Page 10

CHAPTER 9

T he storm hit London with vengeance.

Rain lashed against The Red Lion’s ancient windows, driven sideways by howling winds that found every crack in the old building. Tessa sat behind the bar, a mug of chamomile tea cooling between her palms as she listened to the tempest rage outside. Lightning flashed through the rain-streaked glass, revealing an empty street that looked like something from a Victorian ghost story.

She’d closed early, sending her few brave regulars home before the worst struck. Now, well past ten o’clock, Tessa found herself entirely alone—surrounded only by the building’s sympathetic groans and the increasingly insistent presence that had taken up residence in its bones.

For two days now, Will had been making himself progressively more known. Lights flickered with the persistence of someone trying to get attention. Glasses shifted across surfaces, sometimes edging dramatically toward the brink of falling. The temperature dropped in unpredictable patches throughout the pub, creating pockets of cold that felt like walking through invisible arctic drafts.

“We’re working on it, Will,” Tessa murmured into the room’s expectant stillness. “Sebastian’s searching through every archive in London, Alice is pulling strings at the war museum, and I’ve got enough research materials to write a dissertation. We will find Rebecca, I promise.”

As if in response, a pint glass slid deliberately across the bar’s polished surface, coming to a stop precisely at the edge.

Tessa watched the glass teeter precariously, unease tightening in her chest. These supernatural signs had become disturbingly familiar, but their increasing frequency was starting to worry her. Whatever emotional ties bound Will to this realm, his patience was clearly wearing thin.

A violent gust rattled the windows. Tessa flinched involuntarily, her childhood fear of thunderstorms surging back. There was something about thunder and lightning and howling wind that made her feel like the entire world might simply come apart at the seams.

Which made tonight absolutely the perfect evening to be alone in a haunted pub with a restless ghost.

She rose and made a careful circuit of the main room, checking window latches and testing door locks. The Red Lion had withstood centuries of London weather—everything from medieval storms to the Blitz itself—but tonight felt somehow personal.

As she passed the cellar door, she stopped abruptly. Cold air seeped through the cracks around the frame like invisible smoke.

“Will?” she called quietly.

The cold intensified immediately, wrapping around her ankles with fingers of ice.

She placed her hand on the door handle, breath catching as the metal felt impossibly cold against her palm. Beyond the door lay only impenetrable darkness—and the overwhelming sensation of being watched by someone with desperate urgency.

“We’re trying our best,” she said, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Please, just hold on a bit longer. We won’t give up on you.”

The overhead lights chose that moment to die completely, plunging the entire pub into absolute darkness broken only by the storm’s lightning outside.

“Absolutely perfect timing,” Tessa muttered, firmly closing the cellar door. “Because what this evening really needed was a complete power failure.”

Guided by her phone’s flashlight, she navigated to the supply cupboard and retrieved her emergency candles. Her phone still showed decent battery and full signal—she’d learned to keep a portable charger behind the bar for exactly these emergencies. Soon, the main room had transformed into a flickering tableau of golden light and dancing shadows.

She returned to her stool behind the bar, phone in hand, and tried not to jump when thunder cracked directly overhead.

Her phone buzzed unexpectedly, making her nearly drop the device.

Sebastian: Still awake? Storm knocked out power at my place too.

Tessa read the message twice, touched that he’d thought to check on her.

Tessa: Wide awake. Just lost power here as well. The pub is all candles and shadows now. Actually rather beautiful in a Gothic romance sort of way.

His reply came quickly.

Sebastian: Same situation at my flat, though considerably less atmospheric, I imagine. Historic pubs definitely beat modern penthouses for candlelight ambience.

She found herself smiling.

Tessa: The Red Lion wins over your glass-and-steel minimalist box? I’m shocked.

Sebastian: Touché. Though I have to admit, the lightning over the Thames is putting on quite a show from up here.

Another brilliant flash illuminated the windows, followed immediately by thunder that shook the building’s foundations.

Tessa: Are you actually enjoying the storm?

Sebastian: More than I expected, honestly. Storms remind us that we’re not really in control of anything, despite our best efforts to pretend otherwise.

The response was unexpectedly thoughtful from someone whose usual conversation topics involved zoning regulations and profit margins.

Tessa: Not particularly fond of that reminder, personally. Thunderstorms have terrified me since I was about six years old.

She hesitated before sending that, aware that admitting childhood fears felt vulnerable. But somehow, texting in the darkness made honesty feel safer.

Sebastian: That actually surprises me. You always seem so fearless about everything else.

Tessa: Ghosts and property developers I can handle. Lightning trying to murder me from the sky? Not so much.

There was a longer pause before his next response.

Sebastian: We all have irrational fears. Mine happens to be small spaces. Even before the dreams started, elevators made me break out in a cold sweat.

Tessa read that confession twice, struck by his willingness to match her vulnerability with his own.

Tessa: How does that possibly work in a career that involves spending half your time in skyscrapers?

Sebastian: It’s given me excellent cardiovascular fitness. I take the stairs more than most people would consider strictly sane.

Tessa actually laughed out loud—the sound echoing strangely in the empty pub. Behind the bar, she noticed another glass shift slightly, as if Will had heard her laughter and approved.

Sebastian: Can I tell you something I’ve never admitted to anyone else?

Her pulse quickened.

Tessa: Of course.

Sebastian: When I was a kid, I wanted to be a historian. I used to spend entire weekends at the British Museum, sketching artifacts and reading everything I could find about lost civilizations. Had a whole collection of books on archaeology and ancient cultures.

The image that conjured—a younger Sebastian with serious gray eyes and intense curiosity about the past—made something warm unfurl in her chest.

Tessa: What happened to that dream?

Sebastian: My father happened. The Westfield legacy apparently didn’t allow for what he called “dusty academic distractions.” Business was the only acceptable path forward.

The weight of disappointment in that response made her heart ache for the boy who’d been told his passions didn’t matter.

Tessa: Is that why you’re helping with Will and Rebecca? A chance to reconnect with that part of yourself?

Another flash of lightning illuminated the windows, followed by thunder that somehow seemed less menacing than before.

Sebastian: Maybe. I hadn’t thought about those museum visits in years. Not until I watched you handling Will’s letter like it was something sacred rather than just historical evidence.

Tessa swallowed hard, warmth spreading beneath her ribs as she realized what he was telling her—that her reverence for the past had somehow awakened something in him that he’d thought was permanently buried.

Tessa: It’s never too late to rediscover what you love. Even corporate sharks are allowed to have hobbies that don’t involve hostile takeovers.

Sebastian: I haven’t talked like this with anyone in years. Maybe ever.

She stared at those words, her fingers hovering over the screen as she tried to process what he’d just shared. The admission felt huge—not just the words themselves, but his willingness to trust her with something so personal.

Another glass slid gently across the bar, coming to rest near her elbow as if Will were trying to get her attention.

Tessa: Will’s getting increasingly restless tonight. The supernatural activity has been constant since the storm started.

Sebastian: Is he dangerous? Should you be there alone?

The genuine concern in his response made it clear that her safety mattered to him in ways that went beyond professional courtesy.

Tessa: I don’t think he means any harm. He just seems...urgent. Desperate. I think he’s counting on us to help him, and we might be his last chance to find peace.

Sebastian: We’ll find Rebecca. I’m searching through additional archives tomorrow. Something has to exist somewhere—employment records, census data, maybe even personal correspondence. I won’t give up until we have answers.

The absolute certainty in his response anchored something restless in her chest, making the storm’s chaos feel manageable.

Tessa: Thank you. I know this research doesn’t benefit Westfield Development in any measurable way.

There was a pause before his reply.

Sebastian: Some things matter more than quarterly profit reports. Though please don’t mention that to my board of directors.

She smiled at her phone screen, warmth spreading through her despite the pub’s chill.

Tessa: Your secret historian heart is completely safe with me.

Outside, the storm continued its performance, but inside The Red Lion—surrounded by flickering candles, a benevolent ghost, and this unexpected connection to someone across the city—Tessa felt surprisingly calm.

Sebastian: I should probably let you get some rest. But I have to say, I’ve enjoyed this conversation more than any I’ve had in months.

Tessa: Me too. Sweet dreams, Sebastian. Try not to let the thunder keep you awake.

Sebastian: Goodnight, Tessa. Stay safe in your haunted sanctuary.

She set her phone down with genuine reluctance, not quite ready to break the connection they’d built through the storm and darkness.

The candles continued their golden dance around the pub. The building settled into its familiar nighttime rhythm. And for the first time all evening, nothing supernatural stirred. No shifting glasses, no mysterious cold spots.

As if even Will had found a moment of contentment in the knowledge that someone was fighting for his happiness—and that maybe, just maybe, some good things were worth waiting eight decades to see unfold.