Chapter Three

Hayden

Pale early light peeks over the mountains to the east, casting the house in a desolate grey. I wrap my sweater tighter, not wanting to know what makes fog constantly surround the place as I plunge through it on my way inside.

There's a lot I'm ignoring this morning.

Like how I can't remember pulling the camper van's bed out last night or climbing into it or anything really after signing the non- disclosure agreement with the rep from Underworld. I couldn't even read the contract completely.

I let the headache go too long, and the migraine aura messed with my vision. But I reviewed it in the emails the rep and I exchanged, and I've signed a ton of consulting agreements over the years. They're all boilerplate, standard stuff. Other than the annoying clause he insisted on that keeps me from posting about my stay at the manor. No matter. It's worth a month of radio silence for charity. I've already prepped content and tested satellite internet so I can keep my followers happy and the algorithms fed while I'm here.

Yesterday evening, I'd barely been able to stand, let alone negotiate. Still, I must not have embarrassed myself too much in front of the pretty boy rep since he didn't toss me from the property.

That's a win.

Also a victory? The text from my therapist's office confirming my next telehealth visit won't be for another month. It'll give me a much needed break to process our last discussion of my abandonment issues from growing up an orphan, the awkwardness of being a trust fund baby who didn't fit in at my posh schools, or flashbacks to the mugging that had my skull connecting with a curb.

But I won't talk to my therapist about the ghosts.

Never the ghosts, or I'll end up on antipsychotics again.

I certainly don't mention Wren.

Not to anyone living.

Which makes me wish Glenda was here. Where'd she go? Why'd she take off so fast? I miss her chatter and the way she slips in words like groovy.

Shaking off my thoughts, I move from room to room inside the manor, doing a preliminary sweep of the interior features, taking snapshots of the windows, the crown molding, the door frames. None of which match, coordinate, or suggest any continuity in the design. By the time I reach the top of the third flight of stairs, I still have no better idea who built this house or when.

Worse, I'm so distracted that not even architecture, history, or the weird lack of ghosts can keep my attention. I could swear Wren held me all night. Not just in a dream, but on the thin mattress of the camper van.

He'd seemed so real.

I appreciate whatever miracle he worked on me. My headaches usually last for days if I don't medicate quickly enough. This morning, last night's migraine had disappeared other than a dull ache.

He knows details about my headaches, my traumatic brain injury, my entire life that no one else would guess. We've shared more than physical intimacy during the thousands of nights we've spent together. He gets me. From my weaknesses to my fears to my obsession with macabre architectural details, he'll listen. More importantly, he knows when I need silence.

He's the perfect guy, even if he's not human. Maybe because he's not human. My past relationships fizzled more than they ever sizzled. But Wren…he's everything I could want in a man, reaper, whatever.

Which is crazy considering I've never seen him outside of dreams and…well, dying. When I teetered between life and death? The first time I saw that purple skull mask he magics up sometimes to wear beneath his hood and he said, Not yet, my beauty, in his gravelly voice? I should've been scared out of my mind, not turned on and wishing he'd wrap me up in his shadows and darkness.

Now, I live for the nights when he comes to me in sleep, teasing me until I'm begging my Shadow Daddy not to stop. He surrounds me in shadow, yet my body knows the weight of him, the heaviness of muscles I can press against but can't see.

The memory of all those times he has touched me, the sweet, kinda stalkery words he has whispered, the way he makes me feel like a queen—it sends heat to my belly and has my panties going damp.

A strange scratching from nearby interrupts my daydreams before they can become truly depraved.

Snick, snick, snick .

Is that the wind?

Or could it be a ghost?

God, I hope so.

My breath catches in my throat, excitement and curiosity winning out over any fear. I hurry into the closest room. "Hello?"

There's no one there.

Light barely shines through the grimy windows. Turning my camera's flashlight on at its lowest setting so as not to irritate a possible ghost source by blinding them, I double check the corners and shadows. A broken bed frame stands against a wall, exposed electrical wires run along another, and dust covers everything, its particles glittering in the lone beam.

"Anyone there?" I ask, hoping for an answer. What kind of historic home doesn't have a single ghost?

A whine comes from behind the bed frame. I circle closer, my heart thrumming too loud.

I can do this.

I've been brave my entire life.

I'm in love with a reaper, for goodness sake. Though I haven't confessed that truth to anyone. I take a steadying breath and swing the light to shine in the crack where the bed frame meets the wall.

Two bright eyes reflect back at me from ankle high.

Not a ghost. A stray.

"Oh, hello. Come on out," I coax. "I won't hurt you."

The tiniest dog I've ever seen crawls forward. His fluffy black fur stands up in odd places, and his tongue pokes out. He hesitates, stopping a few feet from me. I step back so I don't tower over him too much and sit cross legged on the ground, careful to avoidexposed nails or broken boards.He scuttles over to sniff at me, then wags his tail.

"Aren't you the cutest?" I let him smell the back of my hand, giving him space and keeping my movements slow. "How'd you end up here? Huh?"

He whimpers and nudges my fingers, demanding a pet.

"You got a name, big guy? Can I call you Sparky?"

He huffs his discontent.

"Okay, what about Jet? Or Midnight?"

His pitiful, small snarls make me smile.

"Let's get you something to eat." I stocked my van's kitchenette with enough food to last a week. There must be something in there for my new friend who trots at my feet.

A deep growl comes from behind us, making the hairs on my arms stand up. The little dog barks a yip big enough to make him bounce on his paws.

That's no animal, no ghost, no anything I've heard before.

The howl that comes next is even more terrifying. I scoop up my tiny friend and run. Adrenaline pushes me faster, my breath burning in my lungs because god knows I don't bother with a gym. These curves are fueled by coffee, carbs, and chocolate. No cardio necessary. Sure, my figure might not be popular on fashion runways, but my fans adore my fabulous look.

Obviously, whatever is chasing us? Not a fan.

Hugging the dog close, I round the last flight of stairs. My chest aches, my legs cramp, and I'm seriously regretting my choice of strappy sandals over sneakers, but I'm almost to the front door.

I glance behind us. Terrible grey beasts streak down the stairs, bones visible through their festering skin. Large antlers rise from their heads.

Shit .

What are those things?

Yanking at the door with shaking hands, I manage to tear it open as the vicious snarls and snapping come closer. The little dog jumps from my arms.

"No!" My scream comes out as more of a strangled gasp.

He's so small his legs make my fingers look giant, and his entire body doesn't come close to the size of one of their paws.

Except he doesn't fall to his certain doom or become a snack for those scary beasts. No, he transforms into a three-headed glowing skeleton of a dog.

I freeze. "What the heck?"

Ghosts, I can handle. But this? What is he? Worse, what are they ?

Time crawls, slithering in sickeningly slow seconds as I realize these might be my last moments. Will Wren come for me again when I die this time?

The beasts lunge at my little grim reaper dog, at me, and I can't move. The world spins, and I can't find my center.

Deep violet pulses through the air, around me and over my freaky friend's three heads. A heaviness settles me, and I know before I spin to confirm what my body has already accepted with absolute certainty.

He's here.

Wren.