Page 6 of Unbearable Attraction (Hollow Oak Mates #4)
LEENAH
L eenah's fingers traced the faded ink of her grandmother's careful script, the words swimming before her tired eyes as the grandfather clock in her hallway chimed midnight.
She'd been at this for fourteen hours straight, fueled by nothing but coffee and the growing certainty that she'd stumbled onto something far bigger than a simple ghostly manifestation.
The leather-bound journal sat open across Leenah's lap, surrounded by a fortress of books she'd pulled from every corner of her cottage.
Local histories, genealogical records, her grandmother's collection of supernatural folklore were all pointing toward the same impossible conclusion.
The founding families of Hollow Oak hadn't just negotiated with indigenous spirits for permission to settle.
They'd entered into a binding magical contract that required regular renewal ceremonies to maintain.
"Well, that explains a few things," she muttered, reaching for her seventh cup of coffee and finding only dregs.
The late autumn wind rattled her windows, carrying the promise of winter's first snow.
She should have lit the fire hours ago, but the growing pile of evidence had demanded her complete attention.
A soft thud from the kitchen made her look up. Probably just Minerva knocking something off the counter again. The cat had been restless all evening, padding through the cottage with her fur slightly bristled as if sensing things Leenah couldn't see.
Another thud, followed by the unmistakable creak of the kitchen door opening.
Leenah set the journal aside and padded barefoot toward the sound, her breath misting slightly in the suddenly cold air. "Min? What are you getting into now?"
The kitchen stood empty, back door firmly closed and latched.
But the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees, and frost was beginning to form on the inside of the windows despite her heating system running full blast. Minerva crouched beneath the table, her mismatched eyes wide and fixed on something near the doorway that Leenah couldn't see.
"Okay, that's not normal," she said, wrapping her arms around herself as her breath became visible in the frigid air.
The whispers started then. Soft, urgent voices speaking in languages from the cemetery, threading through the air like half-remembered songs. They seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, echoing off the walls of her cottage with increasing insistence.
Child of between...
The pact lies broken...
Time grows short...
Leenah's necromantic abilities stirred in response to the spiritual presence, but not in the controlled way she was used to.
This felt wild, unfiltered, as if something had torn a hole between worlds and spirits were pouring through without invitation or restraint.
Her grandmother's journals had mentioned this, the way necromantic gifts could act as a beacon for restless dead, drawing them like moths to flame.
"I hear you," she said aloud, her voice steady despite the supernatural chaos erupting around her. "But you're going to have to be more specific about what you want."
The temperature dropped another few degrees, and frost began spreading across the kitchen windows in patterns that looked almost like writing. Ancient symbols that hurt to look at directly, as if they carried power too concentrated for human eyes to process safely.
The whispers intensified, overlapping until they became an incomprehensible chorus of urgent need. Whatever these spirits wanted, they were running out of time to ask for it. And somehow, her research into the founding families' history had opened a door she didn't know how to close.
A door that was apparently letting in more than just curious ghosts.
The kitchen door itself swung open again, banging against the wall with enough force to rattle the dishes in her cabinets.
Cold air rushed through the cottage, extinguishing half her candles and sending papers flying in chaotic spirals.
Minerva yowled and darted toward the living room, taking shelter behind the couch with the kind of feline dignity that suggested this was all somehow Leenah's fault.
"Okay, point taken," Leenah called to the invisible spirits. "You're upset about the broken pact. I get it. But I'm trying to figure out what happened, so maybe dial down the supernatural tantrum while I work?"
The whispers faded to a barely audible murmur, and the temperature began to climb back toward something approaching normal. Whatever was haunting her cottage seemed willing to negotiate, at least temporarily. Small mercies.
She returned to the living room and gathered her scattered research, noting that several pages had landed in arrangements that seemed almost purposeful.
As if the spirits had been trying to point her toward specific information.
One of her grandmother's journals lay open to a page dated 1955, the writing more hurried than usual.
The dreams grow stronger. Aiyana comes to me nightly now, showing me visions of the ceremony grounds deep in the old forest. She speaks of a necromancer who will bridge the worlds, someone with the power to restore what was broken.
I fear she means one of my descendants, though I pray the burden passes me by.
The dead ask too much of the living, and some promises extract prices too dear to pay.
Aiyana. The same name the elderly Cherokee spirit had whispered in the cemetery.
The one who'd tried to touch Leenah's hand while the other manifestations swirled around them like a supernatural storm.
Apparently, she'd been trying to make contact for decades, waiting for someone with enough necromantic ability to hear her message.
Lucky me, Leenah thought grimly.
She pulled a thick blanket around her shoulders and settled back into her reading, determined to find some clue about where these ceremony grounds might be located.
If the spirits wanted the pact renewed, she needed to understand what that actually meant before agreeing to anything.
Her family's history with magical contracts wasn't exactly encouraging.
Her grandmother had spent her entire life afraid of inherited obligations, and her mother had fled Salem to avoid similar supernatural commitments.
The whispers returned as she read, softer now but constant.
Like having a dozen conversations taking place just outside her range of hearing.
Every few minutes, the temperature would fluctuate wildly, or she'd catch movement in her peripheral vision that disappeared when she turned to look directly.
By two in the morning, she'd managed to piece together a partial timeline.
The original pact had been sealed in 1689, requiring renewal ceremonies every fifty years to maintain the magical barriers protecting Hollow Oak.
The last recorded ceremony had taken place in 1889, conducted by a coalition of supernatural families including her own ancestors and witches from the Shadowheart line.
It stated that while her family and others helped renew that pact, the Shadowheart witch sealed the protective barriers for other reasons, not associated with the pact, but for safety reasons.
It was vague but gave Leenah the feeling that a lot happened here in that time period and she wasn’t sad she had missed out.
But after that, nothing. No records, no mentions, no explanations for why the ceremonies had stopped.
A soft scratching sound drew her attention to the front door.
Probably just wind-blown branches, but after hours of supernatural disturbances, she wasn't taking any chances.
Leenah wrapped the blanket tighter around herself and peered through the peephole, finding nothing but empty darkness beyond the porch light.
When she opened the door to check for damage from the storm, a white business card fluttered to the ground at her feet.
Luka Ashe - Custom Woodworking read the simple black text. Below it, someone had written in careful handwriting: If you need anything.
Leenah stared at the card for a long moment, her pride warring with the growing realization that whatever she'd awakened was beyond her ability to handle alone.
The cottage was actively haunted now, not just by curious spirits but by entities with urgent demands she didn't fully understand.
Her necromantic abilities were responding to their presence in ways that felt increasingly unstable, as if prolonged contact with so many manifestations was stretching her gifts past their normal limits.
She should call someone. Should swallow her independence long enough to ask for help from people who understood supernatural crises better than she did. The Council, perhaps, or at least someone with experience dealing with magical emergencies.
Instead, she found herself running her thumb across Luka's carefully written message, remembering the way he'd looked at her in the cemetery.
Not like she was fragile or incompetent, but like she was magnificent.
Dangerous, maybe, but in the way that powerful things were dangerous—worthy of respect rather than condescension.
A crash from the kitchen interrupted her thoughts, followed by Minerva's indignant yowl.
When Leenah rushed to investigate, she found her spice rack overturned and herbs scattered across the floor in patterns that looked almost like protective sigils.
Her cat sat in the middle of the chaos, tail twitching with annoyance.
"Okay, apparently the spirits have opinions about my cooking supplies," she said, kneeling to scratch behind Minerva's ears. "What do you think, Min? Do I call the nice carpenter and admit I'm in over my head?"
Minerva purred and rubbed against her hand, then padded purposefully toward the front door where Luka's business card still lay on the floor. The message was clear: even her familiar thought she needed backup.
Leenah sighed and picked up the card, turning it over in her fingers.
Her grandmother's warnings about the dead asking too much of the living echoed in her mind, but so did the urgency in those whispered voices.
Whatever the spirits wanted, they weren't going to give up just because she was too proud to admit she needed help.
And if she was being honest with herself, the idea of Luka's steady presence in her chaos-filled cottage didn't sound entirely unwelcome. Even if it meant acknowledging that some problems were too big for one person to solve alone.
The whispers rose again as she stood there debating, carrying what sounded almost like encouragement. As if the spirits themselves approved of her considering reinforcements.
"Fine," she said aloud, tucking the card into her pocket. "But if this goes badly, I'm blaming all of you."
The temperature in her cottage warmed by several degrees and the whispers carried what sounded distinctly like relief.