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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WILLIAM

I float from one end of the room to the other, my spectral form flickering in and out of visibility. For a century, I’ve watched students come and go. Some stayed for weeks, others for years, but none have truly seen me. Not until Isolde. She’s different from the others who’ve lived within these walls, different in ways I’m not sure she fully understands yet.

The door creaks open, and Isolde slips inside, looking utterly exhausted. Her dark hair is a tangle of waves, her blue eyes haunted. The weight of the last couple of days hangs around her like a shroud. She leans against the closed door, taking a deep breath.

“William?” she calls softly, her gaze searching.

“I’m here, squirrel,” I reply, materialising near the window. The nickname slipped out earlier, and now it feels natural .

Her eyes widen when she spots me, her expression brightening despite her obvious fatigue. “I can see you,” she murmurs, crossing the room to place her bookbag on the desk. “I thought the spell might have worn off.”

“Apparently not.” I drift closer, studying her. “You look terrible.”

She laughs, a short, bitter sound. “Thanks. It’s been quite a day.”

“I saw what happened in the courtyard,” I admit. “The fallen angel has quite the temper.”

She collapses onto the edge of the bed, running her hands through her hair before pulling it up into a ponytail. “It was… I don’t really know. I wish everyone would stop trying to protect me and just let me live,” she spits out and then a blush crawls up her neck and face. “Sorry. That was unduly horrible of me.”

“No offence taken,” I reassure her. I’m past that. I know I will never feel, breathe or eat again.

Isolde smiles sadly. “I need to try to contact my parents. Isaac can’t reach them, and we’re worried.”

“The red moon,” I murmur, remembering her mention of it.

She retrieves her scrying mirror from her drawer, unwrapping it carefully from its protective cloth. “I’ve never seen one before. Neither had my parents, from their reaction.”

I watch as she positions herself on the bed, cross- legged, placing the mirror in front of her. “Scrying mirrors are fascinating magical artefacts,” I observe. “True connections across vast distances, not just reflections.”

“I’ve used this one since Isaac came here,” she says, running her finger around its ornate silver frame. “It was my only window to the outside world.”

My curiosity piques. Even in death, the thirst for knowledge remains my defining trait. “Your isolation truly was complete, then.”

“Almost.” She taps the mirror’s surface. “Mum? Dad?”

The mirror remains the same, reflecting only her worried face. She tries again, her voice tinged with growing anxiety. “Mum! Dad! Please answer.”

Nothing.

“They’re not answering Isaac either,” she says, frustration evident in her voice. She flings the mirror to the other side of the bed.

“Have you read my journal yet?”

She shakes her head. “I haven’t had the chance. I will. I’ll help you figure this out.”

I drift back toward the window, looking out at the Bell Tower where I met my end a century ago. Its dark silhouette looms against the perpetually dark sky, a constant reminder of my unfinished business. The bell tolls, and I turn away abruptly. “No rush. I’ve waited this long, and you seem to be having an eventful time. ”

“Did you see me and CJ earlier?” she croaks, not looking at me.

“Yes,” I say with a wicked smile, watching her cheeks flush crimson. “I was still in the walls. I couldn’t exactly leave.”

“Oh god,” she groans, burying her face in her hands. “That’s mortifying. I’m so sorry.”

“If it helps, I’ve seen far worse in this room over the decades,” I say, trying to lighten her embarrassment. “The 1970s were particularly adventurous.”

She peeks through her fingers. “You’re not helping. Who were you, William? Before... this?” She gestures vaguely at my transparent form.

“I was a promising student, if I do say so myself. I specialised in Magical Theory and Dimensional Studies. I was fascinated by the boundaries between worlds, the thin membranes separating one reality from another. SilverGate sits at a nexus point, you know. A place where those boundaries are naturally thinner. I’ve seen glimpses of other worlds right here, but… not.”

Isolde’s eyes widen with interest. “Other worlds? You mean like parallel dimensions?”

“Precisely. SilverGate is built on a convergence point where realities brush against each other.” I drift closer, excitement making my form shimmer brighter. “I was close to a breakthrough when I died. I’d found patterns, correlations in the dimensional fluctuations. I was almost ready to pass through.”

“To another dimension?”

I nod.

“Is that why you were killed?” she asks, suddenly alert despite her exhaustion.

I pause, considering. “I’ve had a century to contemplate that question. It’s possible. Knowledge is dangerous at SilverGate, especially knowledge about what lies under this foreboding building.”

“Underneath.” Her eyes narrow.

“The journal will explain more about my research. But be careful where you read it. Some secrets are better kept hidden from prying eyes.”

Isolde nods, glancing at her bookbag where the journal waits. “I’ll read it tomorrow. Tonight I just need to?—”

A soft tapping at the window interrupts her. We both turn to see a small, dark bird perched on the sill, its eyes unnaturally bright in the darkness.

“Don’t open that,” I warn, drifting between her and the window. “It’s not a normal bird.”

Isolde freezes midway to the window, her hand outstretched. “What is it then?”

“A messenger,” I say, studying the creature’s gleaming eyes. “Or a spy. Hard to tell. They’re often one and the same at SilverGate.”

The bird taps again, more insistently this time, its small beak clicking against the glass. It rises up, flapping its wings to show a folded piece of paper is tied to its leg with a black ribbon.

“It has a message,” Isolde points out, moving closer despite my warning.

“Obviously,” I mutter, “but that doesn’t mean you should accept it.”

She pauses, uncertainty written across her face. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Death, dismemberment, possession, soul-binding… shall I continue?” I drift between her and the window again. “SilverGate has rules about unsolicited communications for a reason.”

The bird cocks its head, watching us with an intelligence that definitely is more than bird like curiosity. It taps again, deliberately, as if understanding our conversation.

“I need to know what it says,” Isolde decides, her jaw set in determination. “It could be about my parents.”

Before I can protest further, she steps around me and unlatches the window. The bird hops inside immediately, extending its leg toward her.

“Be careful,” I warn, hovering anxiously as she unties the ribbon. The bird stays perfectly still as her fingers work the knot, its unblinking gaze fixed on her face. The moment the paper is free, it flaps once and disappears into the darkness without a sound .

“That’s not concerning at all,” I mutter, drifting closer to peer over her shoulder.

Isolde unfolds the paper with trembling fingers. The message is written in elegant script that seems to shimmer slightly in the dim light:

The Crimson Moon rises again. What was hidden will be found.

“Fuck.”

“That is not good,” I agree.

“Who sent it?” She turns the paper over, but there’s no signature, no identifying mark.

“I don’t know,” I murmur, studying the shimmering ink. “But whoever it is knows about the Crimson Moon your parents mentioned.”

Isolde crumples the note in her fist and throws it into the fireplace. The fire jumps to life, and I wish for a moment I could feel the heat from it.

“This is getting ridiculous. I’ve been here two days, and I’ve got possessive vampires, ghosts, fallen angels killing people for me, and now cryptic messages from mystery birds.”

Isolde paces the room, her movements sharp and agitated. “I need answers. Not more questions, not more mysteries.”

“You could always leave,” I suggest, though the thought of her departure creates an unexpected hollow sensation in my spectral form.

She stops pacing, her expression incredulous. “And go where? My home is apparently under siege by whatever sent that bird, my parents are missing, and I’ve got nowhere else.” She collapses onto the bed, running her hands through her hair. “Besides, I promised to help you.”

“That’s hardly your biggest concern right now,” I point out.

“I’m sorry, William. This isn’t working out in your favour at all.”

I shrug. “As I said, no rush. I’m not worried about myself right now. I’ve been dead for a century. A few more days or weeks won’t matter.”

Isolde gives me a wan smile, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. “That’s surprisingly selfless of you.”

“Don’t get used to it. I can be quite petulant when the mood strikes.”

She laughs softly, the sound warming the cold room in a way the fire can’t. I’m drawn to her laughter, to the way it transforms her face from weary warrior to the young woman she actually is.

“You should rest,” I say, drifting toward the window to give her privacy. “Tomorrow will likely bring more chaos if the pattern holds.”

“I can’t argue with that.” She rises and moves to her wardrobe, pulling out a nightgown. “Um, would you mind...?”

“Of course.” I turn my back, floating to face the wall. “I was born in an age of gentlemen.”

“1904?”

“New Year’s Day.”

I hear the rustle of fabric as she changes, and I force myself to focus on the stone wall in front of me. Being a ghost has many disadvantages, but the most painful is this: the inability to truly connect. To touch. To feel warmth. Isolde’s presence in this room has awakened longings I thought had died with my body.

“You can turn around now,” she says.

I rotate slowly to find her draped in a silk nightgown that clings to her curves. “You are beautiful, Isolde,” I murmur. “If I were corporeal, you would be in trouble.”

“Not so gentlemanly after all,” she whispers.

I chuckle. “Not when it comes to rare things of beauty.”

“I need you to tell me more about the restricted section. How to get in it,” she says, crawling into bed and pulling the covers up high.

I drift closer to her bed, careful to maintain a respectful distance. “The restricted section isn’t just locked, Isolde. It’s warded against unauthorised access. Blackridge’s wards are legendary.”

“But you got in,” she points out, propping herself up on one elbow.

“I did,” I concede. “But that’s because I used to hold magic that could raze cities. ”

“Oh?” she says with a raised eyebrow. “Impressive. Warlock?”

“Not quite.”

“Are you going to make me play 20 Questions?”

“No. I will tell you one day. There is a passage behind the third bookcase in the eastern corner of the main library. Behind a copy of ‘Transmutation of Ethereal Entities’.”

“A secret passage? Why didn’t you say so before?”

I hover near the foot of her bed. “The passage leads down, beneath the library. You’ll need to be careful of the third step; it’s a trigger for an alarm spell. Step over it, not on it.”

She nods, committing this to memory. “And once I’m down there?”

“You’ll find yourself in a circular chamber with five doors. Take the second door on the right. The restricted section is above, but there’s another safeguard. A guardian.”

“What kind of guardian?” Her voice drops to a whisper.

“A construct of some sort. It changes form based on who approaches. It manifests as your greatest fear, or sometimes, your greatest desire. Both can be equally dangerous.”

Isolde shivers, pulling the covers tighter. “How do I get past it? ”

“That’s something I can’t tell you. It may be more dangerous than trying to break Blackridge’s wards.”

“And how do I do that?”

“With my magic.”

“Which I don’t have.”

“And neither do I.”

“So underground it is then.”

“You are desperate to get your hands on this book.”

“Wouldn’t you be? Knowing all your life that you are something rare, prized, too vulnerable to be out in the world, when all of a sudden, here you are, in the middle of probably the most dangerous place of all?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Isolde sighs, sinking deeper into the pillows. “I’ll figure it out. We both will.”

“I believe you,” I say, and I’m surprised to realise I mean it. In just two days, she’s shown more determination and resilience than most creatures I’ve observed over decades.

The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the room. Isolde’s eyelids grow heavy, her breathing slowing as exhaustion finally claims her. I watch her drift into sleep, her face peaceful in a way it hasn’t been since she arrived.

I drift toward the window, gazing out at the academy grounds. The courtyard where Cassiel killed Benz is empty now, scrubbed clean of any evidence. SilverGate erases its violence efficiently, leaving no trace of the chaos that unfolds within its walls.

Turning back, I see a distortion in the mirror. A figure stands motionless in the shadows. Even through the haze, I recognise CJ’s distinctive silhouette, see the cloud of cigarette smoke that he puffs above his head. He’s looking up at Isolde through the mirror again. His stillness is unnerving, predatory. The possessiveness radiating from him is almost tangible, a dark energy that pulses in the night.

As if sensing my observation, his head tilts slightly. For a moment, I wonder if he can somehow see me, but that’s impossible. Only Isolde can see me, thanks to the fallen angel’s blood.

But then he sticks his middle finger up at me with a smirk, and I blink.

I return the gesture, and he laughs.

He can see me .

How? Why now?

The connection flickers, and he shuts it down, but I know he will be back.

I just hope he will come to Isolde’s room alone, so we can have a chat about who he is, and why he can see me.

It’s relevant, I know it is. But why?