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Cracking an eye open, I see her. No, not Hekate—I’d probably crap myself if the physical embodiment of a god decided to sit down next to me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m attuned to her messages and take the guidance when it comes, but if she appeared in front of me, I’d likely pass out.

“Bellamy dearest, you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.” Delphine Montgomery’s sugar-sweet voice is music to my ears.

When I first encountered her on a school trip to London, I fell into a taxidermy stand and broke it. A completely natural reaction, considering a mostly transparent nineteenth-century spirit had just appeared out of thin air.

She shook with silent laughter like it was the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen, fanning herself while my then-boyfriend scooped me off the floor and teased me for being a klutz.

I didn’t expect her to follow me home, but she’s been by my side ever since.

“How lovely of you to grace me with your presence, Delphine,” I say, unfolding my legs and stretching myself out, fingertips grazing the gauzy curtains behind me.

She levels me with a look, then glares at the sliver of skin that’s been exposed by my cropped tee riding up. “Do not try to flatter me. And put your belly away. It’s unbecoming to be in a state of undress in front of a lady.”

Laughter bursts out of me, earning me a thump to the arm. She hasn’t always been able to touch me, but over the years, as our bond has strengthened, so has her form. What started as muted grays gradually turned into color, and now I can see the blue hue of her dress, the amber tones of her curls.

I turn to her, painting shock across my features. “Now who’s being unbecoming? Not very ladylike to go around punching young men, now, is it?”

It’s a strange thing, being so comfortable with my magic. It wasn’t always this way. I was terrified when it first started coming through—I thought I was having a stroke at the grand age of thirteen. I kept smelling things that weren’t there, and getting strange tastes in my mouth. One time, the taste of salt against my tongue was so overwhelming I gagged and threw up all over my school desk.

That was the first time I spoke to a drowned man.

I forgot how great it is to be able to order whatever I want to eat. If I want a massive, disgusting, greasy pizza, I can now do that without judgment—without comments about my figure disguised as concern for my health.

“That looks revolting,” Delphine trills by my side, screwing her face up at me.

Okay, so almost without judgment.

“I literally don’t care,” I sass back, shoving another bite of the cheesy, vegetable-y goodness into my mouth. I can’t remember the last time I indulged like this. I will absolutely regret it when I wake up gasping for water in the middle of the night, but I’ve made peace with that fact.

I’m far too deep into enjoying my pizza to fully acknowledge Delphine’s head tipping to the side like a fox that’s spotted something interesting. No, when my soda can goes flying into the wall and sprays sticky brown foam in an explosion rivaling a volcano, that’s when I notice there’s another spirit in the room with us.

My mouth freezes around the dough as my neatly arranged pile of shoes near the door scatters in a stampede of pastel colors. When my grimoire gets knocked off my altar, I discard my pizza box to the side and jump to my feet.

Poltergeist. That explains the failed leases.

“Oh, can we keep it?” Delphine pleads, clapping her hands together with the look of a child asking to keep a stray kitten.

I throw up my hands in exasperation. “Obviously not, Delph. I’d like to keep my remaining belongings intact.”

She makes a face, mimicking me, because she has an incredibly childish streak sometimes. She was eighteen when she died, but she sure doesn’t act like it most of the time.

I’m grateful that I had the determination to set up my altar earlier. I snatch up a pack of matches out of a drawer and strike one, lighting the bundle of sage until that earthy, woody smoke starts curling into the room.

Poltergeists are annoying, but they’re relatively easy for me to deal with. Good moneymakers, really. Back in Pennsylvania, I had some clients who refused to go to couples therapy, and since poltergeists thrive on emotional conflict, of course theirs kept coming back.

“I don’t like that stuff,” Delphine whines as I walk to each corner of the room, twisting my wrist to let the smoke flow. The sage will help clear any residual negativity, and with a bit of my energy-based magic, it should be fine.

“Hold your breath, then,” I shoot back.

“Very humorous, Bellamy.”

I ignore her sarcasm and raise my free hand, making a circular motion, pushing my magic out of my body. I feel the moment it connects, the sudden zipping through my veins like I’m being siphoned.

Nothing one minute, and then a mostly transparent being comes into view.

A child.

No older than seven, I think. There’s discoloration along the left side of her face and neck, the livid scarring affecting her arm too.