7. Not a Ghost
Not a Ghost
Gabriel
“ T he manor isn’t haunted,” Genna shouted at Gabriel over the ruckus.
The grand foyer of Rookgate Manor was putting on a show.
Doors slammed—one, two, three in rapid succession—while the temperature seesawed between sauna and meat locker.
The magelight chandelier flickered, its crystals clinking together in a discordant wind chime symphony, though not a breath of air stirred.
Gabriel’s carefully styled hair clung to his neck with sweat, his silk blouse already sticking to his back like a second skin.
Genna Paystone stood in the center of the chaos, arms crossed, looking like she’d just walked through a hedge backward.
Her dark hair, usually bound in a no-nonsense knot, had been ambushed by whatever malevolent force governed the manor.
The white streak above her temple stood plucked loose and frizzed.
Her practical skirt was smudged with dust, her boots scuffed, and her apron bore a fresh tear along the hem where something had tried to trip her.
Her frown had pulled every age line in her face deep. She looked, in a word, pissed .
Miles didn’t look much better. He’d donned his Guild caster’s coat before they’d entered the manor, but it hung open and rumpled over a plum-colored shirt that had been crisp this morning and now looked like he’d slept in it.
Sweat dampened his collar despite the frigid temperature gripping the foyer.
His chestnut hair had come entirely free of its half-bun, curling wild around his face.
Rookgate Manor, evidently, still did not want them there.
Even now, a door somewhere on the upper floor slammed hard enough to rattle the chandelier overhead. The gaslights in their sconces flickered, too bright, then dim, then bright again in a nauseating strobe that made Gabriel’s temples throb .
“Not haunted,” he repeated, voice flat. “Sure. Of course not.”
Something invisible yanked the tie from Genna’s hair.
The last of her bun unraveled in a cascade of dark waves, the leather cord sailing across the foyer to land near Miles’s feet.
Gabriel laughed, sharp and a little unhinged. “Oh, yes. Completely not haunted.”
Genna shoved her hair back from her face with both hands, glaring at nothing in particular. “A haunt is a specific phenomenon. This isn’t that.”
“Doors slamming? Temperature changes? Assault by hair accessories?” Gabriel ticked the points off on his fingers. “What exactly would you call it?”
“A tantrum.” Genna stalked toward the grand staircase, gesturing at the foyer around them.
“I’ve walked both floors and the basement.
Every room I could access. Peeked up the attic stairs before the bookcase slammed shut in my face.
” She turned back to face them, arms crossed.
“There’s something undead up there, yes.
But it’s not a ghost. Maybe a zombie is up there. Maybe something else. But no haunting.”
Gabriel blinked. “How in the actual fuck would you know the difference from below?”
“Because I do.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Miles cleared his throat. “Genna—”
“I know what I’m talking about,” she said, voice gone cold and clipped. “You called me here for my expertise. This is it. Not. A. Haunt.”
“A zombie,” Gabriel said flatly. “In the attic of a house in the Spires. We’re not exactly in Veil Isles territory, Genna.”
“No,” she agreed, and something in her voice went tight. “We’re not.”
“And a zombie could hardly explain what is going on in this house.”
“No, it doesn’t. But you asked about undead, and that’s the only undead here.”
Gabriel studied her, the set of her shoulders, the way her blue eyes had gone flat and distant. There was a story there. Something buried deep that she had no intention of sharing.
Fine. He had his own secrets .
“So, what is it, then?” he asked. “Because I’d really love to know what’s throwing a temper tantrum in my—” He stopped. Corrected himself with venom. “In Madaze’s house.”
Genna’s expression softened a fraction. “I don’t know. Not yet.” She turned in a slow circle, taking in the foyer again. “But we can rule out a haunting. Madaze’s or otherwise.”
Her gaze landed on Gabriel. “Frankly, this inheritance seems dubious at best. Its bad behavior aside, I can’t believe you haven’t gotten the bodies out yet. What do you intend to do with the place?”
“Burn it to the ground?” Gabriel suggested sweetly.
“I meant realistically.”
“I am being realistic.”
“Gabriel.”
“What?” He spread his hands. “You think I want this? Any of this?” His voice climbed despite himself. “I want to sell the whole cursed mess and never think about it again. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” she echoed, dry as desert sand.
Miles stepped forward, one hand raised in a placating gesture. “As much as I support Gabriel’s pyromaniacal aspirations, we are trying to avoid needing to flee the country. And any other plan to get rid of the place isn’t going to work with the manor in this state.”
He gestured at the chandelier as it swayed overhead, crystals chiming discordantly.
“We need to do something about the… not-haunting before we can do anything about the bodies, or with our luck, the phenomenon will start flinging the remains in our faces,” Miles continued. “We need to find out what’s causing this. Stop it. Or at least... negotiate with it.”
Gabriel stared at him. “Negotiate. With a tantrum-throwing maybe-zombie?”
“Do you have a better idea?”
“Burning it down and fleeing the country is still on the table. You don’t actually hate Lyonnor, do you?”
“Gabriel—”
A door on the second floor slammed so hard the sound cracked like a tree limb snapping .
Miles and Genna exchanged a look. That specific, loaded glance people shared when they were about to get insufferably intellectual together.
Oh no.
“Let’s talk through this. The manifestation patterns are localized,” Miles began. “The aggression escalates when we move toward certain areas—the attic stairs, specifically—but the general chaos seems almost...”
“Reactive,” Genna finished. “Not targeted. More like ambient distress.”
“Exactly. Which suggests—”
“A sustained magical imprint rather than active undead influence.”
“But the specificity of the Goldmar apparition implies—”
Gabriel stopped listening.
He let their voices fade into pleasant background noise. Theorizing. That’s what these two did. Even in the middle of a house having a hissy fit.
Meanwhile, he just wanted to set everything on fire and walk away.
Except.
Another door slammed upstairs—not as violent this time, more petulant—and Gabriel struggled against something that wasn’t quite anger but wasn’t quite sympathy either.
The house was mad . Furious. Lashing out at everything and everyone.
He knew that feeling.
Had lived it for years. The impotent rage of having no control, no voice, no way to make the hurting stop except to hurt back in whatever small, futile ways were available. Slamming metaphorical doors. Screaming into the void.
Hell, he’d just vented some of that rage all over their room at the inn.
The chandelier flickered again, and Gabriel watched the crystals sway.
Part of him—the bitter, vicious part that had survived Madaze—wanted to laugh. Good , he thought. Be angry. You’ve earned it.
But the rest of him just felt tired.
Tired of Madaze. Tired of his legacy. Tired of the way that bastard kept reaching up from whatever hell he’d been consigned to and making Gabriel’s life complicated. The tax debt. The title. The cursed house—or whatever it was—apparently having the world’s longest breakdown.
Even dead , Madaze was a problem.
”—not a bad idea,” Miles was saying, animated now in that way he got when a puzzle clicked into place. “If we can get her to come—”
“Gabriel, what do you think?” Genna cut in.
They both turned to him.
Gabriel blinked. “About what?”
Genna’s expression went flat. Miles’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost exasperation.
“Were you listening to any of that?” Miles asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Gabriel—”
“In my defense, you two sound like a very boring lecture when you get going. I zoned out around ‘manifestation patterns.’” He waved a hand airily. “What’s the question?”
Miles huffed something that might have been a laugh. Genna pinched the bridge of her nose.
“We were asking,” Miles said with exaggerated patience, “whether you’d consider hiring—”
The house went silent.
Not the comfortable silence of a space at rest. The wrong silence, the kind that made his skin prickle with animal awareness.
The chandelier stopped swaying.
The doors stopped slamming.
Then the temperature plummeted so fast Gabriel’s next exhale misted in front of his face.
The apparition materialized at the top of the grand staircase.
Madaze Goldmar. Tall, gaunt, blonde hair swept back from that severe face. Black eyes boring into Gabriel with familiar, terrible focus.
It started down the stairs.
Not floating. Not gliding. Marching —each step deliberate, inexorable—while its mouth opened in a soundless howl that rattled his bones.
GET OUT.
The voice slammed directly into his skull like a hammer.
Gabriel’s body wanted to obey. The urge to bolt kicked him hard in the ribs.
But the thing walking toward him wasn’t real.
Madaze was dead . Gabriel had watched his bones burn. Had laughed at the ashes. And Genna had insisted his ghost was not here.
This was a game the house zombie—or whatever—was playing .
He was no one’s plaything, not anymore.
He stepped forward.
Miles snatched at his arm. “Gabriel—”
Gabriel shrugged him off and kept walking, meeting the apparition halfway across the foyer.
The image didn’t stop. It kept coming until they stood nose-to-nose, or would have, if the specter had been solid. The grand staircase remained visible through the specter’s chest, all translucent edges and flickering light.
GET OUT, it howled again, and this time Gabriel’s ears rang with the force of it.
He held his ground.
“No,” he said.