Page 8
Chapter Six
ISADORA
I didn’t need bleach.
I needed a blowtorch.
Unfortunately, fire wasn’t a sanctioned renovation method in Eternity Falls—even when completely justified—so I resigned myself to the industrial-strength cleaner I’d unearthed from beneath the leaking sink.
Regrettably, the bar had not transformed overnight into the glittering jewel of the supernatural nightlife I envisioned.
A pity. One would think the resident ghosts might prefer haunting luxury over filth, but alas—every time I relocated a rotted chair or splintered table, it mysteriously returned to its original position the next time I looked.
As if the specters were staging a silent protest in an attempt to break me.
Spoiler alert: they wouldn’t.
Even Bernard—the one ghost I’d considered an ally in this mess—had turned on me. Every time I dared to walk beneath him, he gave the chandelier a hard tug. I was beginning to think he was trying to drop it on my head and call it a day.
Rude, right?
I’d be lying if I said Bernard’s reaction didn’t mildly offend me, but I refused to let him scare me.
If I needed to, I would call in every last Ravenspell to exorcise these beasts—a threat I’d verbally issued to them more than once now.
Nothing—not ghosts, not mildew, not even my resident toilet demon—would stand in my way of success.
Nor would a St. Germain.
Or perhaps I should amend that to say especially not a St. Germain.
I attacked a stain on the bar’s surface and growled under my breath.
Lucien St. Germain.
The way Thorne had described him, I’d expected theatrics and thinly veiled threats. A sociopathic vampire wearing silk gloves.
Instead, he’d given me what I suspected was his version of politeness. A charming smile, a civil tone, and gentle eyes. He hadn’t blustered or growled or seemed even the slightest bit offended by my presence. He’d simply watched me and listened to my tirade, as though drinking me in.
And his voice. Phew. The way his lips formed his words, how he savored every syllable he spoke… Yes, it’d distracted me. Briefly.
But I wasn’t some simpering socialite easily undone by good tailoring, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a very square, very manly jawline.
Lucien was playing a game. Moves and countermoves, Thorne had said. I had to assume his approach last night had been a tactic. One he’d specifically chosen to throw me off balance.
Clearly, he was planning something. Some elaborate long-con that ended with me bankrupt and kicked out of town.
I scrubbed harder, attacking the counter like it had insulted my lineage.
He was watching me. That much was obvious. But for what purpose?
To predict my failure—or to ensure it?
With a long sigh, I gave up on the stain and moved to the far corner of the bar, where the next monstrosity awaited.
At first glance, it looked like a table had fused with the wall through a combination of rot and grime.
Either way, it needed to go—a one-way ticket straight to the dump. If only it would move .
I gave it a tug.
It groaned in protest.
So did I.
“Oh, don’t start,” I muttered, bracing one booted foot against the baseboard. “You’ve had years to rot in peace. It’s time for you to say goodbye.”
I pulled harder, and the table groaned again, louder this time, before a gust of cold air slithered past my cheek like a warning.
I narrowed my eyes. “Is that the best you’ve got? A spooky breeze? Please. I’ve faced investors with sharper teeth.”
I yanked harder.
The entire structure shuddered—and then a nearby drawer shot open and spat a cascade of old receipts and what might’ve been a cursed wine list directly at my face.
I staggered back, choking on dust. “Really? Paper? That’s your weapon of choice?”
Somewhere above me, Bernard creaked ominously, his crystals jangling with what I swore was smugness.
“I’m trying to improve your living conditions,” I growled. “If you keep this up, you’ll force me to take more drastic measures.”
A stool flew across the room and struck the wall next to me.
I slowly turned and glared at the room. “That was mean .”
Silence followed. Heavy. Disdainful.
“Fine. I see how it is. Sabotage the heiress. Very unoriginal.”
I set the stool upright—maybe with a bit more force than necessary—then grabbed my rag and turned back to the bar.
The wooden shelves were next, so I started scrubbing, tackling one stubborn smear at a time.
Every few seconds, one of the ghosts threw a temper tantrum, but I refused to acknowledge any of it.
“You can haunt me all you like,” I said sweetly, “but you’ll be doing it in a bar with working plumbing and lights by next month.”
The mirror behind the counter suddenly clouded over with a frosty haze.
I glared at it. “Petty.”
Eventually, the frost receded. I resumed scrubbing until the front door suddenly creaked open.
I groaned. “Can you guys just cool it, please? I’m sick of?—”
“Relax, princess, it’s just me,” a voice called out. “And I come bearing gifts.”
I turned to catch Thorne sauntering through the door. She’d swept her dark hair into a loose side-braid, then perched her sunglasses atop her head, as though to hold her stray curls in place. In her arms, she carried a large plastic tote teeming with cleaning supplies.
Oh, thank everything everywhere. Reinforcements.
She kicked the door shut with the heel of her boot, then strode inside.
“Well,” she said brightly, “at least the ghosts didn’t murder you in your sleep. That’s progress. Perhaps, the only progress.”
I sighed and brandished an arm toward the room. “Every time I clean something, they rebel.”
Thorne crossed the room and set the bin down on the bar with a dramatic thud. Something inside clanked. Or maybe hissed. I didn’t ask.
She popped the lid open and began pulling items out.
“Witch hazel. Floor polish. Sea salt. Holy water—blessed by a Ravenspell, not one of those mass-produced frauds. A bundle of sage thick enough to smoke out your chandelier boyfriend. And…” She held up a small, sealed mason jar filled with what looked like moonlit jelly. “Ectoplasm neutralizer.”
I blinked. “That’s a thing?”
“It is now,” she said, then set it down with a flourish. “Figured your roommates needed a little incentive to play nice.”
“I tried that. They threw a stool at me.”
Thorne shot me a glance, her lips pressed together as though trying not to laugh. “Did they now?”
I nodded.
She tsked, pulling out a pair of rubber gloves—pink, elbow-length, and bedazzled around the cuffs.
“Well, then. It seems we need to discuss consequences.” She reached back into the bin and retrieved a comically large bundle of herbs, bound tightly in twine and already shedding bits onto the floor.
“For instance, I could light this beauty. According to the Ravenspells, white sage is quite off-putting to spirits.”
She held it aloft like a weapon, turning slowly so every lurking spirit had a chance to admire the threat.
Bernard’s chandelier suddenly stopped tinkling, and the stool I’d righted scooted gently— very gently—away from the center of the room and back behind the bar, where I’d placed it an hour ago.
“Well then,” I murmured. “Do you think they’ll start helping next? Maybe mop the floors while I nap?”
A gust of cold air whooshed past my shoulder, rattling the row of empty liquor bottles behind the bar.
Thorne snorted. “That was a no. A very sassy no.”
“They’re lucky they’re already dead.”
She pulled on her own gloves with a sharp snap . “All right, Your Royal Griminess. Where shall we begin?”
It was my turn to stare at her. “You want to help me clean?”
She shrugged. “Why not? It’s half my business now too, right? It would be rude of me to leave you to handle all this by yourself.”
Something in me eased at her words. I’d had support before—family, friends, people who believed in me—but it had all vanished so spectacularly with my ex-mate’s downfall that I’d stopped expecting anyone to stand beside me.
Yet here Thorne was, in her bedazzled gloves, ready to tackle this mess of a place without a second thought.
“How about upstairs?” Thorne suggested when I didn’t immediately speak. “The bar is important, but I assume you’d like somewhere semi-habitable to sleep. I can only imagine the state of the upstairs matches the tone down here?”
“Worse,” I admitted. “I think the bathroom is cursed.” Luckily, as a vampire, I lacked all need for a toilet, but there were other amenities I wanted to make use of—like a shower. Unfortunately, the malevolent presence gave me a severe case of the heebie-jeebies.
Thorne arched a brow. “How cursed are we talking? Occasional groaning pipes or full-blown plumbing poltergeist?”
“A toilet demon. It likes to whisper to me in other languages at night.”
That earned me a grimace. “If it starts offering you deals, run.”
“Noted.”
She cracked her knuckles, clearly enjoying this more than was appropriate. “Come on then, let’s meet your haunted loo.”
Grabbing the tote, Thorne led the way upstairs into my loft and immediately stopped in her tracks. She surveyed the room with a single, slow blink—the kind that usually preceded either sarcasm or prayer.
“Well,” she said at last, in a tone too cheerful to be sincere. “At least it has walls.” She set the container down. “It’s giving me very cryptic chic vibes. Fitting for a vampire, no?”
I laughed. “Not this vampire.”
She moved toward the tiny bathroom and nudged the cracked door open with two fingers. A low, guttural growl rumbled from the pipes—deep and unmistakably angry.
Thorne froze.
Then, with great care, she took a single step back. “Right. Yup. That’s definitely possessed. I’m not going in there. Ever.”
“Fair,” I said.
“I think we need more white sage.”
That seemed like a safe assumption.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8 (Reading here)
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40