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“Of course, the flow of their abilities within their quintets works similarly to ours,” Miles continued.

“In our quintet, Julian can subdue Damen. It works in the same way in the other quintets. If Finn’s having dangerous outbursts, then Anthony should be nearby.

It’s a system of checks and balances known as the Supportive or Controlling aspects of our powers.

” Before I could ask, he added, “You can control me, and Julian is your supporter. On the other hand, Titus is your controller, while you support Damen.”

That made sense. Titus had been trying to tell me what to do earlier. If this was the case, then it was my job to ensure that Miles became a responsible citizen.

“I don’t want to know what you’re thinking,” Miles said, sitting back in his seat. “But don’t look at me like that.”

I ignored him.

“If I’d been raised with my birth family, do you think they would have been Officers too?” I asked, touching my chin.

Miles grinned. “Wouldn’t it be funny if Bryce was really your brother?”

“No,” I instantly answered. “It would not.”

There was no way I could be related to such a brute.

I looked at Julian. “Do you think it’s possible to find out who my birth family is?”

Julian’s face dropped. “Potentially,” he answered. “But the birthrate for fae females is pretty low. Generally speaking, the birth of any female would have been a huge celebration for that family, and fae tend to be a little bit extreme. A missing baby girl would have been a big deal.”

“Oh.” I bit the tip of my thumb. I wasn’t sure how to interpret this update. “Why are there so few females?”

“I’m not entirely sure myself,” Julian said with a shrug. “I’ve heard rumors that there’s a particularity about their females that makes them both vulnerable and valuable. But the fae are close-lipped about the details.”

“So,” I pressed, “no one knows anything about me?”

“Not yet,” Julian replied.

I turned my attention from him and stared at the carpet. Why was my lip quivering? I’d always known there was only a slim chance for these answers.

“Don’t worry.” Julian patted my hand. “Titus has already started looking into this. We’ll see what happens.”

I glanced between them, taking stock of their nervousness.

Were they worried that I’d dwell on this? Sure, I might be disappointed, but I still knew more than before. I didn’t start with super-high expectations—the likelihood of anyone in my biological family popping up was minuscule.

“I—” I began, but then I screamed as a ghostly form materialized behind Miles’s shoulder.

Mr. Weaver’s face wrinkled further as he furrowed his bushy brows and glared at me. He appeared to be on the verge of another rant.

Before I could call off the alarm, I’d been pushed on my back, and Julian shielded me, blocking my view of anything other than his firm—and surprisingly solid—chest.

His frame tensed over mine as he glanced around the room. “How did it get in here?” His chest rumbled against my hands. “Hurry up and make it go away!”

“Don’t you think I’m trying?” Miles replied. “It’s not working!”

I should have been helping them, but something appealing about this position made me want to remain for a moment longer. For some reason I couldn’t explain, Julian felt safe.

“Girl,” Mr. Weaver’s voice floated through the room. “Will you stop wasting my time and set these idiots straight? The Montrone nincompoop is spraying holy water at me.”

I fought back a sigh as my fantasy crumbled around me. Mr. Weaver was so dramatic.

I pushed my hands against Julian’s chest, and he slowly allowed me to sit up again. I was just about to comment on his tenseness when I noticed Miles.

The witch was pale and shaky—and was in the process of tucking a bottle into a bag.

“Wait!” I pointed at him, and he froze. “Is that a water bottle?”

Miles glanced at the bottle still in his hand and then turned his gaze back to me as if he found nothing wrong with this situation.

It was as if most people carried holy water in a mister.

“Yes…” he replied, his tone unsure.

“That’s for styling hair, not for holy artifacts!” Another of my preconceived pictures of paranormal investigation shattered. This almost seemed sacrilegious. “What about a glass bottle and a cross? Or even, in dire cases, a mason jar?”

Miles’s eyebrow had climbed higher with my every word, but the confusion never left his expression. “You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

I ignored his ridiculous question. “How can you even touch that? That’s so irresponsible. What if you drip some on yourself?”

Miles’s second eyebrow rose to join the first. For a moment, nothing happened. But then, with slow, exaggerated movements, he pulled the bottle out of the bag the rest of the way .

I could only stare in shocked silence as he twisted off the cap and dumped the contents into his open palm.

My horrified gasp echoed throughout the room. The sound turned into a strangled scream as Miles crouched into himself, cradling his hand to his chest. “Oh God,” he cried, anguish lacing his voice. “It burns! I should have listened!”

“Miles.” Julian’s voice held a hint of warning, but I didn’t care about him. He wasn’t the one currently in danger of melting into the floor like a wax candle.

“Miles! Are you all right?” In a flash, I was beside him, ready to help. His shoulders quivered under my hands, and I shook. I’d never felt so useless in all my life.

I was so upset that it took a moment to figure out why Miles was shaking. And even longer to interpret the meaning behind Julian’s disapproving glare.

“You jerk!” Before I could second-guess myself, I smacked Miles on the head. “That was not nice!”

Miles fell forward into the coffee table, but I chose to let it be. Instead, I returned to my seat beside Julian.

He was so mean.

Miles stood, staggering, trying to regain his footing. His nose appeared to be bleeding as well.

Whatever. He was probably faking the blood anyway.

“I can’t believe that you’d waste priest-blessed water in such a way,” I lectured, ignoring the guilty pang in my chest as Miles eyed me.

“That hurt,” he complained, his voice muffled behind his handkerchief. “Do you have super strength?”

I could show no pity. He’d never learn otherwise.

“Now you’re out of holy water,” I informed him. “What will you do if you need it? ”

“There’s more.” Miles pointed to his bag. “You can get holy water from pretty much anywhere.”

I gasped, but in horror. “Miles!”

“Stop playing around!” Mr. Weaver said angrily, reappearing in front of my face. Apparently, being dead for half a day hadn’t taught him anything about patience.

“Oh.” I had plastered myself into Julian’s side at the intrusion. “Hello, Mr. Weaver.”

“It’s only him?” Julian lowered his arm, a slight grin tugging at his lips. “What in the world is he doing here?”

“I need to find my brother.” Mr. Weaver wasted no time.

“He wants to know where Dr. Stephens is,” I translated for the others.

“Why?” Julian narrowed his eyes in Mr. Weaver’s direction.

Miles had found a new plastic bottle and held it at the ready as he clutched a pillow to his chest with his other arm. But it was the look on his face that caused me to pause.

He appeared to be sweating, and his eyes darted around the room nervously. If I hadn’t known better, it would have seemed like he was afraid.

But that couldn’t be. He worked among supernatural things; how could he be scared of a ghost? That would be insane.

“It’s none of your business,” Mr. Weaver responded, even though there was no way Julian could hear him.

At the same moment, Miles spoke, “Dr. Stephens is away on an urgent family matter.”

“ This is an urgent family matter—I’m dead! Has he even been contacted?” Mr. Weaver grumbled in response. “I have news to relay to him. Tell them that.”

“No,” I responded. “You keep asking me to do things for you, but you’re mean. Why should I help? You’ve never even said please. ”

Julian frowned, but Miles perked at my words.

“He’s been mean?” the witch asked. “This is perfect. Julian, call Damen. He’d totally exorcise him.”

I frowned. “I don’t want Damen to exorcise anyone.”

Miles slumped back into his seat. “Damn it.”

“Just tell them what I said, please,” Mr. Weaver snapped.

I shouldn’t have helped, but he’d used the magic word. Plus, there was something in his expression that stirred my emotions.

Earlier, he had been calm and composed—and annoyed, true, but that wasn’t abnormal for a grumpy old man. But now, he was anything but composed. He was terrified.

Even finding out about his death hadn’t caused this reaction.

My stubbornness softened as his distress reached me. “What’s wrong, Mr. Weaver? Did you find out who poisoned you?”

“No.” Mr. Weaver calmed. “But my idiot brother had something to do with it.”

Dr. Stephens did? He didn’t seem the sort to murder his own family. Then again, he had thought nothing about sending me—an innocent, young girl—into the woods alone. He either lacked common sense, or he wasn’t entirely benevolent.

So, it was possible.

But what would cause beloved siblings to fight to the death? That seemed rather drastic.

“What’s going on?” Julian grasped my hand, drawing my attention back to him. Both he and Miles looked curious yet expectant.

“Mr. Weaver thinks that Dr. Stephens killed him,” I informed them. “It might be over an inheritance or maybe a woman they were in love with—that’s the usual reason for these sorts of actions.”

There, perfect delivery.

This was easy—and fun. Being Damen’s assistant wasn’t so bad. Just by being near him, I had absorbed his forensic psychology mumbo-jumbo.

Perhaps I’d pick up a second major.

Julian and Miles watched me with dubious expressions.

“Now I know why I find you so annoying,” Mr. Weaver groaned. “You’re exactly like him. Now control that overactive imagination and tell them what I actually told you.”

“He said something else, didn’t he?” Julian’s smooth voice interrupted my offended retort. “What was it?”

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes. If none of them wanted my expertise, then it was their loss. “Mr. Weaver needs to find Dr. Stephens to give him important news. And says that he had something to do with the poisoning.”

Julian raised his eyebrow, and I was almost offended. “I’m serious!”

“What’s the news?” Miles tossed the pillow onto an armchair and leaned back in his seat. Even though his posture was more at ease, his face was still pinched. “Gregory has left his phone behind—he can’t help you.”

I expected Mr. Weaver to demand that we track him down anyway. But his face fell instead. “I suppose I have no choice.” His eyes darted to me as his fingers moved nervously over the handle of his cane. “Bianca—”

He knew my name? I had no idea he had even been paying attention.

“Make sure you get this exactly right,” he said. “No making up any wild theories.”

How dare he—

“Yesterday, Gregory asked me to look into Aine Hamway’s property.” He sighed. “He’d started research on his own, but his contacts were limited as the files were locked. He thought I’d have better luck. ”

Dr. Stephens did? “Why would you have better luck?” I asked him.

Mr. Weaver paused from scratching his chin as he glanced at me. “Because I’m the lead historian for the area—or at least, I was . Are you that clueless?”

I touched my fingers together, taking this in. It was difficult to believe that this cantankerous man had been a historian. I thought they were supposed to be a refined and elegant people. Not mean humans who yelled at young women and tried to shoot cats.

What was his expertise supposed to be?

Mr. Weaver didn’t notice my expression. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

Instead, he continued, shrugging. “It wasn’t easy, not using my pre-retirement connections.

Finally, however, I was able to access some records that I normally wouldn’t be able to, and I learned that Aine purchased her home from Edward Cole.

He’d abandoned it after his son, James, and his wife, Rosanne, both died there… ”

His words trailed off as he eyed me, and asked, “Why the devil are you looking at me like that?”

“James…” I repeated, the name rolling off my tongue. A shiver ran through me as I recalled the angry ghost that’d tried to kill me. It had to be him.

Julian touched my hand. “What did he say?”

This time, I repeated the words precisely as Mr. Weaver had spoken. Apparently, I had gotten close enough; Mr. Weaver offered no complaints.

But as I neared the end of his report, one thing stood out to me.

“Mr. Weaver.” I could hardly speak through the guilty lump in my throat, and I clasped my hands together in front of my chest. “Does this mean that it’s my fault that you were killed?”