Page 13 of Ghoul Me, Maybe

SIENNA

T he ocean doesn’t invite you in—it dares you.

And like the brilliant dumbass I am, I take the dare.

It’s not like I haven’t been in worse situations. I once spelunked into a sunken temple off the Turkish coast with a cracked flashlight and a sinus infection. But this? This is different.

This is personal.

The map’s clenched in one gloved hand, damp from sea spray and my own sweat. The X it marks isn’t on land. It’s tucked behind the reef just beyond Wrecker’s Bay—beneath a sharp-toothed ridge locals call the Widow’s Jaw. Which is not, for the record, comforting.

The tide is low, the moon’s still up, and Mira’s protective charm is thudding against my sternum like a warning bell.

I ignore it.

Sorry, Mira. I love you, but your exorcism-grade salt necklaces aren’t going to cut it for this.

I take a breath and wade out until the cold water hits my hips, then my ribs, then my collarbone.

My wet suit is definitely not insulated enough, and I’ve already cursed out loud twice.

The third time I slip on algae-covered stone and nearly eat seawater, I hiss, “You better be worth this, Jonas, you cryptic bastard.”

I’m swimming before my brain can list all the reasons this is a terrible idea.

The reef looms ahead—dark and jagged, like something out of a Lovecraftian nightmare. But just beyond it, a faint shimmer pulses in the water. A glow, too steady to be moonlight. It’s not phosphorescence either. It’s magic. Ancient. Quiet. Hungry.

I spot the vault just before the current grabs me.

It’s carved into the seabed, half-choked by barnacles and coral, with symbols etched in the stone like something out of a wizard’s fever dream. My father’s handwriting annotated the map with “SEAL 3 – CRYPT LOCK. KEEP TO SURFACE UNLESS KEY IS PRIMED.”

I didn’t bring the key.

Because, again: brilliant dumbass.

I reach out anyway, fingers brushing the edge.

The second I make contact, the water moves.

No, not moves. Reacts.

A crack splits open above the vault, and before I can backstroke my way to safety, tendrils of seaweed shoot from the stone like they’ve been waiting centuries for a hug. One wraps around my wrist. Another curls around my ankle.

“ Son of a ? — ”

I kick, thrash, twist—but it’s like fighting tar. Cold, binding, and deeply uninterested in letting go.

My lungs are already starting to burn.

I reach for my dive knife, fingers slipping. The blade’s dull—thanks, antique collector’s edition—and barely nicks the seaweed. It shrieks. Shrieks , underwater, like a chorus of drowning whispers.

Then it tightens .

The pressure slams me against the vault. My head cracks the stone. Stars explode behind my eyes.

Water rushes in where breath should be.

I choke. I scream.

And then everything shifts .

The ocean... hums .

A shockwave pulses through the water like thunder underwater, sending coral fragments flying. The seaweed recoils. The magic— Jonas’s magic —screeches in protest.

And then he’s there.

Elias.

Not ghost-Elias. Not mist-in-the-corner Elias.

Solid. Bare-chested. Eyes glowing like stormlight. Arms slicing through the sea like a knife through fate.

He grabs me.

One hand on my waist. One tearing at the vines. His skin is warm . Real .

I cling to him like he’s oxygen.

We break the surface with a gasp that splits the night wide open.

I cough up half the bay. My throat burns like I drank bleach and salt, and my chest is one long scream. But I’m alive.

Mostly.

Elias hauls me up onto a jagged rock outcrop. He’s shaking. I’m shivering. We’re both panting like we just outran death—and maybe we did.

He brushes the hair from my face, his touch feather-light.

“Next time,” he rasps, “maybe don’t ignore the part where it says 'primed key only.'”

I wheeze a laugh. “Didn’t think it’d turn into a horror movie tentacle trap. Sue me.”

He grips my shoulders tighter, gaze burning. “You almost drowned.”

“You say that like it’s a surprise.”

“Sienna—”

“Don’t Sienna me, Captain Hauntedpants.” My voice cracks, and I hate how close I am to crying. “This is your stupid vault. Your stupid curse. Your stupid dead magic.”

“ Your father built the damn trap,” he fires back.

I flinch.

He sees it. Immediately regrets it.

“Shit,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean?—”

“No, you’re right.” I shove off the rock, legs trembling. “Of course Jonas left a death trap. Why make anything simple when you can traumatize your daughter from beyond the grave?”

Elias rises beside me. The moon glints off his wet skin, casting shadows across muscles that shouldn’t be allowed to exist outside a romance novel.

“I wasn’t going to let you die,” he says quietly.

Something in his voice breaks me a little.

“You shouldn’t have been able to save me,” I whisper. “You’re not... you’re not solid.”

“Not until now.”

We watch each other, water dripping from our clothes, breath mingling in the cold night air. The tension’s thick enough to drown in, and not in the sexy way.

I fold my arms. “So what the hell happened?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “But something in that vault—it recognized you. And it sure as hell didn’t like you touching it without the key.”

I roll my eyes. “Because relics are just so particular.”

He chuckles. It’s low and rough and does dangerous things to my spine.

“What now?” I ask.

Elias looks toward the waves, eyes scanning the darkness. “Now we find that key. Before the vault decides to finish what it started.”

“And if it’s already too late?”

He turns to me, storm in his eyes. “Then we make it regret trying.”

I don’t know whether to kiss him or push him back into the sea.

Probably both.

But instead, I mutter, “I need dry clothes and therapy.”

He grins.

“I’ll get you a towel. The rest… might take longer.”