Page 4

Summer

A s I head up the creaking stairs toward my room, I admit to myself that Zylah was right. Hank’s wound will need care, and it won’t be so easy to treat when he’s feeling sprightlier. And by that I mean pissed off and bitey.

Despite the warm summer evening, my room is as chilly as the long-term storage section in a morgue. Probably due to the ever-present paranormal activity. A haunting usually drops the temperature by several degrees, which means some needy ghost is lurking nearby, wanting attention.

Dumping my work bag on the four-poster bed, I scan the faded velvet drapes, matching peeling burgundy wallpaper, and cobwebbed chandelier for any signs of ghostly mischief.

The dust and musky scent of the old wood vanity and flooring make me sneeze, and then the drip, drip, drip in my private bathroom draws me toward the sink to wash my hands then twist the faucet closed tight.

Damn thing is always leaking. Every part of the house is in dire need of major maintenance .

Keeping my eyes lowered, I dry my hands with brisk movements, hoping to avoid the notice of my least-favorite paranormal roommate.

For several moments, all is quiet, and I risk a glance into the mirror, meeting a set of narrowed pale-green eyes. “Hi, Mom,” I say cheerily. “It’s been a hell of a day, and I’d prefer to avoid an argument, if you’d be so kind.”

It’s really too bad that ghosts don’t get tired. Or too hoarse to nag their daughters.

When her icy stare stays fixed on me, I sigh and decide to be nice. “How’s the afterlife going?”

Her gray curls bounce around her lined face as she shakes her head, ghostly expression scornful.

“You were a strange child, Summer. Unpopular, disobedient, but bringing a wild creature into the house is a new one. Let me give you some advice. A distraction that big and dangerous won’t help you finish counseling school any faster and begin earning the full-time income needed to maintain our beautiful home.

This wolf brings bad tidings. I feel it in the ether . All the gray ladies are saying so.”

The gray ladies. Not them again. That’s what she calls her spirit friends who’ve been dead decades longer than her on account of their washed-out, monochrome color. Or lack thereof.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be spying on me,” I say gently. “You’re dead. Waft off and enjoy the afterlife or go find Grand-paps. I’m sure he’d be thrilled to see you again.”

He sure would be. Father and daughter were like two bitter peas in a pod—so alike in their sour, hypercritical natures. Perhaps that’s what wealth and power do to people. Gives them superiority complexes. Makes it impossible for them to ever be pleased by their own children.

“Stay awhile, Summer. Read me a tale from the Fenian Cycle. The one about the Tuatha Dé Danann and the warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill. You know it’s my favorite, and I’m bored. The undead only like to speak of themselves, you know. It gets rather tedious after eight years in the underworld.”

My mother was an academic, specializing in Celtic History, so I understand why she enjoys the old stories. But I don’t like them at all. At the mere mention of the Tuatha Dé Danann, my blood runs cold. I don’t know why, but it happens every time my mom invokes the name of the old folk of Ireland.

It started on the night I reappeared in Lake Grenlynn, about a year after my parents were killed and I learned Mom’s spirit was still hovering around the Hall, haunting me like a grouchy nightmare.

I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth, Mom watching my every move. I need to shut this conversation down before she starts blaming me for her death again.

“Anyway, I’ve got an early start tomorrow and a book I want to read.” Best not tell her it’s a romance about a knife-wielding stalker. That won’t go down well considering the way she and Dad had died. Speaking of my father.

“Any sign of Dad among the deceased yet?” I ask.

She sniffs. “Of course not. He’s most definitely been sent downstairs, the adulterous rat.”

By downstairs , she means hell. But if that were true, surely Mom, Grand-Paps, and ninety percent of our ancestors would be down there, too, boiling away in a vat of past lies and misdemeanors .

The Astellia banking dynasty wasn’t known for its benevolent actions. Quite the opposite. I may be estranged from the conniving, living relatives on that side of the family, but truthfully, I’m grateful for it.

“Night, Mom. Rest well.”

A scoff hisses from her mouth. “Thanks to you, there’s no rest for me . I’m stuck behind mirrors, vapor behind walls, bored as a potato rotting in a pantry.”

“Depressing imagery. Anyway, I have an early start tomorrow so…”

“On a Saturday?” Mom asks. “Why?”

“I have things to do. People to see. And a wolf to visit.” I say the last part under my breath before blowing her a kiss, returning to my room, and hopping into bed to read about a psycho hero and his librarian obsession.

The next morning, the first thing I do after dragging on clothes is hightail it down to the basement. I find Hank curled up asleep where we left him on a pile of blankets in a corner under Zy’s workbench. A green eye surrounded by a patch of silver fur opens, but he doesn’t move a muscle or snarl.

Zy had messaged me earlier, saying she checked our patient before leaving for work and that he was calm and happily ate some spaghetti with meatballs for breakfast. As I inch closer, speaking nonsense in a low, soothing voice, I notice his breathing is a lot better than last night—rhythmic and even.

The wolf shivers as I stroke his head and rub behind his ear. Bumps erupt over my skin as I pat him. A quiet pulse of something weird but comforting coils through me, tugging at the edges of my thoughts and lulling me into staying cross-legged on the floor for far too long .

At some point today, I should call Zy’s boss and talk about getting Hank moved.

As soon as he’s well enough to stand, we won’t be able to contain him safely in our basement.

Even feeding him will be impossible without risking getting our throats torn out.

No way he’ll be this docile at full strength.

A memory of him watching me from the woods in the Vandersons’ garden fills my mind, his steady gaze, intense rather than ferocious, brimming with intelligence.

I don’t know why the idea of releasing him fills me with dread. I know it must happen. But I feel connected to him in the same way I would if I found an injured stray dog. Like we belong together. Like he’s mine, and I’m his.

Placing his huge paw over my forearm as if to keep me in place, he groans, then wriggles in discomfort.

“Don’t fret, Hank. I promise we’ll get you back to the woods soon. Hey, I wonder if your friend is still out there, waiting for you. Bet you’re looking forward to running free again, hunting rabbits.”

He whines and licks my hand.

“Oh, Hank, you’re a real sweetie, you know that? If only Zy could see you now, she might want to keep you, too.”

A heavy, black tail drums the concrete floor as if he approves. I stroke the silver patch around his eye, and he moans, pressing closer.

“I’ve gotta go out, but I’ll swing by the store on the way home.

Bribe you with a juicy bone. Sound good?

So behave and don’t even think about attacking any of Zylah’s stuffed pets.

” I hitch my thumb in the direction of the shelves of tattered, preserved specimens.

“She loves them like children. Seriously. ”

As I close the basement door, the wolf lets out a high-pitched yelp that sounds exactly like: “Hey, get back here.”

“Sorry, Hank,” I say from the stairwell. “I’ve got a cold case to crack and a very critical ghost to dodge. Don’t want to draw Mommy Dearest down here. She’s not very nice company.”