1. One Maeve

" H ello, Maeve," the figure croaked, her voice dry and hoarse. She outstretched her arms, lurching forward as if she intended to embrace me. "We meet at last, my daughter."

My daughter.

The world froze. The apparition's words hung in the air, fuzzy and devoid of meaning.

It's saying I'm its daughter, but that's not possible, because my mother is dead.

And yet … the ice-blue eyes that looked at me with such haunting vengeance were the same eyes that stared out of my mother's portrait. The delicate hands that had once been folded in her lap extended toward me. The bow-shaped lips that had once turned a mysterious smile out at me now trembled with anticipation. The only thing that was different from the portrait was the long, thin cuts across its face.

It's impossible, but…

The citrine stone at my throat dragged on its chain, heavy and warm against my skin. The diadem around my forehead pushed my head toward the ground. My legs gave way beneath me. I sank into the soft grass, touching my hands to the green blades as if they might give me some answer. "You… but… how?"

The apparition sank down beside me, her white skirts fanning out around her long legs like a ballet dancer. Behind her head the pillar of fire sank back, becoming a small blaze – like the campfires Andrew and I used to roast marshmallows over during our overnight astronomy trips. I could just make out the dark figures of my coven as silhouettes against the glowing flames.

The apparition reached out her hand to touch mine. The ring around my finger flared with heat as her hand approached. I jerked away. No way did I want the spectre touching me.

That would make it real. And no way was this real. No way .

"I've been trapped inside that canvas for twenty-one years," the figure grinned, that beautiful smile like a knife through my heart. "You freed me, Maeve. I always knew one day you would. I just knew you would be the most powerful witch the world has ever known."

"We were only trying to release the magic trapped inside the painting," I said woodenly. "I didn't know about you."

Another figure dropped down beside me.

Corbin's tattooed arm slid around my waist, and he pressed his lips against my cheek. "Maeve, I think this is the magic trapped inside. She might be a ghost or a wraith or just an imprint of her former life."

"Corbin?" Its eyes widened as it swept across his features. "Is that really you, all grown up? When I last saw you, you were a tiny toddler ordering everyone around. You have your mother's kind eyes." It turned back to me. "Does he look after you, my daughter? Does he protect you? His parents always protected me."

Corbin stiffened.

The figure swung around, its eyes leaping between the guys. "Arthur, that must be you with those huge muscles. You were such a big baby you nearly killed your mother during birth. I'd recognise that golden hair of hers anywhere. Flynn, you were always running after Corbin and getting into mischief. And Rowan, beautiful Rowan... you were only a babe when the fae came for us. You were the most peaceful baby, hardly ever crying or making a peep. Your parents loved you more than the moon and the stars."

Rowan made a strangled sound in his throat and staggered back. I felt a surge of anger toward the ghost...apparition...hallucination...whatever it was. It upset Rowan by talking about his parents, like it knew them, like they were friends.

It stretched long fingers out toward Blake, curling the ends as if beckoning him forward. Blake just stared with his smirk frozen on his face. "Blake Beckett… you were the sweetest boy. You used to bring flowers from the garden for your mother to make garlands for the rituals. You must have come into possession of your spirit magic by now – I hope it hasn't been a burden to you."

Blake said nothing, just kept staring and grinning.

Tears glistened in its eyes. "It wasn't supposed to turn out like this. We wanted to raise you all together – one big happy family. We wanted to teach you all about your powers and what miracles you are capable of. Instead, we abandoned you to fight our battle for us. I'm so glad you all found each other again… my heart just flutters with happiness." It clutched its hands over its chest like a melodramatic actress in the throes of passion. I might've laughed if its very presence hadn't robbed me of the ability to form sounds.

Corbin blinked. "Is she a ghost?"

"If she's a ghost, why isn't she falling through the earth?" Flynn asked.

His question stirred something in me, the innate need of mine to puzzle out strange phenomena, to subject even this terrifying vision to the scrutiny of science. I opened my mouth and found my voice.

"Ghosts don't exist," I said. "There's a logical explanation for what we're seeing. We've been breathing in who knows what chemicals from the burning paint, and it's caused this hallucination."

"If we're hallucinating, then why do we all see the same thing?" Arthur said from somewhere on my left.

"We're in a highly suggestible state – it could be possible?—"

"I'm not a ghost, Maeve. If you touched me, you would know." The apparition raised its hand to its cheek, palm toward me, begging me to try it. "I felt the heat of those flames against my skin. Right now, I'm wiggling my toes in the grass. The wind's blowing through my hair. I'm real, and all I've wanted to do these last years is hold my daughter in my arms."

I touched my finger to the Briarwood ring. The stone glowed with warmth. The metal seemed to have grown tighter around my finger. "I'm not touching you until I know for a fact this isn't some fae trick."

It smiled.

"So logical. So questioning. Such amazing hair." It tilted its long, slim neck, sweeping around to take in the five guys. "And commanding a coven of beautiful men? You are definitely my daughter."

"We'll let the DNA test confirm that," I growled. "Unless ghosts can't take DNA tests."

"I'll happily take any test you ask of me, my darling Maeve. I'll walk over coals if it means I could hold you in my arms?—"

Horror clawed at my belly as the apparition's words cut off with a hacking rasp. It's eyes rolled back in its head. It toppled forward, the body (that appeared solid now) crumpling as its forehead slammed against the dirt. I screamed and darted back, my heart pounding against my chest.

"Aline?" Corbin cried, rocking forward to reach for it. I grabbed his arm.

"Stay back. Don't touch her!"

Her.

My mother.

But it's impossible.

I stared at her crumpled form, half expecting her skin to melt into a puddle, or ugly black spiders to crawl out of her white robes like they did in horror films. But she just lay still with her head and her arms draped at awkward angles.

She didn't move.

My heart leapt into my throat. Why isn't she moving?