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“You threatened to have me magically hog-tied and dumped on the side of the road if I refused.”

“And yet you arrived first-class.”

“Grandmother—”

“Drink your tea.”

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone.

“Unbelievable.”

Something outside my window moves. I glance over.

Three translucent figures drift through the hedge separating my property from Margarita's.

Ghosts.

One floats directly through my tomato plants.

Again.

“No.”

Another sinks its spectral hand into the soil. Green ectoplasm drips from its fingers.

“Don't you fucking dare.”

It smiles. Then wipes its glowing hand across one of my Brandywine heirlooms. And something inside me snaps.

“Son of a⁠—”

I drop the phone and storm outside. Gardening is one of the few things left that calms me.

Pathetic?

Maybe.

I don't give a shit. I can buy anything I want. Companies. Cars. Houses. Entire fucking buildings.

But I can't buy the satisfaction of putting something into the earth, tending it, and watching it grow.

And these ectoplasmic assholes have been ruining my tomatoes for weeks. I grab the bucket beside the garden.

“GET OUT OF MY YARD!”

The ghosts scatter.

“You and your ectoplasm-dripping pals are not welcome here!”

One of them blows a raspberry.

“Keep laughing, asshole. I'll call a Necromancer.”

That gets its attention. I scoop up a disgusting glob of green slime and drop it into the bucket.

Then another.

Then—I freeze.