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Chapter Eleven

ISADORA

It was evening by the time Thorne and I returned to the bar.

“I’m just saying,” she said, licking sugar from her thumb, “if they don’t want people stealing their desserts, then they really shouldn’t leave them unattended.”

I raised a brow at her as I fished my key out of my pocket. “You distracted the server with your cleavage.”

“Exactly. That pie didn’t stand a chance.”

I slid the key into the lock, but when I turned it, the deadbolt didn’t move. Because the door was already unlocked. Odd. Had I forgotten to lock up earlier?

Shrugging, I pushed open the heavy door.

The overwhelming scent of lavender, sage, and cleaning supplies immediately made my eyes water.

Prior to our lunch at the café, Thorne had left little satchels full of herbs and other mystical paraphernalia tucked around the building to “rejuvenate the aura.” The ghosts had immediately hated them, and so had I.

But it’d seemed rude to remind Thorne that vampires and lavender were not, historically, a winning combination.

It did something to our senses, fried our noses, and made our eyes burn. So, I hadn’t mentioned it.

Now I wish I had. The smell had…intensified in our absence.

Thorne hovered in the doorway, the stolen pie box still clutched in one hand. “You sure you don’t want me to stay? In case the toilet demon tries to murder you in your sleep?”

“Thanks, but I’ll manage,” I said. I needed to open some windows. Air this place out. Cuz yikes. “I survived last night, didn’t I? And I have your herb bundles to protect me should the need arise.”

“Don’t forget the rose quartz too,” she said. “It’s for love and emotional healing.”

I frowned. “Ghosts need emotional healing?”

She laughed, the sound easy and bright—but her expression sobered a beat later. “No, darling, they don’t. But you do.”

I gave her a look.

She tilted her head. “Don’t make that face. You’re allowed to need things too, you know.”

“Noted,” I said primly, though the corner of my mouth betrayed me with a slight twitch. “Goodnight, Thorne.”

“Call me if the toilet starts whispering again.”

“Call you?” I scoffed. “If that toilet so much as looks in my direction, you’ll hear me screaming all the way across town.”

Thorne grinned, saluted me with her stolen pie, and disappeared into the night.

I closed the door behind her—this time making sure to lock it—then turned and took in my domain. It looked better . But not by much.

I started for the stairs, dreaming of a shower. Not that I could have one, thanks to the possessed toilet. I’d have to discuss that with Thorne tomorrow. I needed a working bathroom for hygiene purposes, so it was time to evict my toilet demon.

I’d barely taken three steps when the air seemed to grow thicker, and I suddenly had the sense that I wasn’t alone anymore.

Had one of the ghosts solidified, like the one at the café?

I glanced behind me, but there wasn’t anyone else here.

Okay. All in my head then.

I moved to take the next step, and that was when something cold brushed my arm.

“All right,” I murmured. “Are we feeling dramatic tonight?” What new tricks would my resident ghosties show me this time?

The reply came not in words, but in sensation—a heavy, invisible hand pressed against my chest, firm enough to halt my progress. I tried again. It didn’t just resist this time—it pushed.

Hard.

I tumbled down the stairs, barely catching the banister before crashing to the floor.

“What the hell!” I muttered, regaining my balance.

The ghosts didn’t like me, that much was obvious. They’d made their displeasure at my presence known more than once. But this was going a tad too far. They’d never physically manhandled me before.

The violent clinking of the chandelier caught my attention. I glanced up to find it swaying, and not gently. It practically rocked the entire ceiling as it moved.

“Bernard?” I whispered.

I’d never seen him behave this way. He usually only moved the chandelier when I stood beneath it, as though warning me away from it. But right now, its chain creaked as it swung hard once, twice, then stopped entirely sideways. Completely defying gravity.

It hovered like that for a beat, then jerked—pointing.

Not at the stairs.

At the bar.

I blinked up the chandelier, unimpressed. “Bernard, if this is about the satchels, take it up with Thorne.”

It shook itself from side to side, like it was saying, “No.”

The chandelier wiggled and pointed toward the bar again. So, I walked toward it, and that was when I saw it.

Broken barstools littered the whole area, almost as though someone had thrown each and every one against the wall.

They weren’t the only things that were broken, either.

From the looks of the shattered glass covering the floor, something had destroyed all the half-empty and rancid liquor bottles that had sat on the shelves.

Thorne and I certainly hadn’t left the place like this.

Could the ghosts have done this? But why? They usually saved their rebellions for when I was present. Why destroy things while I was gone?

I straightened, then drew in a deep breath, trying to pick up on any scents. But thanks to the lavender satchels, I was nose blind while inside the building.

I dropped my gaze and noticed that the trail of broken glass led like breadcrumbs toward the stairs.

Had someone broken in?

I turned back to the door and stared at it.

I could have sworn I’d locked it when Thorne and I left earlier.

To return home and find it unlocked, as well as this mess…

the only logical conclusion was that someone had broken in and the ghosts had pelted the intruder with anything not bolted to the floor.

White-hot rage bubbled within me. This was my bar. My domain. If someone had broken in, I’d kill them—it was as simple as that. This place wasn’t much, but it was mine. And I would defend it.

The trail led to the stairs, suggesting that someone had gone upstairs.

Fine. Only one way to find out.

I returned to the stairs and placed a hand on the banister only for the pressure to return. That same invisible force as before. Pushing my shoulders, urging me back.

“I understand,” I said, tilting my chin. “An intruder came. You did your ghostly best to ward them off. They went upstairs anyway. Are they still here?”

The chandelier swung and I glanced up to find Bernard once again swaying no .

“Good. The invader is gone, which means there’s no more danger. So, how about you let me inspect the upstairs?”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the pressure eased. Not gone, but shifted, as though the ghost now stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder.

“Thank you,” I said as I climbed the stairs.

I stepped into the loft and stopped cold.

Someone had destroyed the entire room. The old mirror that Thorne had taken great care to clean now lay in a shattered pile, its glass scattered across the floor like shrapnel.

They’d dumped out my suitcase and slashed all my clothes, including the few blouses I’d hung in the closet.

My boots, my coat, my two pairs of jeans—all shredded.

Then there was the desk, which now lay in a cluttered heap of drywood.

Last came my mattress. And the sight of what greeted me nearly brought me to my knees.

Not only had the intruder knifed it right down the middle, exposing the coiled springs and padding, but they’d also left me a present on top.

The watch my mother had given me. Destroyed.

They’d smashed the clock face and sliced the leather strap clean through.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

I didn’t care about the mirror, the clothes, the mattress.

But the watch? I cared about that. My mother had gifted it to me for my bicentennial.

It had sentimental meaning in my life. And I had such few possessions left that this one hurt.

It was the last scrap of my former life.

A symbol of who I’d been, the one item I’d been able to hold on to after we lost everything.

And now it was gone too.

I walked to the mattress, crouched, and picked up the broken watch.

The metal was cold in my hand. Heavier than it should have been. Final, somehow.

A crack began to spread in my chest. It built quietly, like glass slowly splintering. The ache had my fingers closing around my watch, holding it too tightly. I didn’t care if the jagged edges bit into my palm. Let it. Maybe if it hurt enough, I wouldn’t feel quite so hollow inside.

A quiet presence formed behind me, one that I instantly recognized as spectral. They rested a hand on my shoulder, and I closed my eyes for a moment, absurdly grateful for the comfort of a ghost.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

There was no reply, but the pressure remained at my side.

“I’ll be all right,” I said softly.

A soft pat.

I slipped the broken watch into my pocket, though gods only knew why. It was useless now. But the thought of leaving it behind was worse. Almost like admitting defeat.

Someone had definitely broken in, walked through my home, and destroyed my things—what little I had left. But why? To scare me? To remind me that even now, after everything, they could still hurt me?

Well, I would show them exactly how wrong they were.

And I knew exactly who was responsible.

There was only one bastard in this town arrogant enough to orchestrate something like this. One cold-blooded, power-drunk aristocrat who couldn’t handle being told no.

I’d rejected him this afternoon—in public, no less—and now, he was responding like a spoiled, calculating tyrant by destroying my home. My things.

He wanted me gone.

He couldn’t buy me, so now he’d strip me of what little scraps I had left and wait for me to crawl out of town, humiliated and hollowed.

Well. Message received. But he’d miscalculated—gravely.

Because I wouldn’t run. Not from men like him.

I turned on my heel and stormed down the stairs. The ghosts quieted as I passed. Even Bernard’s chandelier stilled.

The front door swung open of its own accord, and I stormed out into the night with only one thing on my mind.

War.

Lucien St. Germain wanted to play games?

Fine.

But he’d soon learn that I refused to lose. It wouldn’t be me standing over ruins at the end of this. It would be him. Because I was going to set fire to his little empire—and make sure everyone had a front row ticket to watch.