Page 4 of Bewitched By the Djinn (The Bewitching Hour #8)

Chapter

Three

Without thinking, I grab the nearest object—a paperweight shaped like a star—and chuck it at his head.

It hits him square in the forehead with a satisfying thunk, bounces off, and he catches it midair. He raises an eyebrow, then sets it gently on the desk. “Was that strictly necessary?”

“It felt appropriate.” I narrow my eyes. “Are you a ghost? Were you haunting the lamp?”

“Excuse me? A ghost?”

He has an accent. British maybe. Or New Zealand or something.

The hex bags aren’t working. They’re defective.

No way Kevin’s friendly neighborhood ghost could materialize, hold physical objects, and speak coherently without some serious mojo.

Mojo that should be hindered by Richard’s hex bags.

Even if the ghost has no malicious intent, the bags prevent a manifestation of this strength, theoretically.

I got conned.

I am going to kill Richard. Slowly and with something extra painful, like a cheese grater.

I smack the top of the desk and then point at the spook. “I am calling Richard and getting my money back. Those hex bags were supposed to keep creatures like you out of here.”

“What? Creatures? I don’t—who? Hex bags?” He glances around the room. “Where am I?”

I speak slowly. “You’re in my house. You don’t belong here. Go toward the light.”

“Light?” His brow furrows.

I’ve never seen a ghost like this.

Sure, when we had the poltergeist infestation, there were all kinds of bursts of activity, knickknacks falling off shelves, doors slamming, appliances turning on and off, and all that. I caught glimpses of shadows and movement, but never like this.

He’s clearly formed. Tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders filling out a supple black leather jacket.

His features are all angles and contrasts: thick pink lips against a sharply cut jaw, tousled honey-blond hair half-falling into his eyes.

His clothes are strange, like he just stepped out of Bridgerton —linen pants tucked into well-worn boots, soft and supple.

The clothes, the accent... where is this guy from?

I don’t know whether to be terrified, or turned on. Maybe a little bit of both.

“Do you see a glowing tunnel? Feel a warm sensation? Light pulling at your soul? Anything?” I gesture vaguely upward.

“There is no light except for those sconces,” he nods to the wall, “which appear as though they need to be dusted and are not very bright.”

“So you’re a judgy ghost. Got it. Maybe instead you should be seeking a dark door full of hellfire.”

He takes a few deep breaths, closing his eyes for a second and then opening them again. “Who are you? Where am I?” The words are resonant. He pins me with an intense gaze, almost like he’s willing me to answer him.

I almost laugh. Is he trying to compel me? Cute.

None of this makes sense. Ghosts don’t need to breathe and gather themselves. They aren’t bossy. They’re an annoyance, the leftover energy from life, no longer grounded in a body.

I walk around the desk toward him, keeping my steps measured. “You look so real.”

“I am real.”

The paperweight bounced off him. He touched it. He must be solid.

He breathes in deeply, leaning toward me. The scents of jasmine and cedar brush against my senses, along with the heat of his body.

He’s warm.

Not a ghost.

Not a ghost that is now reaching for me with both hands.

With a gasp, I jump out of his reach. “You’re real.”

He shakes his head, dazed for a second before focusing on me once again. His hands clench at his side. “As I said.”

My eyes alight on Kevin’s bat. Perfect. I pick it up. “I am not above violence. Just so we’re clear.”

“You freed me. Why are you now threatening me with a stick?”

“You jumped out of a lamp. I didn’t free anything.” I lift the bat higher in an attempt to appear more menacing.

He lifts his hands. “I will leave peacefully.”

Is his lip twitching? Is he mocking me? “Hell yes you will.”

“I did not intend to intrude on your evening, I assure you. I assume I can go out this way. Shall I?” He jerks his head toward the door.

“Wait!” The kids are sleeping on the floor below us, which he will have to pass to get to the door. This place can be a maze if you don’t know the way out and I can’t risk him accidently wandering where he doesn’t belong.

We stare at each other for a few long, silent seconds. I think I’m going into shock.

“Yes?” he asks.

“I’ll show you to the front door.”

We move through the house in silence, my whispered directions guiding him through the maze of creaky stairs and shadowed hallways.

I want to ask him questions.

Why was he in the lamp? What is he? A genie? I can’t believe genies are a thing, but maybe it’s not that outrageous. I have magic. There are witches and psychics and vampires. A genie can’t be that much of a stretch, can it?

When we pass the kids’ rooms, his steps falter.

“Keep walking.” I jab the bat into his back.

He shoots me an exasperated look over his shoulder, but keeps moving. Down the last staircase, past the quiet kitchen, to the heavy front door.

I unlock it and shove it open. “Out you go.”

He pauses on the threshold. “You know, most people offer tea.”

“Most people don’t pop out of antique lamps in the middle of the night.”

Questions throttle me, like who is he and how did he get in the lamp and what the hell is going on? But it’s better if he leaves. I don’t know him. I can’t trust him. I have a family to take care of.

He steps outside, and I slam the door behind him, throwing the locks. I hit the switch, plunging the porch into darkness, then lean against the door, letting out a long, shaky breath.

What just happened?

And what about the lamp, the object that has divided my attention all night? Now it’s silent. No siren calls coming from within the house.

Instead, curiosity gnaws at me, drawing me not to the lamp, but to the entity that was inside it. I glance through the peephole.

He’s staring back at the door, a frown tilting his lips. He rubs a spot on his chest.

I jerk away, heart lurching. He can’t see me. It’s not possible. But then, slowly, he turns and walks away, hand to his temple. He disappears down the alley, into the dark and out of sight.

I stay frozen, counting to ten before finally exhaling.

It’s over. We’re safe.

I turn away, picking up an empty bag of chips from the table and a dirty sock off the couch, my brain spinning in overdrive. Should’ve asked for a wish. Or twelve. I snort at the thought. Dear genie, grant me hot water, pay all my bills, cure my sister, oh, and do something about world peace.

Too late now.

I make it halfway up the stairs when pain lances through my middle, sharp and sudden, like something’s ripping me apart from the inside.