Ghoulfire: The Reflected City, #2

By Rabia Gale

A ghoul is at large. A Guardian is dead. Trouble has come to Lumen.

 

Trey Shield is frustrated and on edge. Aided by the shadowy figure known as the Master, the ghoul has eluded him and the Bureau for months. Then it murders a Guardian, one of the twelve magicians who protect Vaeland, and Trey has to answer to the authorities for his failure.

 

Meanwhile, Arabella Trent can no longer ignore the after-effects of her disembodiment. Called into the service of a warrior saint, she finds herself suddenly charged with bearing the Arcana, a centuries-old magical artifact with a mind of its own.

 

Her sudden elevation has attracted the ghoul's notice. Trey never wanted to involve Arabella in danger—but it's come for her anyway.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rabia Gale
• Release date: Jul 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393002062

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Duchess

The Duchess sat dreaming by a roaring fire in a stone chamber whose austere lines could not be entirely softened by rugs and wall hangings. The wind howled and rattled the shutters outside, while flames danced and twisted in the fireplace.

She remembered.

She was sixteen, bare-headed and bare-legged, the hem of her skirt tucked through her girdle. The heat of the summer sun was sharp against the back of her neck, so hot she almost shivered. Grasses tickled her brown legs, her toes curled in the dirt. Her fingertips were stained with raspberry juice, the taste of them sweet and tangy against her lips.

She looked up, half-laughing, at the blacksmith’s son, offering him the handful of deep red berries. A thrill ran through her, a spreading warmth that had nothing to do with the sun.

For the first time, she was aware of her own allurement as a woman. She could see it in the darkness of his eyes, hear it in the hitch of his breathing as she teased him with smile and look and gesture. His hand wrapped gently around her wrist, his fingers large and callused. She remembered looking down at his curly dark head as he ate from her hand, remembered so clearly the softness of his lips against her palm, the rasp of his thumb against her skin, the male scent of sweat and soot.

The memory was so clear and sharp, the details so distinct.

The Duchess hadn’t thought of him for seventy years. She couldn’t even remember his name. She remembered only that he was the smith’s son and she the miller’s daughter and it would have been an imminently suitable match, one that would’ve pleased both their families.

But all this was before her power manifested, before she woke up one morning to find the village wreathed in unnatural fog and heard the cries of barguests in the fields.

Before the Magisterium had taken her away to be trained, before she had been catapulted into the society of the rich and the magical, before she met the Duke of Haven.

A log shifted in the hearth, spitting sparks. The Duchess came out of her reverie, back to her present inside a chilly chamber in a castle that was little more than a fortress. Back to a body that was never warm enough, no matter how close to the fire she sat. Back to joints that ached constantly, to vision that had begun to blur, to a mind that had misted and slowed.

Even her connection to Brigit’s Arcana had grown tenuous. Its voice came to her less frequently, the words a whisper. Out of concern for her frail body, it held back its power. A pained smile twisted the Duchess’s lips.

The Arcana. She’d taken overlong in settling that matter. For months she’d hesitated, unable to decide if the girl could overcome her former life. The story told by the Home Office was grim indeed. What if the Duchess was wrong, what if she chose someone unworthy?

The Duchess grimaced. She had never wavered so much in her entire life.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d pray and decide. She had to. She could hear the whisper as the sands of her time ran out.

She was so very old. She had outlived all four of her children, been a widow longer than she’d been a wife. She held her husband’s title in her own right now, in recognition of her long service to Vaeland. Everyone knew her as the ancient Duchess of Haven; no one remembered the miller’s daughter.

The Duchess’s heart ached for that long-vanished girl and the hopes that had not lasted the summer. It was an odd feeling, for the Duchess was not much given to sentiment. She had loved much and loved deeply, but she had lived long enough for time to bear her far away from her sorrows.

But the memories came more often these days, thrown up out of the great sea of her life like so much driftwood. Once more, the room dimmed, and the Duchess found herself in another place she remembered.

This time she stood on a moor, a curlew crying out overhead and the stench of salt, mud, and death in her nose. She was older now, her chestnut mane braided and coiled, her mannish trousers and tunic well-cut and made of fine cloth. The trousers were tucked into leather boots, once polished, now caked with mud.

Bodies lay in the grass around her, in various stages of decay. Her hands were raised and still limned with light; the last of the spell she had cast still ran like quicksilver through her veins.

The dead were finally at rest, the demons that had possessed their corpses returned to the Shadow Lands.

It was the greatest triumph of her young life. A pleasant tiredness lay in her muscles, the aftermath of fierce satisfaction.

It was for this she had studied and trained and forced her mind to learn long-dead languages and arcane runes. It was for this she had ignored sidelong glances, mocking whispers, and double-edged words.

The woman who would one day be a Duchess turned to go.

But wait.

The memory changed.

Someone came rustling through grasses grown taller than she remembered, under a sky heavy with dark clouds.

She squinted at the figure, its movement and shape tugging at her recollection.

The man stopped in front of her, his face shadowed.

She drew in a sharp breath of recognition.

Maggie, he said, his voice warm and low and tender. He held out his hand. My darling Maggie.

It was the smith’s son.

Her eyes narrowed. Inside the skin of the twenty-four-year-old woman was the mind of the eighty-year-old Duchess.

And she was still sharp and suspicious.

You’re long dead, she told him. And you were never here in this place to begin with. She indicated the scene, the gesture small but encompassing.

No, he agreed. But this is the only way I can see you, talk to you, Maggie.

She shook her head, as if to dislodge him from her memory. You shouldn’t be here.

Rue touched his smile. You forgot me, didn’t you, Maggie? But I never forgot you. I’ve waited for you all this time. Come away with me, Maggie. Let’s have the life we never could.

She looked at his outstretched hand, callused and covered with tiny scars, with bitten fingernails, just as she remembered it.

Come away, he whispered, from the pain and the weariness. The years weigh heavily on you. Leave them, Maggie—and come.

Yes, they did weigh heavily indeed. There were some things magic couldn’t fix. Old age. Death.

Lives that diverged.

She looked full at him. You wear the face of a boy I once loved. You speak in his voice. But in your breath is the wind of the Shadow Lands and in your smile I see the grave. Her voice rose. Begone, ghoul!

She raised her hand and called forth light. It blazed, washing over the moor, bleaching it bone white, scored by grass shadows as thin and sharp as needles.

The smith’s son began to disintegrate, his body turning translucent, his features crumbling. But still his smile remained, still his hand stretched out to her. A voice spoke, turning her blood to ice. This could have been easier for you if you had just succumbed to your dreams, Your Grace…

The memory fled. The Duchess came to herself in her chair.

Something was terribly wrong. The room rippled, as if it were a mere backdrop painted on a thin curtain that had come unfastened. Behind it lay a malevolent darkness.

Someone—or something—had opened a portal to the Shadow Lands.

And the ghoul was coming for her.

The Duchess rose to her feet, calling on Brigit’s Arcana. The walking stick in her hand turned to a spear, its wooden shaft familiar in her grip. Her other hand took hold of the bronze brooch that pinned her shawl together and pulled.

The shawl fell and pooled onto her chair. The brooch grew into a shield, round and shining.

On her feet, dressed once again as the warrior she was, the Duchess waited for her final foe.

Chapter One

Arabella Trent caught Trevelyan Shield’s attention across the patio at Foxhall Gardens and smiled.

He gave her a stiff bow and turned away, vanishing into the warm twilight under the oaks that lined the walkways. Sparks twinkled among their dark branches, inviting a romantic interlude or a walk with a confidante.

Since Arabella had no suitor and her present party was a large, merry company that didn’t lend itself to private conversation, her smile became wry.

This was just how it had been between her and Trey Shield since her return to her body in the spring. Initially, she had written him a few letters, asking him about her experiences in the Shadow Lands. Despite her resolution to put those events out of her mind, she still found herself mulling over certain memories. There was no one else she could talk to about that strange realm. The old lady he had arranged for her to meet at Merrimack’s, as Arabella discovered after discreet inquiries, was both a Duchess and Guardian. Arabella didn’t even think of bothering such an august personage with questions.

Trey’s only response, however, had been a list of books and a terse note that she’d be better off consulting them. Once Arabella had gotten over her indignation over this cold reply, she’d ventured to the book shops in Pickering, only to learn that all but one were to be found in the libraries of magical personages and institutions. Arabella meekly handed over a large sum from her pin money for the remaining volume. Unfortunately, it was densely-written and she was no bluestocking. Arabella had made several valiant attempts to read the book, but could make no sense of it.

Clearly, Lord St. Ash had overestimated her scholarly abilities.

In the intervening three months, she had only seen him a few times and he’d kept himself aloof. His icy politeness was so well-done, Arabella had begun to think she had only imagined his teasing, the humor in his eyes, the smiling quirk of his lips.

And the kiss he’d dropped on her forehead before nudging her into the portal that returned her to her body.

Arabella twisted her mother’s sapphire ring under her glove, then forced herself to stop. It was becoming a dreadful nervous habit.

Instead, she turned to her own party, lips parted to suggest they make their offerings to the saints.

Her friends were gone.

Arabella looked around. In the bustle of leaving their supper box, she’d separated from Charlotte and the rest. Even their nominal chaperone, Charlotte’s easygoing Aunt Tillie, was nowhere in sight.

Fortunately, this patio was the preserve of the genteel and the noble—those who could afford the exorbitant prices for a view of the charming pond and supper of turtle soup, paper-thin ham, fruit, and ices. Arabella was acquainted with several people in other parties; she had merely to attach herself to one of them until she found her own.

Still she hesitated, knowing just how gauche she would appear. Could she really brazenly walk up to the Dowager Lady Grafton or the sardonic Lord Ludlow with his heavy-lidded eyes or the cool, haughty Miss Price…?

Priscilla Price, a languid, golden-haired girl, locked gazes with Arabella just then.

Her voice, clear and contemptuous, rang in Arabella’s head. There she is again, setting her cap at Lord St. Ash. Doesn’t she know what a cake she’s making of herself? Someone really ought to tell her…

Arabella jumped like a scalded cat. Miss Price arched one perfect eyebrow, shrugged an elegant shoulder, and returned her attention to a broad-faced gentleman who’d made a fortune in the tea and porcelain trade.

She had no idea how clearly Arabella had heard her thoughts.

Not that she would’ve cared, even if she had known.

Arabella’s cheeks flamed. She looked down at the white roses on her slippers, unable to look anyone else in the face.

Were her overtures of friendship really so obvious to everyone else? And so misinterpreted?

They don’t know the half of it! They don’t know what happened while I was disembodied. And Priscilla Price is being perfectly horrid.

It was, she reflected, very hard to pursue a friendship with a gentleman so set against the idea. There was very little a proper young lady could do—and it appeared she’d already stepped over the line of propriety.

Not that Arabella cared much what people like Priscilla Price thought. But Aunt Cecilia did, and she didn’t want her behavior to reflect badly on her family.

No matter how hurt and baffled she was by Trey’s indifference, she had her own life and reputation to think of.

Set my cap at him, indeed! Arabella whirled on her heel, all set to stalk off the patio.

And bumped right in someone behind her.

Oh! said a startled voice. Cherry ratafia splashed onto Arabella’s pretty—and new—yellow evening gown.

Pardon me, gasped a tall girl in a dress of pale green that only succeeded in making her very fair complexion look sickly. She dabbed futilely at Arabella’s dress with a handkerchief.

"Marin!" said another girl, half-exasperated, half-laughing. This one was small and dainty, with masses of feathery dark hair, her fingertips on the arm of a blond youth.

Marin said, without looking around, Do go on, Letitia. I’ll catch up.

If you say so, said Letitia sweetly. Shall we? She smiled up at her companion and spoke with vicious contempt, She’s as clumsy as a carthorse! It’s so hard to believe she’s half-elf, the way she’s always knocking into things and people.

Arabella started at the venom. But no. Letitia hadn’t actually said those last words, only thought them.

It was happening again, this overhearing of people’s private thoughts. She thought she’d overcome this in recent weeks. Arabella’s stomach churned; she ignored it and turned a wan smile on the half-elven girl.

Pray, don’t worry about the dress, she said to Marin, still fussing over the long pink stain. "The fault is entirely mine. I bumped into you."

Marin straightened and looked at Arabella out of blue-green eyes, the shifting colors of a glacial lake. Her hair was a startling fire-red, not auburn, and her skin correspondingly pale. The tips of her ears were hidden under dozens of tortured curls, but the color of her hair and eyes signaled her elven heritage. Actually, I don’t mind being left behind. I’ve been feeling like an unwanted appendage all evening. She obviously wants to flirt with Mr. Carstares without my presence.

Her voice was low for a woman’s, her tone frank.

Arabella chuckled. And I have lost my own party through my own negligence. Perhaps, we can band together, you and I, Miss…? She raised her eyebrows questioningly.

Fairchild, supplied the other. Marin Fairchild.

I am Arabella Trent. Arabella held out her gloved hand and Miss Fairchild shook it. Her grip was firm and warm.

I am surprised I have never been introduced to you, Miss Fairchild, continued Arabella. With her coloring and height, Marin Fairchild was hard to miss.

Miss Fairchild shrugged. I don’t care much for balls and suppers. If I am at one, I usually prop up the wall in a corner somewhere. My cousins do their best, but all attempts to turn me into an elegant lady have failed.

The cousins’ efforts were at best misguided, given the unbecoming shade of her dress. Though having heard the unknown Letitia’s private thoughts, Arabella thought her quite capable of sabotaging Miss Fairchild with bad fashion advice.

"On the other hand, I have seen you, Miss Trent, continued Miss Fairchild. She gave Arabella another of those frank looks. I’ve always liked the look of you and wanted to be introduced, but my cousins aren’t acquainted with your family."

Nor, I would wager, do they want to be, thought Arabella without indignation. Her uncle, Henry Elliot, was a gentleman of no particular wealth, large property, or high rank. He had nothing to offer the socially ambitious besides his own happy disposition and virtuous character.

Please call me Arabella, she said. We are friends now, aren’t we?

And I am Marin. Miss Fairchild laughed, a fierce, joyous sound that reminded Arabella of trumpets and war banners. If only all the other girls whose lovely gowns I’ve spilled wine on were as conciliatory as you! Truth is, I’m an utter clod pole from the country.

So am I, Arabella confided. I’ve only been in Lumen for half a year, and I live in fear I’ll call an Earl ‘Your Grace’ or accidentally give a Merrimack’s patroness the cut direct.

You’re doing better than I am. Marin chuckled. "I once mistook the Duke of Tyne for his butler!"

Oh no! Caught between horror and laughter, Arabella recounted another faux pas. As the patio emptied around them, the two girls traded stories of their social embarrassments, finding in each other a kindred soul.

Arabella finally noticed the colored lights dimming. White-gloved and black-jacketed waiters took away piles of dirty dishes. Bells rang in the distance.

It’s time for the offerings. Arabella took a wooden token from her reticule. Shall we go to the pools?

If you’d like. Marin shrugged, her indifference suggesting she was not very devout.

Well, neither was half of Lumen society. Summer offerings were just another excuse for Foxhall excursions and supper parties. Arabella, who had grown up with the most rudimentary knowledge of the saints and had hardly attended church since she was a young child, had fervently studied her catechism over the past few months, but she was still conscious of her own ignorance.

The two girls strolled down the path Letitia and her companion had taken earlier. Colored paper lanterns, with intricate cuts in them, hung from branches, each globe full of illusory fire that produced no heat. Good thing, too, because the summer night clung damply. Arabella’s cheeks felt hot; she fanned herself to no avail.

Here and there were small clearings with benches or pavilions, overlooking some pretty view, like the lake or an island with picturesque ruins. There was not much to see at this time, though—all lights save for the ones along the paths had dimmed, subtly guiding loiterers to the Offering Pools.

More and more people joined them on the paths. Youths jostled Arabella—she was inclined to be forgiving of this, until about the ninth or tenth time. She frowned at the offender, who grinned back at her. His eyes were over-bright and his breath smelled of cheap wine.

The women were no better. Laughing shrilly, dressed in garish colors and hung with a multitude of cheap paste jewelry, they pushed past Arabella in the growing crowd. Hugging herself with her arms, Arabella glanced at Marin, who sauntered with a clear space around her.

Brooch pin, she explained when Arabella looked a question. "You are too kind, Arabella. You need to show these ruffians, male and female, that you are no mealy-mouthed chit." She glared at a young man slinking up next her, smiling in an odiously oily way. The youth stopped, then turned his attention to a woman in a feathered headdress, her rouged lips curving above a truly hideous fan.

Arabella, nearly shoved off the path by three plump women marching abreast, scurried to keep up. I’m afraid… I’m not used to… so many… people! This was not the same as being shut up in a wardrobe, but the feeling of being jostled on all sides was threatening to turn into full-blown panic. It didn’t help that the colored light shone weirdly on sweat-sheened faces, painting them lurid, nor that she couldn’t help catching snatches of thought.

So hot…

…crowded…

I wish he’d look at me…

…a jug of wine…

Unlike that time at the Spring assembly, Arabella couldn’t feel their emotions. But eavesdropping still made her uneasy—and it brought home a point she had refused to acknowledge at all these last three months.

Her brief career as ghost had left her with after-effects that still hadn’t disappeared.

Marin linked arms with Arabella and towed her down the path. The half-elf moved in a fast, yet inelegant way, as if not used to the drape of her dress.

A clash of steel, a sharp cry. Arabella stopped. Did you hear that? Elbows dug into her as people brushed past.

What?

Someone cried out. Arabella peered into the foliage to their left. A pearly flicker caught her eye; something small and ghostly moved in the bushes. What had Trey called them? Wisps.

Marin, eyes narrowed, surveyed the same area. I don’t see anything amiss, Arabella.

Arabella bit her lip. I must’ve been mistaken. She managed a smile. Let us go on.

They entered a clearing, and Arabella could breathe again. The crowds were concentrated around three pools. Arabella leaned against a lamp post to catch her breath. Marin crossed her arms and stood nearby.

Arabella pushed herself away from the lamp post, determined not to need its support. A statue of its saint stood in the middle of each pool. Margrethe’s was made of white wicker work, threaded with tiny lights and small flowers. She stood on a wooden stump, the folds of her dress lined with light and a crown of roses entwined in her hair. Her hands were held out in welcome.

The majority of the people, mostly female, thronged around her pool. Margrethe, both maiden and mother, was the most popular of the saints.

The two smaller pools were for the saints Oswald and Lita. Merchants and bankers took Oswald for their patron, and his statue and plinth were made of imported marble. Grouped around him were boxes full of traded goods—real china and cacao beans from the vestiges of the Goblin Empire, coffee and woven textiles from the Kolassid states, tea and silks from Shenhua, and more. Arabella wasn’t surprised to see many unlikely supplicants flick their coins into Oswald’s pool—there was no better saint for material prosperity.

Saint Lita was the patron of doctors, apothecaries, midwives, and cooks. Her statue was made of wood, covered in lichens and mosses. Her feet were planted in soil, and herbs grew around them. A mineral smell rose from the hot water bubbling in her pool. Underneath it lay the astringent green smell of medicinal plants. A member of her Order stood nearby, ladling the water into goblets and handing them to her supplicants. Her following was small but fervent. Many stood or knelt by her pool for a long time, praying, chanting, weeping, and wringing hands, before gently dropping in their wooden tokens.

Arabella turned back to Margrethe’s pool, relieved to see the crowds around it had lessened. Duty done, many were streaming down the opposite path, no doubt to get a good vantage point for the evening’s big entertainment—a mock naval battle on the lake, with fireworks overhead.

She took a few steps towards it, but Marin didn’t follow. Arabella looked inquiringly at her new friend, who waved her onwards.

Arabella flushed at her own rudeness. Of course, a half-elf might not even be baptized into the church, much less have a patron saint. She had no idea what elves even believed, the customs of other races not being a big topic in polite company. Most likely her uncle had a book on the subject in his library; Arabella determined to borrow it as soon as possible and rectify her ignorance.

There wasn’t exactly a line for the pool, but Arabella, not at all used to muscling through crowds, waited politely for her turn anyway. A headache niggled at the back of her eyes. By the time a trio of girls—sisters by the resemblance—in pastel gowns and silver-blue shawls moved on, the pain had spread to her forehead and pounded in her temples.

Determined to do her duty, Arabella squeezed into a space vacated by a matron in cherry-striped silk and beaded turban.

Pain flashed through her skull; the pool itself was a blur. Arabella hugged herself tightly, alternating hot and cold sweeping over her.

Oh dear. I need to go home. Right away. She didn’t relish having to seek out her friends at the spectacle nor the prospect of traversing all those garden paths.

Maybe I can hire a chair, she thought, lifting her hand to throw in her token. She ought to pray, but her stomach churned so alarmingly she thought it better to leave before she was sick in the saint’s offering pool.

Her hand stopped partway in her gesture, the wooden token held between two fingers.

The whole world froze.

Arabella was suddenly very, very cold. Her breath misted in front of her face. The people around her had turned to stone, their mouths open in mid-sentence, their limbs frozen in mid-movement. She peeped at them from the corners of her eyes because her neck was so stiff, she feared it would crack and her head drop off entirely if she forced the issue.

What is happening here?

She could do nothing but face Margrethe.

And the saint had changed.

No longer did she have her arms outspread in welcome. No longer did she smile with kind warmth.

Her face was stern, her eyes hard.

And one hand was raised up, finger pointing beyond Arabella’s shoulder.

Her meaning was as clear as if she had shouted it:

Go!

Something squeezed painfully around her heart. Arabella jerked back, and the world jolted into movement again around her.

Voices rushed in, along with the heat and odors of many bodies long packed together. Lights sprang into her vision. Margrethe’s statue was just a statue again, her pool just an ordinary pond of water.

Everything was the same.

Save for Arabella.

Her head throbbed, her arm dropped by her side. Her body quivered.

She’d just been rejected by her patron saint.

Arabella stumbled back and felt someone catch her arm.

Are you all right? You looked like you were going to fall right into the pool. Marin’s voice, gruff with concern.

I—I… Arabella gripped the wooden token so tight, its edges bit into her palm.

Arabella! There you are! Charlotte hurried up, relief written on her face. She checked at Arabella’s expression. What happened?

Arabella managed a weak smile. I don’t feel too well. I… I’m sorry, but I think I should go home.

She hardly heard their exclamations of agreement, nor their arrangements for making a hasty departure.

All she could think of was Margrethe’s stern, beautiful face, and her stiff arm, telling her to leave.

Had she just been excommunicated from the church? Was there no place for a creature like herself in the Risen Lord’s kingdom?

Could she never be forgiven for the past?

Arabella shivered.

Chapter Two

Trey walked the paths of Foxhall Gardens and wished he could just shut the whole place down—for the summer, if not forever.

It was too tempting of a target for creatures of the Shadow Lands. Not only did emotions run high, attracting specters and creating wisps, but any phantasm worth the name could easily detach its prey from the crowds and lure an unsuspecting person into more secluded areas. Screened by trees, under cover of the noise, a succubus or a blood-sucker could have its way.

And the number of people made it so very tempting to try.

Then there was this place’s history. Hundreds of years past, it had been the site of many battles as the early Vaelish fought against the other races of the land. Men, elves, gnomes, and other creatures now driven out and consigned to the pages of history, had screamed and hated and died here. In some places, Trey even caught the clash of steel against steel and the tang of spilled blood.

No doubt the mock battle tonight would create a sympathetic resonance with those lingering emotions. He wouldn’t be surprised if the sensitive saw visions.

Trey turned down a side path, lit only by luminous night lilies. A faint silvery music threaded through air heavy with the scent of honey and spice. He emerged into a little clearing, a flower-heaped bank at a far corner. A young lady sat on the bank. Her swain knelt before her, looking adoringly up into her face.

Trey slowly, deliberately raised his eyebrows. Then he raised the quizzing-glass Briggs, his cousin’s valet, insisted he carry and stared through it at the pair.

It worked. The youth scrambled to his feet and helped his companion to hers. Faces flushed and downcast, the couple scurried past Trey, hopefully to rejoin their party.

Trey dropped the quizzing glass, impressed despite himself. He’d seen his cousin, Beau Whitfield, use the trick to great effect several times. He’d never thought he’d make it work for himself. Whit’s valet, Briggs, had not overestimated him.

It probably wouldn’t work on everyone. Ara—at least one person he knew would’ve just laughed at him.

Trey shook his head, exasperated at himself for thinking of her. He’d spent the past three months being quite disagreeable, evading matrimonial lures and ensuring that hostesses thought long and hard before inviting him to their dinners and dances.

He was in no position to pursue romantic interests.

Come, Sorrow, he said quietly. His wraith sword materialized in his left hand, the hilt cool and glassy against his palm.

He strode over to the flowery bank and poked the vegetation with his blade. There was a small squeak.

Trey pushed aside vines and matted leaves to uncover a succubus in the form of a blue-eyed, golden-haired girl with generous curves. It stared at him wide-eyed, rosebud mouth shaped in a perfect O.

Trey aimed for the creature’s torso and thrust.

The succubus’s hair misted and its features flickered. Its hair turned to black ringlets, its face to one very familiar, with sparkling eyes and dimpled smile.

Trey checked.

Then he pressed his lips together and stabbed the succubus through the middle.

Shock and pain spread over her—its—face. Eyes widened, filled with tears. The borrowed mouth shaped the word, Why…?

The succubus dissolved into thousands of glittering motes. They washed over his hands, leaving faint trails of desire through his body. Trey shrugged off the feeling, annoyed with himself. For letting down his guard. For letting this weak wraith glean even this much from his private thoughts.

For feeling this way in the first place.

Trey banished Sorrow and studied the wooded area beyond the clearing. He felt nothing back there, not even a wisp.

He returned to the main paths, constantly moving, constantly casting his senses in as wide a net as he could.

He wasn’t after wraiths.

It was the ghoul he wanted.

Three months and it still eluded him. Several times it had moved in and out of the Shadow Lands, the transference a ripple in Sutton’s bowls of milk and wine and ink. It had fed in Lumen—Trey had seen the bodies of its victims: a soldier with a wooden leg, a rail-thin flower girl, a sweep’s boy.

It had killed Atwater before the politician could talk. Without the man’s information, the investigation into the miasma smuggling had stalled.

Trey was certain there were ghoul-killed corpses they hadn’t found.

But it hadn’t gone into a frenzy yet. It fed on souls, not flesh. It hid its trail well.

That sort of restraint was unusual for a ghoul.

A powerful necromancer was helping it. Creating portals for