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I glance up at the crowd circling the Hollow, so many fae still watching. Waiting. Hoping I’ll do something spectacular or fail horribly. Either would likely entertain them.

Taking a deep breath, I step forward.

The closest corpse is on the bottom tier—a small frame with its hands bound across its chest in a way that feels too deliberate. She… or he… could’ve been a prisoner. Empathy warming my heart, I crouch beside it and rest a hand lightly on what I think is a shoulder.

“Hey,” I whisper, my voice raspy with nerves. “If you can hear me in there... now would be an excellent time to sit up and do something spooky. Like let out a shriek. Curse the king. Expel some gas. Anything you can manage would be great.”

Nothing happens, which is fair enough. I can’t believe I just asked a dead body to fart.

I shift to my knees and lean closer, rubbing the rough linen between my fingers.

I speak again. This time a little louder.

“Oh, Dead One, whoever you are, you’re being summoned by Summer Brady, amateur ghost whisperer and very reluctant guest of the Shade Court. Your presence is... kind of required.”

Still nothing. Not even a twitch. I try again, voice dropping to a reassuring murmur, the way I speak to ghosts back home when they’re newly deceased and skittish.

“It’s okay to come back now. You’re safe. Just follow the sound of my voice...”

The corpse I’m touching doesn’t stir, or breathe, or flinch. None of them do.

“This is ridiculous. Of course it won’t work,” I mutter. “Because I’m not the actual girl the Shade Court needs. ”

Wyn’s dimpled grin flashes in my mind, and I suppress the urge to curl up in a ball and cry. I look up at the bodies on the higher tiers. More stillness. And no sign of any twitching limbs trying to rise.

Sitting back on my heels, I exhale a heavy sigh. Then, because this whole thing is already a nightmare and my head is about to explode with stress, I blurt out, “Is this like Sleeping Beauty for corpses? Do I have to kiss one of you poor suckers to wake you up?”

A couple of chuckles ripple through the court. I think someone even claps.

Hell. Could this day get any worse?

I lean in toward the dead guy with the lopsided jaw and mutter, “This isn’t personal, okay? So don’t get any bright ideas if you get resurrected.” Then I gently tap my lips to its linen-covered forehead.

Still dead. Still stinky and unmoving.

“Right. Thought so.”

I pull away, heart hammering. My hands are shaking.

The kind of tremble that comes from feeling simultaneously ridiculous and absolutely terrified.

This was never going to work. I talk to ghosts, not sacks of bones.

I don’t raise bodies. I don’t resurrect spirits.

I listen. That’s what I’m good at, which is why I’m training to become a counselor.

But the fae are still watching. Every single one of them.

I glance toward the edge of the Hollow. Landolin stares back, his expression twisted with a mix of hope and guilt. Moiron stands beside him, stone-faced. The unfeeling bastard.

I look down at my hands. Then at the knife sticking out of my pocket, hesitating only a second before drawing it. It’s not particularly beautiful or ceremonial—just practical, clean, dark steel. I press the edge of the blade to my palm. Just enough to bleed a little.

The pain flares sharp, and I hiss in a breath, then hold my hand over the corpse’s face, letting my blood drip.

“Two drops in your eyes for sight,” I whisper, my mind beginning to fracture. “One for your breath. And three for whatever’s left in that skull that might bring you back to life.”

My blood hits the linen drop by drop. Soaks in. And then... nothing.

Absolutely nothing happens.

I bleed into the silence as I stare at the crowd of fae who are vibrating with anticipation to call me a fraud and demand my death. My hand shakes harder. My mouth is dry. My heart pounds like a war drum.

Then something shifts in the air.

A gust of cold sweeps through the space, snuffing out three of the floating lanterns. The crowd stirs. Some murmur. A few draw blades just in case.

Then the body under my hands jerks. I jolt back, my pulse racing. It spasms once more… then goes still.

The crowd holds its breath. I hold my breath.

And then the corpse releases a hollow, gassy groan—a sick, bloated sound that makes my insides recoil.

Another lantern dies.

And just like that, the body stops moving. Whatever spark had flickered briefly inside it dies out.

The entire Hollow exhales.

Moiron steps forward. “That’s enough. The human has failed. ”

Landolin’s voice follows. “Summer… move back.”

A shape flickers in the corner of my eye, faint and blurry. I glance toward the bodies, and that’s when I see him. Not the corpse. The ghost.

He’s hovering just above the pallet, a gray-skinned specter with a ravaged face, wearing the blood-slick tunic he died in. His mouth opens, and a terrible sound leaks out, a low, raspy whisper. It’s barely audible, but somehow, the words are perfectly clear to me.

“King Moiron is a fraud.”

My breath catches.

The ghost’s head tilts, milky eyes boring into mine. “His Hunt was bought with blood. It feeds upon his son. But do not fear. The wolf is coming. Earth triumphs over shadow. It always does.”

Then the ghost lets out a wail that curdles my stomach and vanishes, sucked backward into the corpse like smoke into a vent.

Well, I guess that settles it… this realm definitely has ghosts. Terrifying ones.

I sit in the dirt, blood dripping down my wrist, heart racing. Trying not to cry or throw up. Trying not to let them see my fear.

Above me, the court starts whispering.

At the edge of my vision, a dark cloud stirs—Moiron Ravenseeker’s shadows—then something hits my cheek. Hard .