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Zinny had spent the last month at home, and we’d tried to cram in as much time together as we could. I’d rescheduled most of my clients needing clairvoyant help, but not those in need of emotional healing therapy. That wasn’t something I could or would put off. Thankfully, I hadn’t had many in need of healing this month, so I could devote every remaining hour helping Zinnia. Her time with me was almost over, though, and in a few days, she’d have to return to Limbo—to Death. We’d really been hoping she’d have found what he wanted by the time she had to return, something she could use to bargain with, since that was Death’s preferred currency.

He’d asked her to find some missing souls, promising to grant her a boon if she succeeded. She’d planned to ask for more time with me. Unfortunately, so far we hadn’t been successful. And it wasn’t just Limbo, Hell was missing souls as well. When the reapers had shown up to collect them, they’d been gone without a trace.

We’d spent most of her month home investigating volatile spiritual activity in the city. So far, they’d been your average spooks. Souls who were stuck here for different reasons, tied to a person or place, who weren’t scheduled to be reaped until whatever had them tied here was resolved. Not everyone died, then instantly headed where they were supposed to go. We were yet to find out what we were dealing with here—if it was one of the missing souls destined for Limbo or Hell or your average ghost with unfinished business.

This particular soul had been going up to the main house and scaring the fuck out of the family. The place had been empty for years, and when the aunt of the current owner died after a long stay in a nursing home, her niece, who had inherited the place, moved her family in.

There’d been the usual stuff—footsteps in the hall at night, lights going on and off, doors opening and slamming shut—but more alarming were the fires. There’d been one in the family room, when the fireplace door had opened and a burning log was tossed out, and another in the kitchen, where a wooden spoon slid across the counter and over the gas flame when the owner left the room. She was adamant none of her family were responsible. Her aunt had never said anything about any paranormal activity at the house, so either the soul was new—hopefully one of our missing friends—or it was old and having new people in the house had disrupted it.

An icy blast rushed from the cottage when I opened the door. “I think we’re at the right place.”

“Best we work quickly, then,” Zinny said, taking the black candles from her pack and setting them out in a square around us. She grinned over at me. “Wooden floor.”

“Oh, I noticed. Thank the goddess for that small win.” I pulled out a can of spray paint and quickly sprayed the protection sigils on the worn planks under us. If the floor had been made of anything else, we’d be getting naked right now and covering our skin in a special oil for extra protection. Witches and nature, trees especially, were intrinsically connected, which meant they were like a conduit of power.

Zinnia lit the candles. The wax was mixed with a potion she and Else, our great-aunt, came up with a few years ago, and it was highly effective protection against your average soul. For ones like the one we were about to tangle with, not as much, but it did provide an extra layer of protection, and layering up in these instances was always the best bet, which was why we laid out a line of salt mixed with cemetery dirt as well. Always have backup.

I turned so Zinny and I stood back-to-back.

“Ready to meet our friend?” she asked.

“As I’ll ever be.”

I took off the sigil charm I wore around my neck and placed it outside the square, followed by my leather cuffs inlaid with the same silver sigil. Zinny did the same, then her hands clasped mine and she started the chant, with me joining in a couple beats behind her.

It didn’t take long. A rumble echoed in the distance, and the ground trembled beneath our feet. Not thunder or an earthquake, a highly pissed-off soul who didn’t like us forcing them to come to us.

The wind inside the small shack whirled angrily, the door opening and crashing shut with more force. My hair whipped around my face, and my eyes watered. A high-pitched sound began, steadily growing in volume, until it was a shriek that made my ears ring.

“They’re almost here!” Zinnia yelled over the noise.

I braced as the ground shook harder. The soul was old and filled with rage. “Not one of the souls we’re looking for.”

“No,” Zinny yelled. “Way too old and powerful.”

Souls were at their weakest right after a person died. If they were one of the ones we were looking for, there wouldn’t have been anywhere near this much resistance. The door flew open with force, crashing against the wall, then flung back, slamming shut. A female shrieked and rushed at us, then screamed louder when she hit our protection barrier. She flew back, then rushed at us again, around and around the barrier we’d made, looking for a way in.

“We’re here to help you,” Zinnia said.

I watched over my shoulder as the spirit came to an abrupt halt in front of her. “You can not help me!” she shrieked.

“We can. We’re not mere humans. We’re more. We’ve helped souls just like you. Let us try.”

Her hazy form flickered, her mouth opening in a soundless scream, her neck stretching in an odd way before her face snapped back into place. She flew around us again, floating to a stop in front of me. “I don’t like it here,” she said, her voice changing, becoming almost childlike.

“We can help you leave. I promise,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Elizabeth.” Her gaze darted around the room. “I don’t like it here,” she said again. “He’ll come back. I have to leave. Let me leave.”

“Who’s coming back?”

“Mr. Stetson.” Her form flickered again. “He’ll hurt me! I don’t want him to hurt me anymore. Let me leave. I want to go home!”

“Colin Stetson? He lived in the main house.” We’d done some research on this place. The groundskeeper had shot Stetson, then paid for the murder with his own life. He’d been hung right here on the property.

She nodded, her gaze darting around in terror. A doll appeared in her hands. “He comes here when Papa’s working. He hurts me.” An image appeared in the corner—Elizabeth sitting by the fire, the way she looked now, probably seventeen or eighteen. The vision continued as the door opened and a well-dressed male walked in. She turned with a smile, but it dropped as soon as she saw who it was. She shook her head and backed up as he strode toward her, grabbed her by the throat, and shoved her against the wall.

The image dissolved and nausea hit me hard. The male who employed her father had been abusing her for years, if the doll was anything to go by. “He killed you, didn’t he, Elizabeth?”