Chapter One
Highgate Cemetery, London
Early morning…
Thea Blackwood knew she was being watched. Possibly by a policeman. Probably by her mother’s ghost. Either way, it wouldn’t stop her from getting the damn shot.
She crouched in the dew-soaked grass, skirts bundled up over one arm and her camera tripod planted with military precision between the graves of Reverend Elmsley and a long-forgotten Countess of Shoreditch.
Fog curled low over the mossy stones, thick as clotted cream, winding around her boots and up her sleeves like fingers from the other side.
Perfect predawn light. Perfect stillness. And—if the spiritual rumblings were to be believed—a hell of a good haunting.
She adjusted the lens plate, her fingers sure despite the chill. Thea knew this cemetery better than she knew her own townhouse. Every creaking gate. Every angel with a cracked wing. Every path she’d taken in daylight and darkness, chasing whispers from the veil.
Now she was trespassing. Again. But only because she was sure, sure, that if she got the exposure just right today, her mother would finally show herself. Dead three months, and still Celeste Blackwood managed to make Thea feel late to every conversation. Typical.
A twig snapped behind her. She didn’t flinch.
“Miss Blackwood.”
Thea resisted the urge to grin. Even when he said her name like it was a court summons, Alaric Ward managed to make her stomach twist in inappropriate, cravat-ripping ways.
“Inspector Ward,” she said, not turning. “How lovely of you to join us. You, me, and the swirling, howling beyond.”
He didn’t answer right away, just stood behind her like a thundercloud in a suit. “You pick today of all days to do this?” he asked finally.
“You say that like it’s a bad idea.”
“It’s All Hallows’, Thea.”
“Exactly. The veil is thinnest. The air is charged. Prime ghost-hunting conditions.”
“It’s also prime getting arrested conditions.”
“How festive,” she murmured, fiddling with the lens. “Shall I etch that on our wedding invitations?”
His footsteps were deliberate now, measured, heavy enough to carry warning. Still, she could picture the crease between his brows, the faint tic of his jaw. “You’re trespassing,” he said, flatly.
“I’m mourning.”
“You’re violating no fewer than three cemetery ordinances.”
“And I brought biscuits,” she said, gesturing toward a tin beside her camera case. “Would a criminal bring custard creams?” She heard the soft exhale through his nose. The exact sound he made when she was getting on his nerves, which was often. In her opinion, he needed the exercise.
She turned her head just enough to glimpse him out of the corner of her eye—overcoat damp with fog, hair raked back like he’d run his hand through it ten times before finding her. He always looked like he’d just emerged from a scuffle. Probably with his own morals.
“You swore you wouldn’t do this again.”
“I swore I wouldn’t do it without supervision.” She looked up at him properly this time. “Fortunately, you’re here. We’re practically married, after all.”
That earned her a grunt. Not even a growl. He never rose to her bait the way she wanted him to, which was part of the problem.
Thea returned to her camera, ignoring the burn of his gaze. She was used to being stared at—by clients and reporters. But Alaric’s stare wasn’t cold or curious. It was… intense. And infuriating. And sometimes, when he forgot to guard it, it was a little bit like reverence.
She pretended not to notice.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“Neither should you,” she murmured, checking the exposure. “And yet… here we are. Like fate. Or bad decisions.” Another whisper rustled through the trees, thin and cool and unmistakably not the wind. She smiled faintly. There. “She’s here,” she said.
There was a pause. “Your mother?” he asked, his voice dipping into something softer.
“Of course. She’s probably hovering behind you right now, judging your posture and your cravat.” A chill slithered up her spine. That familiar pressure, like invisible fingertips brushing her collar. Thea didn’t flinch. She welcomed it. “Let me guess,” she added aloud. “Grandmother’s here too?”
She could practically hear him tense.
“Naturally,” she answered herself. “She thinks you’re very handsome. She also thinks you could use a good starching.”
A muffled curse came from Alaric’s direction.
Thea grinned and snapped the shot. The camera plate sizzled.
Light exploded. Just for a moment, the air around them felt charged, like lightning trapped in glass.
And somewhere, deep in the fog, past the crypts and curled ivy, Thea could swear she heard a laugh that sounded a lot like her grandmother.
She adjusted her stance, stretching one leg out from beneath her skirt to brace against the sloping hill.
Her boots sank slightly into the wet ground—rich loam and leaf rot, the kind that clung to fabric and stayed there for days.
She barely noticed anymore. Around them, Highgate breathed.
Gravestones leaned into one another like gossiping old friends.
A cracked-winged cherub stared mournfully from a nearby crypt, its face worn smooth by time.
Low iron fences twisted into rusted curls, and somewhere far off, a fox barked once—sharp, startled, gone again.
This place had always felt more alive to her than most drawing rooms.
Pulling a cloth from her satchel, Thea dabbed the mist off the camera lens. She kept her hands busy, because her chest was too tight, and she would not cry in front of him. Not here. Not ever. No matter how much she missed her mother.
“You know,” she said, without looking up, “if you just admitted you were a little bit intrigued by all this, your head might not ache so much.”
“I’m intrigued by the number of ways you insist on risking arrest,” Alaric muttered.
“Well, that’s not very romantic.”
“I didn’t come here to be romantic.”
She glanced at him then, really looked. His jaw was locked, coat unbuttoned just enough to hint at a waistcoat beneath, one hand clenching and unclenching at his side like he wasn’t sure whether to strangle her or pull her closer.
Probably both.
She smirked. “Then it’s a good thing we’re already engaged.”
That got him. He shifted his weight like the word physically hit him, shoulders going taut. Not that he denied it.
Thea turned away quickly, heart thudding. She hated how that word hung in the air. He’d said it (he’d proposed, hadn’t he?), but he’d said it like someone fulfilling a debt, not offering a future. Their grandmothers’ wish, he’d called it. An agreement between old friends. A sentimental favor.
“Our grandmothers would’ve been pleased,” he’d said. “It’s the right thing to do.”
And she’d nodded, awkward and flustered and far too aware of his mouth. She hadn’t meant to laugh—God, she hadn’t—but it had slipped out. She’d brushed it off with a joke and said she’d think about it. That was it.
The next minute, she’d ended up in jail at Metro Station, and everything changed. She’d been wet. Muddy. Furious. And she’d yelled—quite loudly—down that station corridor that he was her fiancé.
It had been raining then.