Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Declan
Sunlight never graces the Hollow like it should. It doesn’t warm the air or scatter the fog. It hangs like a pale veil over the rooftops, useless against the chill that permeates the town.
Emery walks out of the library ahead of me, hugging her notebook to her chest like a shield. Shoulders stiff, jaw locked. Less reporter, more someone who uncovered a ghost in broad daylight.
I don’t need to ask what she found in Baxter’s files. Whose name she discovered. The nervous edge in her silence tells me enough. She must’ve found my sister’s name and made the connection. Whether she’ll dare to say it out loud to me—that’s another matter.
Is she feeling guilty? If I let her stew, maybe she’ll leave town before the curse captures her.
Why does the thought of never seeing her again bother me so much?
She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. The chain the iron key’s hanging from glints at her throat, unleashing something feral and protective inside me.
“Find what you wanted?” My question sounds more like an accusation than genuine interest.
Her chin lifts but her bottom lip trembles. “I’m not sure yet.”
Yeah, something she learned knocked the nosy reporter right out of her this morning. If her investigation wasn’t so personal, I might feel bad about that.
We walk side by side down the stone steps of the library. Now’s the time to chase her off. Help her pack her bags, gas up her car, and send her away.
Instead, I shove my hands deeper in my pockets. “Baxter’s archives will bury you alive if you let them.”
She tilts her head, side-eyeing me. “I’ve survived worse than some dusty stacks of newspapers.”
Before I can press her for more, footsteps thud behind us on the sidewalk.
“Wait—sorry!” a voice calls out.
A kid—no, a guy, but barely—jogs over to us. College sweatshirt. Backpack. Camera slung diagonally across his chest. Breathless from running with an overexcited, parasocial grin on his face like he’s about to meet his favorite porn star.
Ignoring me, he aims his excited puppy energy straight at Emery.
“You’re Curious Crow, right? The girl from Curious Crow? Emily.”
“Emery,” she corrects. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I knew it!” The guy beams. “I recognized you from your episode on the Raven’s Point ghost. I grew up near there and you…you really nailed it. I’m actually a film major at Cornell. Really like your editing style.”
Emery’s cheeks flush pink. “Wow, uh, thanks. My best friend edits all my pieces. She, uh, graduated from Cornell too, actually.”
He shifts closer, rubbing his shoulder up against Emery’s while he fumbles for his phone. “Can we take a photo?” He heaves in a deep breath, drops the fanboy act and slips into something closer to frat boy on the prowl. I’m not sure which one I dislike more.
Emery stiffens and shifts away a fraction of an inch, but the guy just moves in closer.
“Or…are you busy?” he asks. “Can I take you out for coffee?”
My blood runs cold. Absolutely the fuck not happening.
The little shithead’s still running his mouth. “…if you’re not busy tonight. I can pick you up—”
“No.” The word rips out of my throat. I angle myself closer to Emery, pushing him back.
He blinks up at me. “Uh, sorry, bro.”
“I’m not your bro.” My voice drops to a level I only use when breaking up fights at the Tipsy Pumpkin on Saturday nights. “And she’s not interested.”
Emery lets out a small, shocked squeak behind me. “Declan.”
The guy fiddles with his camera strap. “I didn’t realize you were…”
“I’m not,” Emery says, stepping past me.
“Listen to your gut and keep moving,” I say to the kid, ignoring the indignation rolling off of Emery.
He backs up so fast, he nearly falls off the curb. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, Emily. Big fan. So stoked I got to meet you.”
He waves and vanishes into the fog with all the grace of someone surprised to be alive at the end of a horror movie.
Emery steps around me, brows lifted to her hairline. “What was that?”
I clamp my jaw shut. There isn’t one thing that would come out of my mouth that wouldn’t sound off-the-rails insane right now.
“Declan?” she demands.
“He got too far up in your personal space,” I mutter. “Plus, he didn’t even know your name.”
Her eyes soften. “He was harmless.”
“He was annoying.”
A smile ghosts over her lips. “It’s important to me to always be kind to my fans.” She blushes and glances down. “I mean, it’s rare that I run into anyone in the wild who recognizes me, but when it happens, I like to make it a positive experience for them. Even if they’re annoying.”
Such a vibrant, articulate woman. With a stunning figure. I can only imagine the sort of weirdos she attracts. I admire her for wanting to be kind even if I could tell the kid made her uncomfortable. Still seems reckless.
“Besides.” Her lashes flutter and her lips curve. “He was way too young for me. I didn’t want to date film bros when I was in college. I’m definitely not into them now.”
A burn starts low in my chest. Want, relief, or some other feeling I don’t want to examine too closely.
“You’re way out of his league anyway,” I grumble.
“Is that right?” she teases.
Fuck, yes. But I keep my mouth shut and my feet moving along the sidewalk.
She falls into step beside me, still clutching her notebook.
“Sooo.” She draws out the word, clearly mocking me. “I guess if my channel gets bigger, I’ll have to hire you as a bodyguard or something.”
I’d do it for free.
“You should hire a handler,” I say. “To keep you out of trouble.”
Instead of kicking the back of my knee, she laughs. “What trouble? Eating my weight in muffins at the Applewood Inn?”
A smile threatens, but I frown, killing it before she notices.
“Anyway, I don’t have time for coffee dates. I have a curse to investigate. Does the name Elenor Vance mean anything to you?”
She never gives up. “No. You know, there are real Hollow mysteries you could investigate while you’re here.”
She stops walking. Ah, I captured her attention.
“Such as?” She arches an eyebrow.
“Well.” I jerk my thumb toward Main Street. “Stop by the Cosmic Path and have Lady Zara do a Tarot reading for you.”
“Tarot cards?” she asks in a bored tone. “Really?”
“It’s not the cards. It’s the shop. Lots of people have reported seeing glowing orbs when they take pictures during their readings.” I jerk my chin toward her bag. “You’ve got that fancy camera, you’ll probably catch something big there.”
“Orbs? Seriously?” She places her hand on her hip and tilts her head, a teacher about to scold the class clown.
“Those are almost always the result of something mundane, like dust on the lens, moisture, insects, or a flare from the camera’s flash.
I don’t investigate spirits interested in parlor tricks. My viewers expect better from me.”
“Which is why I said you and your fancy camera,” I gesture to her bag again, “would probably do a better job investigating the orbs than anyone else ever has.”
Her scowl deepens, which only makes me like her more. Emery isn’t a woman who’s tricked by empty compliments.
“I’ll tuck that one in my back pocket for later,” she says in a disinterested tone meant to placate me and continues walking.
“All right.” I search my memory for any other ghost stories people have made up over the years. “Well, there’s another one that’s more unique.”
Her brow furrows. “What’s that?”
“The haunting of the suicidal horse.”
She stops dead on the sidewalk and turns to face me, disbelief written over her pretty face. “You went from orbs to a suicidal horse? That’s what you consider a ‘safer’ story?”
Compared to the Rider, yes.
“Yes.” I point down Main Street. “If you go past the firehouse, there’s an old farm with a huge white oak tree in front.
Some people claim the land is haunted by the horse who crashed into that tree.
” I swivel my body to face the opposite end of Main Street and point.
“Happened in the early 1900s. The horse was hitched to a buggy outside the Main Street Theater. Someone spooked him and he bolted, dragging the buggy all the way to the farm, where he crashed headfirst into the tree and died.”
“That’s…that’s horrible,” she gasps.
“It was.” I nod in agreement. “But through the years, people have said they hear hooves galloping through the apple orchards at night.”
Her eyes widen. “Could that be the horse we heard in the cemetery last night?”
Damn. I should’ve known she’d tie them together. “No.”
She flips through the pages in her notebook. “I’ve never heard about this runaway horse ghost.”
I jerk my thumb toward the library. “Baxter can probably find you the stories about it.”
She shakes her head as if dismissing the idea. “I’m not here to investigate a ghost horse.”
Her voice slips under my skin, and for a second I can’t decide which hums louder—the curse in my tattoos or the pull in my chest. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the movement simple and innocent.
But all I can think about is the way she looked last night when she battled me as I carried her out of the cemetery, mouth set in a stubborn line, cheeks flushed from adrenaline.
The Rider doesn’t usually stir in daylight. But I swear I can hear the faint ring of iron-shod hooves under the surface. The sound teases the edge of my hearing. A memory? Or a warning?
I shift closer to her without meaning to, enough that my arm brushes hers. She goes still but doesn’t step away.
This is dangerous for both of us.
We stop in front of Chocolate Enchantments. I nod toward my shop a few doors down. “I have to open up.”
“Do you ever take a day off?”
“Even if I’m not inking, there’s always work to be done.” The last thing I need is time alone with my thoughts. “This is our busiest time of year.”
“Oh, right.” Her lips curl into a smirk. “Gotta nab those tourist dollars while you can.”
“Gotta pay the bills somehow,” I counter. She doesn’t need to know I’d rather starve than live off the Sterling family fortune.
Her cheeks flush. “Sorry. I…I understand what that’s like. I really do.”
A needle of guilt pokes into my chest. I can afford to take time off. She probably can’t. “Is that why you’re here chasing ghost stories?” I can’t help asking. “To pay the bills?”
“Well, yes. I guess so. The newspaper I worked for folded and I…don’t know. I took this idea and ran with it.” Her lips curl into a soft smile. “Combining my favorite things, travel and investigating stories.”
What would that be like, to actually leave Crowsbridge Hollow? “Sounds nice.”
“I know you think I’m just some airhead, rolling into town to take selfies for Internet clout but—”
“I don’t think you’re an airhead.”
She tilts her head. “Just an opportunist, then?”
“Not exactly.” I glance at my shop again. No one’s lined up outside yet, but my first appointment should be here soon. “Stay out of the cemetery tonight, okay?”
Her lips part, like she’s about to argue.
“Chase the horse.” I cut her off. “Or the orbs. Investigate anything but the Widow.”
She hugs her notebook to her chest. Guilt flickers across her face, then she frowns. “I’ll take it under advisement.”
That’s as good as a no, coming from her.
She whirls around and stalks away from me, heading toward the Tarot shop. Slowly she disappears into the fog, and I have the urge to chase after her. Make sure she’s safe.
It’s daytime. She’s fine.
Hey, maybe she’ll take my advice.
Doubtful.
I hope she’ll reconsider and dig into those harmless stories until she gets bored and leaves town. She must have better things to do than hang around here, right?
But as much as I want to deny it, the truth crawls under my skin, hard to ignore. A foolish part of me wants her to stay.