How the hell is anyone supposed to find common ground with a ghost? It’s not like we can bond over coffee or trade stories about our childhoods. Well, technically we could, but only one of us would be drinking the coffee, though neither of us are accumulating childhood stories anymore.
The ghost hovers nearby. It seems less manic than usual.
"Dead as a naaaail, dead as a door," it sings, suddenly spinning in chaotic circles around . "Dead as the dreams on a cold stone floor!"
Never mind.
It’s clearly obsessed with death, which I guess makes sense. Being dead occupies a lot of your ti when you’re a ghost.
Maybe I should stop dancing around it.
If I had unfinished business keeping tied to the mortal world, I’d probably want soone to just fucking ask about it.
"How long have you been dead?" I ask, trying to sound calm and unaffected by its antics.
The ghost stops its mad spinning. For a second, everything goes quiet—even the wind seems to hold its breath.
Then it’s right in front of , so close our noses would touch if it had any substance. Its eyes widen to impossible proportions, pupils expanding until they swallow all the color.
"Nobody knows. Nobody cares." Its voice drops the sing-song quality, turning flat and hollow.
My throat tightens. It’s hard not to be nervous when a ghost is basically breathing in your face, even if it technically doesn’t breathe. Its eyes bore into mine, and I swear I can feel a cold pressure against my skin.
"I care. What’s your na? How did you die? How long have you been alone? Tell . I want to know."
The ghost pulls back slightly, head tilting at an unnatural angle.
"Want to know? Want to KNOW?" Its voice rises with each word. "Nobody wants to know death. They run from it. Hide from it. Pretend it isn’t watching."
"Death isn’t watching ," I say, even as part of my brain is flabbergasted I’m having so sort of pseudo-philosophical argunt with a ghost.
The ghost in question laughs. "Death watches everyone, Ava Grey. Tick tock. Tick tock." It makes a pendulum of its translucent arm, swinging it back and forth.
This conversation is going nowhere, and we’ve made it to Ivy’s cabin.
I open the door, hoping Clayton won’t be too offended. "Look, I’m trying to help you. But I need to understand what’s keeping you here first."
The ghost zips in imdiately, not waiting for an invitation, and I follow behind.
Selene nudges the door closed with her nose, even though we’re both fully aware it won’t keep an incorporeal being from leaving if it wants to.
"Keeping here?" The ghost pauses, then cackles. "I’m not kept. I’m not trapped!" It spins in a tight circle, arms extending outward. "I am FREEDOM!"
Great. This ghost doesn’t just have issues—it has the entire subscription.
I’ve never heard of a ghost quite so... unhinged, Grimoire comnts. Even by ghost standards, this is erratic behavior.
Selene growls softly. He knows things he shouldn’t. It’s strange.
"Do you know Ivy Shadowpine?" I ask, trying a different angle. The cabin is hers, after all, so it isn’t a strange ntal turning point.
The ghost’s spinning slows. "Shadow... pine? Shadows in the pines, shadows in the pines, the dream-eater dines!" It dissolves into giggles, rolling through the air.
"You know her. You ntioned her. Said you wanted to see her."
"Did I?"
It sounds suddenly calm, no longer sing-song or lodic.
"You did," I confirm, sitting in the middle of the floor. The ghost hesitates, then sits across from , looking more normal than it has since we ran into it.
In fact, it becos so solid, it would be impossible not to assu he’s alive and breathing.
"What’s your na?" I ask again, taking advantage of the sudden lucidity.
The ghost stares at for a long ti. Like, an uncomfortably long ti. I try not to squirm under its hollow gaze, but there’s sothing deeply unsettling about being sized up by the dead.
Then he leans forward, the movent way too human for a ghost who dives around singing creepy nursery rhys.
"Will you give vengeance if I tell you?"
His voice is different now. Gone is the manic sing-song quality, the riddles and the nonsensical phrases. What remains is deep and resonant and a sharp edge of desperation.
Vengeance.
Of course.
What else keeps a spirit anchored to this world besides unfinished business, usually of the bloody variety?
Watch your words, Grimoire cautions.
"It depends on what kind of vengeance we’re talking about," I say, asuring my words carefully. "And who it’s against."
The ghost’s mouth twists into sothing between a smile and a grimace. "So practical. So cautious. Expected of soone Selya loves."
Selene snarls.
"Who is Selya?"
He looks at the husky beside with a strange smile, centing the suspicions in my head.
"How do you know her na?"
The smile morphs into a frown. "How do you not?"
Good question.
It’s hard to hold back the urge to side-eye my own wolf, but Grimoire’s a lot less restrained.
Did you regain your mories? he asks curiously, and I have the distinct feeling if he was manifested right now, he’d be in her face and upside down in his child form.
She huffs. No.
But you rembered the na, no?
She remains silent. We’ll talk later.
Always later.
But this ti I’m holding her to it.
"That’s not an answer," I snap at the ghost, trying to ignore the conversation concurrently ongoing in my head. "I asked if you knew Selya personally."
The ghost looks up at the ceiling like it’s made of stars, murmuring, "We know her."
Who’s this we?
Selene’s growl deepens, but I put my hand out to silence her.
"Tell your na," I demand again.
"Nas have power, Luna. You know this. If I give you my na, you could bind . Control . Destroy ." He leans back, suddenly playful. "And I’m not done here yet. No, no."
"If you want my help, I need sothing to call you. And if you don’t want my help, we’re wasting each other’s ti, aren’t we? You’re here for a reason. You want my help, don’t you?"
His expression shifts through several emotions—amusent, irritation, calculation—before settling on resignation.
"Very well. I was called Malloy in life."
"Malloy," I repeat, testing the na. It feels normal, human, and yet strange. "And how did you die, Malloy?"
His face darkens.
"I was murdered," he spits. "My body taken, my soul ripped from its haven, left to wander in madness."
It’s not a surprise; I an, the ghost asked for vengeance. And he’s dead. The dots are easy to connect, but I need more information than this.
"Who killed you?"
"The abomination wearing her skin."
My heart skips a beat. "The dream-eater?"
"Yes." The word hisses out, and he scowls. "But you let them take her."
But then the anger becos sadness. "It’s okay. You can’t kill her anyway. Vengeance is beyond us both. Better to sleep with madness."
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