Chapter 1
Ghost-touched.
Veil-walker.
My condition has been described in many ways, but whatever name you put on it, it remains a mystery.
Over the years, I’ve met other people like me, and it’s part of how I ended up in the line of work that I’m in.
However, all that searching didn’t prove very helpful.
Turns out, each person is unique, and so is their relationship with the veil.
But talking to others did give me some valuable information that helped me untangle the knots of confusion around my existence.
Slowly, with testing and questioning, I’ve discovered the rules—limits, abilities, and things that fall in between.
The very nature of it contradicts itself more often than not.
I bleed like any other man, but the concept of death doesn’t really hold any bearing on me. I’m already straddling that line.
There’s nothing distinctly different about my appearance—the only mark the deal left on me is the white streak that runs through my otherwise dark hair.
However, people like me age more slowly than the laws of biology dictate we should.
I suspect that will become much more evident as the years add up and my skin doesn’t crease and sag quite like it should.
Not that I’m complaining. It’s one of the few silver linings.
I can communicate with the dead just as easily as the living, and they never let me forget it. Yes, it allows me to help others, but it would be a lie to pretend it isn’t a heavy burden.
I can walk between realms, and sometimes, that can distort my reality. My friends insist I spend too much time straddling two worlds looking for her.
Solaneen Gomez.
With bloodied hands, I hold onto that fraying cord of hope that I won’t find her among the dead. Yet every day that passes, I fear that she might evade me for the rest of her life.
They’re not wrong to worry. But my love for her is the singular truth that guides my life. And until I get her back, nothing else matters.
Is the risk of losing myself worth finding her?
Of course it is. Without her, I’m lost anyway.
That’s why I don’t hesitate to jump into action when I finally get the call I’ve been waiting years for.
“There’s been a sighting.” Four simple words that mean everything. “Just outside of SF at a little motel. I’ll text you the name.”
Not states away. Hours away. The closest we’ve been in far too long.
This time, I’m not letting her slip through my grasp. She’s coming home with me, even if I have to tie her up and drag her back.
She’s an early riser, but if I make it there before sunrise, I’ll likely be able to catch her before she makes a move.
In a blur, I throw on some real clothes: a black coat, a black sweater, and black denim.
Then I nearly sprint to the car and drive into the uncertain darkness at one in the morning.
I whip recklessly around the winding, narrow road, ignoring the painful promise of the steep cliffs that line parts of my drive.
Each mile marker is a mocking reminder of how much distance remains between us.
The scenery I’ve spent my life admiring passes by in flashes as I blow past the speed limit.
Rich classical music fills the air, swelling violins coaxing me to press the pedal closer to the floorboard.
Beneath the music, there’s a shuddering breath of the pianist buried in the recording, and I imagine it’s hers fanning across my lips with the twin flutter of her lashes against my cheeks.
With each mile, my heart pumps harder, searching for hers, trying to synchronize with a distant tune that’s still playing too quietly.
Each thump, thump, a call for the woman who once found sanctuary with her ear to my chest.
Time is in flux as my mind drifts back to the past—late nights dancing to Joy Division and Sisters of Mercy ’til our feet hurt, summers full of sunsets on the shore, ghost hunting in abandoned places we had no business being in…
Our life was perfect, should have been. But then came the torture of the years spent apart.
My hands tighten on the wheel as I’m battered by an onslaught of pain reminiscent of those first bleak, empty months.
The alert for low gas interrupts my spiral.
I make quick work of the task, but the long list of notifications on my phone keeps me from jumping right back on the freeway.
The car hums to life, and the thrum of the bass matches the adrenaline pounding through my system.
Opening my email, I take a look at the footage and stills Mendez sent over.
Solaneen’s naturally brown hair is now green and much longer, with short bangs cut just above her dark brows.
Her olive skin is covered in new tattoos.
But even with the changes to her appearance, there’s no mistaking those brilliant brown eyes cut with citrine.
A chill chases away the warmth I feel at seeing her again as I take in the looming presence hovering behind her left shoulder. Ivan. The persistent fucker who got us into this mess in the first place. He’ll be dealt with in due time. But first, I need to get my girl back.
My breath shakes on the exhale as I allow myself just a few more seconds to regroup after the unpleasant realization, and then the car is launching forward, racing through the last leg of this unexpected road trip.
Within minutes, I spot the motel off the highway, a scarlet SOS in a sea of neon signs.
So close.
The parking lot is fairly empty as I pull in. Putting the car into park, my hands shake with the overwhelming swell of anticipation and longing catching up to me with the flood of memories that motel lots always bring.
My eyes play tricks on me, the empty night now filled with the image of her stumbling to her door, keys slipping between her unsteady fingers as a random man grips at her hips, his body flush with hers.
The heat that creeps up my neck is as real as it was that night when I first possessed someone.
It wasn’t on purpose; it wasn’t even something I knew I could do.
Jealousy was vibrating me out of my own skin.
My urge to be close to her took on a life of its own.
That man became an unwitting test subject as I slipped from my consciousness and into his body—mine left in the car in a meditative state. Idling.
I would have felt bad, but he was the one following a drunk woman back to her hotel room.
Some men have no morals. Not that mine were all that much better in the moment.
But if Sol was intent on fucking away her guilt and worries, I would be that vessel for her.
I would do anything for her. Even engaging in a hollow bastardization of the magic our bodies used to make.
I resigned myself to the notion that I was doing this for us, a small sacrifice that was also so selfish.
Through his calloused hands, I felt the warmth of her seep into my fingertips for the first time in so long.
All patience and self-control vacated me, hunger and lust for the woman I’ve always called mine taking over as I turned her against the door and caged her in my arms before ripping her dress in half at the neckline.
“What are you doing?” I’ll never forget the flash of fear in her eyes, reminding me that she wasn’t seeing me; she was looking into the eyes of a stranger. It took everything in me to rein in my need for her.
“Sorry, I just couldn’t wait another minute to see this beautiful body on display.” A moment’s hesitation, but she allowed me to continue my perusal of her body as we shoved our way clumsily through the door.
Her motives were clear as she grabbed the liquor and poured herself a shot, taking it back with a wince. “Want one?”
“No.” Hell no. There was no way I was going to dull what few senses I was in touch with like this. It had been so long since I’d touched her.
With her clothing removed, I’d dragged my lips across her skin, attempting to savor the salt and warmth of it on my tongue. She wouldn’t let me kiss her lips though, turning her head away and instead reaching for my dick.
Sinking inside her while being in the body of another was the most disorienting thing I’ve ever done—and that’s saying a lot as someone who’s straddled the line of the veil for nearly two decades.
But our bodies meeting was a cruel torture.
One I would crawl back to several more times before it became too much.
Sitting in this lot, back in our home state, so close to where this all started, I beg whatever powers that be that things will be different this time. That I can have her all to myself again. That she won’t disappear into the night. That she won’t slip between my fingers like candle smoke.
I can’t let that happen. I refuse.
If I have to damn my moral code in the process, then so be it.
I’ve already made so many concessions, given so much ground to the darker tendencies that rise up inside me when it comes to keeping her safe.
This isn’t just about me, it’s about us.
And I’d do anything for us. That was true when we were teens, true a decade ago, and it stands true now.
If I’ve accomplished nothing else, I’ve proven that my devotion to Solaneen Gomez stands the test of time.
At peace with my decision to bring her home at any cost, I pop the trunk and grab the bag of equipment that always stays ready.
Most people aren’t prepared for a kidnapping, but sometimes our jobs call for restraint, and occasionally—rarely—some violence. I have no intention of hurting her, but I’m adamant about bringing her back, and I’ll be damned if I let Ivan stand in my way again.
Assessing the row of rooms, I easily locate number eight as indicated in the brief Mendez sent over. Despite the situation, a laugh escapes me. A creature of habit through and through. “It’s the best number, obviously, look how even and infinite it is. The perfect balance.” She wasn’t wrong.
Room Eight beckons me as I cross the lot. My heart speeds up, nearly jumping out of my chest to close the distance between us, but my steps are measured and slow like those of someone who’s hunting for a meal they need to survive. I have one shot; I won’t miss it by getting overexcited.
Pressing my ear against the door—not even daring to exhale—I listen for the sound of movement, of a TV, but it’s silent. Odd. She never sleeps in silence. Can’t. Not with all the voices that call out to her.
Maybe it’s quieter here. Could she have found unexpected peace?
I’m her peace. I remind myself. And she’s mine.
Pulling out my phone, I open the email with the information Jayden sent me to hack into the locking mechanism. Every paranormal investigation company needs a tech genius, and he’s ours, but we only deploy him for ethical hacking—mostly.
The green light, followed by the shrill beep, confirms my success.
Gripping the handle, I twist it gently. There’s a fifty-fifty chance she’s already awake.
She’s always been a light sleeper, her body conditioned to be on alert from nights awoken by breaking glass and fists going through walls.
I go slow so I don’t scare her more than I have to.
I wince when the metal rim beneath my foot whines.
But with a quick look around, it’s clear that the room is empty.
She’s nowhere to be seen, and neither are any of her belongings.
The bed is made, but the trash is still full.
Wouldn’t it be my luck that I just missed her?
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump. My heart races with my thoughts.
She can’t be gone. She’s not allowed to slip through my fingers again. Rushing to the small main office, I approach the counter, attempting to look cool and collected while a blaze of panic spreads through my insides.
Pulling up her picture on my phone, I turn it to the receptionist. “Have you seen this woman?”
Her brow raises as she assesses me. “Please, it’s my wife.” My stomach flips with the proclamation. Wife isn’t a strong enough word to embody what Sol is to me—what we have transcends such mainstream labels. And yet the joy I feel calling her that is undeniable. “I’m worried about her.”
“We don’t give out information about motel guests. Sorry.” Her attention returns to the screen in front of her. But that changes quickly when I slide cash onto the counter.
“Please. I promise you, I mean her no harm, but it’s imperative that I find her. As soon as possible.” Keeping my face neutral, I hope that she can see my intent clearly—or at the very least, she’s as underpaid as most people nowadays and lets her need for cash override her better judgment.
“She said something about catching the sunrise at McWay Falls.” She lets loose a long sigh. “There are complimentary pamphlets over there about it.”
“Thanks.” I speed right past the long row of brochures. I’ve been to McWay Falls countless times. It’s one of Sol’s favorite places, or it used to be. It’s not far from where we grew up after all.
Closer and closer, and still I chase her. Is it possible that she’s coming home to me? Is she finally tired of running?
But that hope is slippery because that would mean that she’s ready to come back to me.
Ready to stop fighting the undeniable connection between us.
The resounding truth that we were made for each other.
It’s not that I don’t think she knows it.
That’s not possible, our connection is as real as the breath that fills our lungs.
The reason I can’t let myself hope that she’s willingly coming back to me is that I know her better than that.
I know that she’s stubborn enough that she won’t be eager to admit that she’s wrong or that she’s changed her mind.
She needs that external push—even one done for the sake of allowing her to save face.
I’m happy to be that force for her. Hell, I’m willing to tie her up and bring her back myself.
She can pretend to resist. It might even be fun to allow that conflict to play out between us.
But deep down I know, and better yet, she does too, that our world will only be restored to balance when we’re in the same place, when we move in tandem.
With each highway sign that I pass, I feel the world shift beneath me, righting itself degree by degree.
The sun and moon are getting close to changing places in the sky when I finally pull off to the edge of the road and park. I don’t know what to expect, but what I do know is that I’m bringing her back, no matter what.