Chapter One

Hayden

" Ooooh ." While the ghost in my passenger seat doesn't rattle chains, she might as well drape a sheet over her head with the clichéd sound she makes as she helps herself to scattered artwork from my portfolio.

Not the architectural designs.

No, she goes straight for the monster smut.

Thank goodness she waited until I'd stopped at the last red light in town to pop out of nowhere.

"What will you call this one?" she asks, pointing to the dark shadows of a death specter sketched around a naked woman with her mouth parted in ecstasy.

If anyone else had seen my monster art, I would probably blush, but Good Time Glenda—whose name comes from her oversized shirt that says Here For A Groovy Good Time—won't judge if the woman in the drawing has my hair, my figure, or…hell, heat rushes to my cheeks. Guess I'm blushing after all.

Focusing on Glenda's question instead of my mortification, I say, "I was thinking an old-school romance novel sort of name. Something along the lines of Ravished by the Reaper. Too much?"

She shakes her head, not looking away from the sketch. "I dig it."

Her sixties slang makes me grin despite the pounding headache that has steadily gotten worse these last few miles of driving up the California coast. "Thanks. I'm still working on the shading."

"You planning to share it with anyone else?"

"No." God no. My fans count on quirky and even creepy vibes from me. After all, I'm known on social media as @HauntedHayden. But they expect dramatically-lit gothic architecture or my historical narratives on macabre landmarks. "They want reality. Not monster smut."

"Are you sure? This artwork is far out." When the light goes green and traffic moves, she settles into the passenger seat as much as a ghost can while floating above the leather. "You don't have to tell everyone he's the spooky shadow man from your dreams."

Don't judge me for sharing my filthiest fantasies with a ghost. It's not like I can tell anyone else I have a reaper lover who only visits me in my sleep. "No one would believe me."

"They might."

"Doubtful. Most people don't die and then get shoved back into their bodies. Especially not by a sexy reaper who says he'll come for you again…and you'll be coming every night until then."

"Depends. Sounds like something we groupies might've dreamed up while tripping on acid and following the band in a hip camper van like this. Hey, what's your reaper's name? There's big power in names."

"Wren." I savor the way his name tastes on my tongue, the delightful shiver it sends through me even as I try to banish my building arousal. I am not showing up to the first day of an architectural consult with raging hormones that might as well scream WannaBe Reaper Slut as much as Glenda's shirt will eternally define her.

"Hmm, Wren. It could be tribute to the badass little bird."

"Or maybe he was named for the famous architect who designed so much of London after the Great Fire."

"Only your brain immediately goes to history and architecture."

"Probably," I admit. "But it's super on brand for me."

"True. You start a new gig today?"

"Yep, a month-long history consultation."

"Why'd you agree to such a long one? You spend a couple of days max at most places."

"This one's for charity. If I rough it for a few weeks and figure out the history of the house, a huge donation goes to the brain injury treatment center that helped me. A bunch of influencers applied for this job, and I won. There's no way I could turn it down with a prize like that on the line. Think of all the people it could help."

"Won't you get bored?" she asks.

"Maybe." I squint as rays of sunlight seem to reach through my custom-tinted windows like icepicks going straight for my head. "But get this, I already searched for the cliffside manor's building and design records, and I found nada. There aren't even permits for renovations or news of local craftsman working on the place. No historic registry applications. Nothing. It's like it poofed into existence."

"Like this?" Glenda's question cuts out as she disappears, only to come back when she returns. "Guess you'll have to rely on your smarts and your secret sources." She preens. "It helps to have ghost friends."

"No kidding, and there should be plenty of ghosts around willing to talk. While the manor is missing a normal history when it comes to blueprints or building plans, it's infamous for murders and seances." I'm ready to launch into highlights of its gruesome past when a burst of pain across my temple has me gasping.

"You sure you should start a job with your headache so gnarly it practically called me to you?" Glenda asks. "I mean I stayed for the monster smut and the company, but you really should be curled up in a dark room."

"Is it that obvious?" The traumatic brain injury that brought me my sexy reaper and the ability to see ghosts also brought non-fun times like migraines, light sensitivity, and vertigo. The massively dark shades I wear everywhere help, but the California sun is brutal even while sinking into the ocean. All its rippling waves shimmer like bright, blinding little blades.

"I sensed your pain across the Veil so…yeah, I would call that obvious."

So much for thinking I could soldier through another migraine. "The treatment center needs that donation, I'm almost to the manor, and I'm super early. I'll pop a pill and close my eyes while I wait for the corporate type I've been talking to about the consulting job. A corporation called Underworld, Inc. bought the house. Wild, right?"

"Ugh, why would a company need a house? I hate the greedy more than actual demons."

I snap my gaze to her. The movement sends sickness rolling through me, yet I can't miss a chance to ask her, "You've met actual demons?"

She snorts a laugh. "You crush on a reaper and talk to ghosts. But yeah, some of the demons are kind of rad. I met a demon princess once. She has a major thing for reality television."

"Okay," I drawl. Because what else can I say to that ? "We're here." I swing the van into the drive and stop in front of an iron gate. "Let me enter the code, and we'll?—"

"Noooo." Glenda vibrates with a magical energy field I've never seen before. It radiates fear. But what could scare a ghost? "Wren isn't for a bird or an architect. It's for Render."

"What's a Render?"

She vanishes, leaving my question hanging unanswered in the air.

The gate swings open. I'm so rattled by Glenda's terror that I make it halfway up the drive to the magnificent manor in all its ruin and disrepair when I realize I didn't finish entering the access code.

What kind of place is this? Chills race over my skin, and lines zigzag across my vision. Adrenaline spikes the agony already screaming in my head.

Clearing the trees, I spot a man standing atop the few stairs leading to the front door of the house, staring as though he has been waiting for me.

When I'm hours early.

There's no car, no obvious way for him to have arrived. Yet there he stands, a few miles from the nearest town.

At least his presence explains the gate opening without a code. He must've done it remotely after he saw or heard me pull in from the main road. Except the crashing ocean below would've muffled the quiet sound of my top-of-the-line electric van, and the trees blocked my view so how could he have seen me?

The pain roaring through my head has to be what's making me spiral into crazy conspiracy-level suspicions.

I take a deep breath and stare at the manor, trying to reason through at least the one thing that has made sense no matter where I travel or what historical weirdness I unearth. But the architectural mishmash of this house doesn't compute. I've toured the world, yet I've never seen another cobbling of contradictory towers, dilapidated balconies, and clashing eaves to rival the jumble before me.

Worse, not a single ghost comes out to see who has arrived. Ghosts are nosy by nature. If none have rushed to get the gossip first, the house isn't haunted.

Which means I'll need to pray to the history gods I can find some architectural clues inside.

My headache just got exponentially worse.

I pull to stop at a point close enough to give the guy who is way too hot for a corporate gig a friendly wave while I dig in my purse for my pills. Let him think I'm a social media diva who needs to touch up my lipstick before climbing out of the van.

I glance into my bag. It takes me two—okay, maybe three—seconds to grab my meds from the zippered pocket where I always keep them, but when I look up, the scarily hot guy is outside my driver's door window. My heart flies into my throat which doesn't help my growing nausea.

How in the world did he get down the stairs, across the drive, and around my van so fast?

I shove at the door, ready to ask him, when he sweeps it open for me.

"Hello, Hayden."

I swear a flash of scarlet gleams in his eyes.

What the hell is this guy? Because he definitely doesn't move like a human.

Or my migraine is epically worse than I thought.

Why couldn't I have taken my medication sooner? Or had a ghost host committee here to greet me rather than Mr. Corporate Evil?

I fight a groan. Clearly, I've been listening to Glenda's anti-establishment rants for far too long.

Dropping the pills back into my bag, I remind myself this is for charity, square my shoulders, and step out of the van.