But I don’t think he could kill her. He scared her, okay, maybe, but that’s not like... murder. I don’t think he could hurt anyone. Like, how could he physically hurt anyone?
The memory of the warm, solid coils of his shadowy form holding her thighs apart so he could plunder her sopping center made her ache to repeat last night, all the while making her heart lurch.
He could have.
But why would he?
Cynthia was his brother’s wife, wasn’t she?
Poor Nyx.
She walked along the treeline, this time braving the oddly dark woods.
Not oddly dark, idiot. Stormy weather is coming.
Shit, flashlights. I need flashlights for all the rooms. And I think a first aid kit should be in every bathroom. Plungers. Oh, my God, what if someone clogs the toilet in the middle of the night, and I don’t have a plunger?
Grace turned and moved back to the house, her shoulder easing as she did so. “I’m going to go put all those Pine Ridge Welcome Wagon people in my phone. Starting with that plumber!”
NYX FELT THE HOUSEturn colder without her. He crept out in inches, drawn out like a starving animal in the presence of meat. He knew it was dangerous. Might cause him to be trapped in a whole new way, but he couldn’t deny himself her company after so long alone.
Without her, his memories twisted and swirled. With her, everything became more and more solid. Memories came back, even the ones he didn’t want.
“Please don’t leave. Not truly,” he whispered to the empty window, watching her little blue car disappear down the road. “Please come back.” His hands touched the glass and rested on it, his darkness spreading until it seemed as though a shadow were being cast over the house.
GRACE KNEW WHERE THEgrocery store was. Her car seemed to have a mind of its own. Her mind rattling with a list of everything from furniture polish to batteries, she found herself pulling into the small parking lot next to the library. After a second of surprised-at-herself silence, she marched in, waved at Louisa at the desk, and marched up to the archive room.
This time, she saw him.
Gray. Bespectacled. Transparent. “Mr. Ghost?”
He started and dropped the card catalog drawer he was holding—only to levitate it back into place before it hit the floor. “Mortimer, please. You’re the young lady who wanted to know about Hilltop House!”
Grace watched the wooden drawer slot neatly back into place. “You can touch things? I thought ghosts couldn’t.”
“Lots of variation from ghost to ghost, just like person to person. The longer you practice, the better you get. Also, I believe Pine Ridge is a uniquely gifted place for the supernatural. I’m not sure that ghosts in other parts of the world have an abundance of energy to draw on to fuel their corporeal manifestations.”
Grace spent a few seconds processing that before her brain finally made a blanket statement.Makes sense. Smart person. Ask questions.“Could you help me find out something about Hilltop House and who owned it? Or maybe about the family of James and Cynthia Cameron?”
“Cameron. Cameron.” Mortimer nodded and sat down at one of the gray computers in the corner. “I think the parish records might be the best bet. Marriages, births, deaths... Cameron! You know, I remember James Cameron. He was quite an old manwhen he passed, if I remember him being quite old when I... Hrm. Well, there is a record of his death in 1900.”
“His land was reclaimed by the county in 1901.”
“There was often a period of time where relatives could come forward to reclaim land. Now, I do recall my mother saying that he had been widowed very early on in his marriage and gone abroad for many years. Some said he had another wife in England at some point during his life, but that was never recorded in our archives. I don’t remember him living at the house, only visiting it. Mind you, he was just a rather odd old gentleman on the edge of town. I’m by no means an authority on— ah. Here we are. Married in 1850 to Miss Cynthia Snell.”
Grace’s cheek twitched.
“Something wrong?”
“Uh. Just not a big fan of the name.”
“Well, Mortimer is hardly all the rage at the moment, is it?” the ghost said drily.
“I didn’t mean the—”
“We cannot help what we are born to. Oh, dear. Died, 1851.”
“Who did?”
