Chapter 9
Zelda’s kitchen looked like an apothecary had exploded inside a boho thrift store.
Hanging herbs brushed my hair when I ducked under the crooked doorway.
Dried lavender, mugwort, sage bundles bound in twine, some of them humming faintly if you got too close.
The air smelled like rosemary and oven heat, with undertones of something vaguely alchemical and possibly illegal in five states.
There were open spellbooks on every available surface, pages curling at the corners, some scrawled in Latin, some in runes that shimmered when I squinted.
A half a lemon floated inside a teacup, bobbing in something thick and green that bubbled softly when I looked at it too long.
Across the room, a large cat (possibly judging my fashion sense) stared at me from inside an oversized mixing bowl like I’d interrupted his nap and he was thinking of suing.
Zelda was barefoot, of course, perched on the edge of the counter like chaos incarnate, drinking something effervescent and gold from a cut-crystal goblet.
Her lipstick was smudged in that signature way that suggested she'd either just hexed someone or made out with her Alpha in the pantry. Possibly both.
“To Ivy,” she said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. “The ghost-whisperer-slash-soul-saver herself.”
I let my bag thump to the floor and collapsed into the chair that looked the least likely to be cursed. “If I never smell ectoplasm again, it’ll still be too soon.”
Zelda poured me a glass of her sparkling mystery potion without asking. “You look like someone who needs wine and carbs.”
“Obviously. Got both?”
She grinned. “Please. This is my house.”
With a flick of her fingers, the oven groaned, rattled ominously, then belched out a curl of smoke and spat a perfectly golden garlic knot onto a plate.
The plate levitated for a second, wobbling like it was being held by an invisible and slightly tipsy waiter.
Zelda snatched it midair and presented it to me with all the pride of a culinary goddess descended from Mount Sass.
I bit into the knot. Garlicky, buttery divinity. “Okay. You get one brownie point.”
“Just one?” she asked, mock-offended.
“Don’t get greedy.”
We clinked glasses. The drink tasted like champagne had made love to a sunbeam and raised the child on honey and mischief.
The tightness between my shoulders began to ease.
Candlelight shimmered across hanging glass baubles and dangling sigils.
Outside, the wind sang through enchanted windchimes on her porch, their notes a little too human-sounding to be comfortable.
Somewhere in the back garden, something hooted, then cursed in French.
Zelda leaned back, watching me over the rim of her glass like she already knew what I was going to say. “So,” she said, casual as you please, “ready for your next job?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Already?”
“There’s always a haunting somewhere,” she replied breezily, tipping her glass with a faint clink. “Demonic toaster in Asheville. Haunted hot tub in Miami. Possessed peacock in New Jersey. You name it.”
I should’ve laughed. Normally, I would have.
But instead, I felt... dislocated. Like I’d stepped out of my own skin and left the rest of me somewhere back in that funeral home with Beau’s ghost and all the weight he carried.
I’d moved him on. Said the words. Closed the circle.
Did everything I was supposed to do. But something inside me hadn’t come with.
Not all the way. I felt... thin. Not empty, just scraped raw in places I didn’t have names for.
People thought helping ghosts find peace was this beautiful, sacred calling.
And maybe it was. But no one ever talked about what it took from you.
How you gave a little bit of yourself to every soul you guided over, like breadcrumbs dropped at the mouth of the veil.
And now, sitting there in the quiet aftermath, I wasn’t sure who I was without that tug of unfinished business anchoring me to the dead.
The idea of jumping straight into another case didn’t thrill me…
It unsettled me. Because what if I couldn’t feel normal anymore unless I was chasing grief?
“Did you just say peacock?” I shuddered, thinking about the taxidermied one in Gigi’s shop.
She sipped with an enthusiastic nod. “Extremely aggressive.”
I snorted and shook my head, but the sound felt thin in my throat. “I think I’m done, Zelda.”
“Done like… done for tonight?” she asked, eyes glinting with teasing curiosity. “Or done-done? Like, done with ghosts, curses, weirdly horny spirits, and people who think crystals can solve murder?”
I didn’t answer right away. Just stared into my glass and watched the golden bubbles rise and burst against the rim like tiny exhalations.
The silence stretched, soft and heavy. “I don’t know,” I admitted finally.
“Something about this one felt… different. It got in deeper than usual.” I didn’t say his name.
I didn’t have to. Zelda felt it too — the way his absence still pulsed in the corners of the room, like a breath someone had forgotten to release.
She didn’t crack a joke this time. Just studied me for a beat, then nodded, her voice quieter than usual. “It was different. You gave him peace. That matters.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with the weight of it.
“Maybe. But why does it feel like something’s still missing?
” The words surprised me even as I said them, raw and unfiltered.
“I’m supposed to be the one who moves things on.
Spirits. Pain. Closure. That’s what I do.
But now that he’s gone…” I trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
Because the truth was, I didn’t feel lighter. I felt adrift.
Zelda slid off the counter and crossed the room, her steps as soft as spellwork.
Barefoot, grounded, luminous in the candlelight…
a woman made of glitter and grief and stubborn love.
She placed a hand on my shoulder, warm and anchoring.
“You’re allowed to rest,” she said gently.
“Even storm-chasers need calm weather sometimes.”
I didn’t respond right away. Just closed my eyes and let the atmosphere wrap around me.
The scent of herbs curling in the air, the subtle warmth of bourbon still clinging to the glass, and the faint metallic echo of windchimes through the open window.
It all felt like a ghost story with no clear ending.
Beau might’ve crossed over, but part of him still lingered.
And maybe, just maybe… part of me had gone with him.
She looked at me over the rim of her glass, quirking a brow. “Done done?”
“For now. Maybe longer. Maybe permanently.” The words surprised me as I said them, like I’d plucked them from a place I didn’t usually let myself go.
I gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, where the last shimmer of spectral energy still clung to the corners like smoke after a candle's been blown out. “I helped him move on. That’s the part that feels good. Not the theatrics. Not the chaos. Just… the closure.”
Zelda didn’t argue. She didn’t smirk or crack a joke or try to convince me I was wrong. She just nodded, slow and thoughtful, the kind of nod that said she understood too well to make it a thing.
“Your loss, ghost girl,” she said eventually to lighten the mood, but the softness hadn’t vanished from her eyes. “But I get it.”
She turned and rummaged through a drawer I could’ve sworn hadn’t been there five seconds ago.
A narrow piece of furniture carved from driftwood, etched with moons and foxes, and lined in something that looked like crushed velvet and smelled faintly of cinnamon and sea spray.
From it, she pulled a small velvet pouch.
Midnight blue, threaded with silver that shimmered like starlight when she moved.
It was tied shut with a knotted bit of twine that glowed faintly with protection magic… subtle, but potent.
She set it gently on the table between us.
“For emergencies,” she said, then shrugged. “Or boredom.”
My brow arched. “What’s in it?”
She gave me that slow, wide grin that usually preceded either disaster or transcendence. “A surprise.”
“Is it going to bite me?”
“Statistically unlikely.”
I picked it up. The velvet was softer than I expected, warm against my skin in a way that didn’t feel natural. Not like fabric warmed by sunlight. More like a pulse. Like the pouch was alive in the quietest, most patient way. It thrummed softly, like it was waiting.
“I don’t take gifts from witches lightly,” I murmured.
“Good, because I don’t give them lightly,” she said, and that was all.
We didn’t say anything else for a while.
The silence settled, not awkward, but expectant, like the kitchen itself was holding its breath.
The cat in the mixing bowl let out a single sigh and rolled over dramatically, as if bored of our emotional moment.
The windchimes on the porch murmured in agreement.
It hit me then. This strange, ridiculous little house, with its clashing walls and sentient sourdough starter and mischief in every drawer…
I didn’t hate it. I just hadn’t realized how much I liked it.
Not just the charm or the magic or the garlic knots, but the person who lived in it.
Somewhere between the gnome incident and the spectral showdown, Zelda had gone from headache to friend. Or something very closely adjacent.
“Thanks Zelda,” I said quietly, because I didn’t trust my voice to say more.
She shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Try not to set it on fire. Or do. Either way, it’s yours now.”
I got back into my rental car just before midnight, the pouch clutched gently in one hand. The streets were hushed and velvet-dark, bathed in the kind of moonlight that made everything feel older than it was. The town slept like a creature with one eye open. Half-watchful, half-dreaming.
There were still ghosts in the world. Still doors creaking open in the middle of the night, and attic stairs that groaned without being stepped on.
Still people who didn’t want to let go. But this ghost?
This story? It was finished. Beau had crossed.
I had stayed. And something between those two truths had shifted inside me.
In helping him let go, I’d let go of something, too.
The constant leaving. The insistence that I didn’t belong in this world of sigils and spirit-speak.
The lie I kept telling myself… that I was only ever just passing through.
I wasn’t just passing through. I wasn’t quite ready to plant roots, but I was getting real tired of running.
Outside, the wind shook the treetops like the town itself was settling into sleep. Or maybe it was whispering something else.
Not goodbye. Just see you soon.