say.

Clearly I don’t either because I ramble on with, “Th-thank you. For coming back. To my house. And…” And what? I move back all the same and hold out a hand to invite him in.

It’s so different to when he arrived yesterday. I was so close to kissing him from the moment I saw him. I felt like he might want me to do that. But today, I genuinely don’t know if he would.

He scans the kitchen first, looking… a little disappointed?

“No cooking today?”

God, if only I’d known. I’d have cooked him a feast he’d never forget. “Um. I wish I had. I would have… Did you eat?”

“Yeah.” My heart sinks, ridiculously, like it’s a declaration of him no longer wanting me, or like I could have baked him a magical cake that would have made him fall for me if only he’d been hungry enough to eat it. “Just a train sandwich,” he adds.

My ridiculous heart leaps back up. “Let me know if you get hungry. I can make you anything. Tea? For now?”

That tight and awkward smile again. “Okay. That’d be nice.”

“Okay.” So I run off to the kitchen while he stands there. Stands there while I try to figure out where to start.

‘What did you think of my necromancy room?’

‘Do you have strong opinions about pentagrams as decoration?’

‘Is the necromancer thing or the liar thing more of a deal breaker here?’

Liam wanders about, looking at knick-knacks here and there with a keener eye than before. Not sitting, not settling, until I bring his tea over, then he stands there in the middle of the enormous room holding it.

I’m about to ask about the train ride, just for something to say, when he catches me with, “How long have you known?”

We’re into it. Just like that. “About the necromancy thing?”

His hands tighten on his mug. “Yep. That.”

“My whole life.” It’s too much to say standing here like this, so I wander over to the coffee table and settle down on a sofa, hoping he’ll follow. He does, easily enough, taking his place opposite me.

“I see dead people,” I tell him plainly. “And not just the ones who want to be seen—the ones who appear in front of you deliberately, who want to haunt you, or ask for favours. I see all of them. The lost ones, the forgotten ones. The ones who don’t want you to see them and who can be quite angry when you do. Quite scary.”

His eyes grow sad and earnest as he listens, which multiplies my guilt but also… deepens this thing I have for him with every second that goes by. He doesn’t say anything, so I talk on. “It started when I was a child. Or maybe I always had it, since the moment I was born, and my parents just didn’t notice it sooner.”

“Do they have it too?” he asks.

“No. No, it’s just me.”

He nods, encouraging me as he catalogues that information whichever way he will.

“It was hard for them. When I was growing up. Because I was very scared. And very strange. But they came to accept it once they saw it was real. Once they understood. But sadly… I don’t see much of them now. They’re up in Scotland, and I’m down here, and… it’s hard to travel. To get away. Given the situation. And it’s ghost central around here, as you know, so I can’t have them to stay. And I miss them. I miss them a lot.”

“Are there a lot more ghosts than you’ve told me ahout?”