as it’d been moments ago.
“You want something from me?” I say. “Then talk to me. Kill me, and all you’ll get is another ghost on your turf. A very angry, very vindictive ghost.”
A whisper at my ear again.
I spin, scowling at empty air. “I can’t hear you, and I’m not convinced you want me to. It’s so much more fun to scare the life out of me.”
Another whisper, more urgent now, and some of my fury seeps away. That tone says the ghost is trying to communicate. I remember Freya’s advice for communicating with spirits, passed down from her grandmother with the Sight. There were objects and ingredients I could use, but obviously I have none of them here. The biggest piece of advice, though, required nothing at all. Be firm, and be kind. Do not let them order you about, but remember their difficult situation. Listen and offer support and a reasonable amount of help.
My voice softens as I say, “I’m not ignoring you. I just don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
The air ripples. That’s the only way I can describe it. A frisson of energy whipping around me. Angry energy. Frustrated energy.
Then a figure materializes ten feet away. It’s a woman. Or I presume that from the half-opaque shape. She seems wrapped in a burial shroud, which makes no sense for the region, not unless I’ve somehow encountered a ghost from Roman Britain. There’s a tiny corner of my historian’s brain that cartwheels in excitement at the thought. There were Romans in the moorland, and the remains of an old road connect what would have been two forts in the area. But this is not a burial shroud. It’s just a sheet, inexpertly wrapped around her. It covers her head, leaving her face hidden. I struggle to make out even her size as her figure blurs each time I focus on it. I can tell the ghost is female, and that’s all.
When I move closer, she backs up. I take another step. She retreats again.
“Are you telling me to stay away?” I say. “Or leading me somewhere?”
She lifts one shroud-draped arm and points in the direction I just came. I hesitate, torn between curiosity and the exhaustion of not wanting to retrace my steps. I tune out my throbbing knee and begin the slow process of picking my way over the stones again, following the woman until I’m only a few feet from the stream where William and I had our picnic. That’s when I realize where she’s leading me. Into the bog.
18
I shake my head. “I can’t go there.”
That ripple of energy again, tension slicing through the air.
“I’m sorry, but I could barely get through the bog in daylight. If what you want me to see is on the other side, where the ground’s dry, I can try—”
She jabs her covered hand, the air so electric it sets my every nerve on edge.
She doesn’t want me to see something on the other side. She wants me to walk into the wetlands. Out onto wet ground at night, when I can’t see where I’m going.
Fresh anger darts through me. “Do you really think I’m going to fall for that?”
She jabs again, the air sizzling with her own anger.
“No,” I say, recalling Freya’s advice to be firm. “You nearly killed me on that rock, so I don’t trust you. I’m not wandering into the bog at your beckoning.”
I turn around. She bursts up right in front of me. I don’t startle this time. I only glare and stride right through her.
Her whisper sounds at my ear, and this time, I catch the words, “ . . . think you’re the first . . .”
“First what?” I say, turning on her.
She’s gone. I continue walking. I plant each foot firmly, every muscle tense, ready for her to pop up again. Instead, she only whispers at my ear.
“ . . . warn you . . .”
“You’re trying to warn me?” I say without stopping. “The only person endangering me right now is you.”
“ . . . listen . . . ,” she hisses.
“I am listening. I’m just not hearing anything worth listening to.”
The air ignites, a lash of bitter cold, gale-force strong. I stumble but keep my footing and press on.
“ . . . warn you . . . him . . .”
“You’re trying to warn me about him. Can you tell me who he is?”
A whisper that I can’t make out. I do catch enough to understand that I