Chapter 7 #2
"Oh." The ghost drifts closer, her feet not quite touching the ground. "I remember death. Mine, I think. It was here. In the library. I was reading something I wasn't supposed to. Something about..." She frowns, struggling with the memory. "About angels. About how they fell. About what they lost."
My heart starts pounding. "What did you find?"
"I don't remember." She wraps her arms around herself. "But it scared me. Scared me so much I tried to leave. And then..." She gestures vaguely at her translucent form. "And then I was like this. Stuck. Unable to leave. Unable to die properly."
"How long ago?"
"I don't know. A long time. Before the last war. Before the electricity." She peers at the book I was reading, even though I doubt she can see it clearly. "Are you looking for dangerous things too?"
"Maybe." I study her carefully. "Do you remember anything else? About what you read? About why it scared you?"
She's quiet for a long moment, her form flickering like a candle in the wind.
Then: "Seven pieces. That's what I remember.
Seven pieces of something that should have been whole.
And someone was trying to put them back together.
Trying to..." She trails off, her eyes going distant.
"I remember thinking: this will destroy everything. "
Seven pieces.
Seven houses.
Seven fallen angels.
"What was your name?" I ask gently.
"I..." She frowns, concentrating. "Margaret? Or Mary? I had a sister. She was younger. She missed me when I died." A sad smile. "She's dead now too. Everyone I knew is dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." Margaret-or-Mary drifts toward the window, looking out at nothing.
"Being dead isn't so bad. It's being stuck that's difficult.
Watching time pass. Watching people come and go.
Watching the same patterns repeat." She glances back at me.
"There was a woman here. Not long ago—or maybe it was long ago, time is strange for me.
She was researching like you are. In the same section. Looking at the same old things."
My breath catches. "What did she look like?"
"Silver hair. Worn in a tight bun. Gray eyes, cold and sharp." Margaret-or-Mary tilts her head. "She felt... important. Heavy, like she carried weight the living don't usually have. She had the same smell about her that you do."
"What smell?" Can ghosts even smell?
"Death. Sin." She drifts closer. "I tried to warn her. About the library. But she didn't see me. Or didn't hear me. She just kept researching. Kept digging. Kept..." She stops. "And then she left.”
I grip the edge of the desk. Silver hair. Gray eyes. "That was my grandmother."
"Oh." The ghost's expression softens with something like sympathy. "I'm sorry. She seemed strong. Determined. Like you."
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. "Where?"
"I don't know. But I felt something. The wrongness of her." She drifts closer, her translucent face inches from mine. "You need to be careful. Whatever killed your grandmother. Whatever killed me is still hunting. Still collecting."
"The missing souls," I whisper. "Grandmother was one of them? You were one of them."
Her form starts to fade, like she's running out of energy. "Be careful, Raven-the-bird. Don't read what you're not supposed to read. Don't find what you're not supposed to find. And don't trust—"
She flickers out entirely, her voice cutting off mid-sentence.
I'm alone again, my heart pounding, my hands shaking.
Grandmother's soul wasn't collected by the house she served. I thought... she belonged to the houses when she died. She should have been collected. How had I never thought... never considered?
She was taken.
By whoever is stealing souls. By whoever is collecting angel-blooded descendants.
I look down at the contract in front of me, the names and dates and carefully documented patterns. I'm not just investigating grandmother's death.
I'm hunting the thing that killed her. The thing that took her soul.
And it knows I'm coming.
I spend another two hours in the restricted section, but I can't focus. The ghost's words echo in my head.
I'm gathering my notes, careful not to take anything from the library like Seraph instructed, when I hear footsteps on the spiral stairs.
Seraph appears, carrying a tray. Tea, from the smell of it, and something that might be food. His expression is carefully neutral, but I see the tension in his wings.
"You've been up here for a while," he says. "I thought you might need sustenance."
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking." He sets the tray on the reading desk. "And you've gone pale. What did you find?"
I want to tell him about the ghost. About what Margaret-or-Mary said. About grandmother's soul being taken instead of collected.
But something holds me back.
Don't trust—
The ghost was cut off before she could finish. But the implication is clear.
Don't trust the angels.
Even the one who promised to protect me. I feel something from Croesus even though I’ve all but smothered the bonds. His is the strongest so of course I can’t shut it down altogether. I suspect he’s blocking me on the other end too, for his own sanity.
"Nothing yet," I lie, and his mirror eyes reflect my own face back at me—showing me exactly how unconvincing I am. "Just a lot of contracts. A lot of patterns. It's going to take time."
He studies me for a long moment. Then he nods slowly. "Eat. Rest. Continue tomorrow." He turns to leave, then pauses. "I meant what I said earlier. If you find something dangerous, or you feel threatened in any way, come to me."
"I will."
Another lie.
Because I don't know who to trust anymore.
Not Seraph, who keeps secrets behind his perfect facade.
Not Croesus, who's bound to me but trapped by supernatural politics.
Not even myself, because I'm walking the same path that got my grandmother killed.
I watch Seraph descend the spiral stairs, then turn back to the restricted section.
Somewhere in these books is the truth.
And I'm going to find it.
Even if it kills me too.