CHAPTER 151: CHAPTER 151: THE GHOST

GRAYSON DIDN’T SPEAK.

Hands shoved into the pockets of his dark slacks, shoulders tense beneath the morning sun, he stared at the line of cypress trees like he was trying to will the world into making sense.

Mailah waited. She didn’t trust her voice yet. Didn’t trust herself not to reach out and touch him. Not when last night—the confessions, the heat of his mouth on hers—still lived under her skin like a second heartbeat.

Finally, he exhaled.

"I reinforced the wards," he said quietly.

"That’s good."

"It should be," he said.

The wind stirred the lavender bushes, releasing a soft, clean scent—so profoundly at odds with the tension knotting the air between them.

Mailah crossed her arms, partly from the chill, mostly from nerves. "You didn’t ask me out here to talk about wards."

"No," Grayson admitted. "I didn’t."

His voice dropped—low, rough, the kind that slid across her skin like a touch.

"I asked you out here because last night..." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking—if she didn’t know better—nervous. "Last night changed things."

Her breath caught. "For me too."

"And I don’t regret it," he said. "Not a single second of it. But I need you to understand something before anything else happens."

"Oh no," she muttered. "That tone never means anything good."

He shot her an exasperated look that somehow made him even more attractive. "I’m serious."

"I know. That’s why I’m panicking."

One corner of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile but was too tormented to allow it.

"Mailah... when I said you were a vulnerability for me, I meant it. Anyone who wants to get to me will come through you." His eyes darkened. "And Varrow knows exactly how to weaponize the things I care about."

Mailah tried not to melt at the fact that he’d essentially said you are something I care about while discussing her potential murder.

"This is supposed to make me feel better?" she asked.

"It’s supposed to make you cautious." He stepped closer—not touching, but close enough that the air thickened. "I’ve lived a long time. I’ve made dangerous enemies. And I’ve survived because I was ruthless enough to do what needed to be done."

"And now?"

"Now..." He swallowed. "Now I’m afraid I won’t be ruthless enough when it comes to you."

Her heart tripped over itself. "Grayson—"

He looked down at her like she was made of starlight and mistakes he desperately wanted to keep making.

"I need to know," he said softly, "that if things get dangerous—and they will—you’ll tell me the truth. No more pretending you’re fine. No more protecting me at your own expense. That almost got you killed in the market."

"That wasn’t—"

"You were protecting me," he insisted. "I know it. And I can’t lose you before I even get the chance to..." He stopped, visibly battling with himself. "Before I get the chance to figure out what this is."

The sun caught in his hair, highlighting the dark brown strands, and for a moment, the world felt too small to contain everything happening between them.

Mailah stepped closer. "Then I need something from you too."

His eyes sharpened. "Anything."

"Don’t decide what risks I can take." Her voice was steady, surprising even herself. "You don’t get to protect me by pushing me out of the way."

His breath hitched. Barely, but she felt it.

Then he reached for her.

Slowly. Carefully. As if asking permission with every inch.

His fingers brushed her jaw—a ghosting touch, but it sent heat flooding through her like wildfire.

"I don’t know how to do this with someone who isn’t breakable," he murmured.

Mailah huffed a soft laugh. "Have you met me? I’m practically unbreakable. Emotionally questionable, maybe. But physically? Solid B-minus."

A sound escaped him—half laugh, half groan.

He slid his hand into her hair.

She stopped breathing.

"Mailah," he whispered, leaning in—

A violent shatter exploded from inside the villa.

They both jerked back.

That wasn’t just a dropped mug.

That was glass and magic and something heavy hitting a wall.

"That’s the study," Grayson said, already moving.

Mailah sprinted beside him.

They reached the hallway just in time to see Oliver stumbling backward out of the study doorway, arm raised against a surge of black and silver smoke pouring out like a living thing.

"What happened?" Grayson barked.

"I don’t—" Oliver coughed, eyes watering. "I came to check the wards on the safe and the damn thing—"

The smoke burst upward, coalescing into a shape.

Mailah’s pulse slammed against her ribs.

Not a person.

Not a creature.

A memory.

It flickered like an old film reel—a woman standing in a dark room, hand pressed to a mirror, hair long and silver-white.

The woman from the shop.

But younger. Or older. Or not human enough for time to matter.

Her lips moved soundlessly.

Then her eyes snapped open.

And she looked directly at Mailah.

Mailah stumbled back as the vision lunged—

Grayson shouted her name—

Oliver reached for her—

And the memory shattered into a thousand pieces of dark light that shot in every direction.

Mailah gasped—

—because something hit her chest like a burning spark, sliding under her skin before she could react.

The memory fragment sank into her like a stone sinking into deep water.

Mailah cried out, collapsing to her knees as heat seared through her ribs.

"Mailah!" Grayson dropped beside her, hands on her shoulders, panic flashing across his face. "Mailah, what did it do? What did it give you?"

She couldn’t answer.

Because she saw it.

Just for a fraction of a second—

A glimpse of a room, candlelit and cold.

A man standing over a table.

A whisper like metal against bone:

"Find the twin."

Mailah jerked back to the present with a gasp.

Grayson’s hands tightened. "Mailah. Talk to me."

She blinked hard, breath trembling. "I—Grayson, I saw—"

But before she could finish, Lucien barreled down the stairs.

"What the hell just blew up? Who died? Is someone dying? Am I dying?"

Behind him, Elin skidded to a stop. "Please tell me the house isn’t haunted. I do not have the emotional stamina for ghosts."

Oliver, leaning against the wall, deadpanned, "The memory vial exploded."

Lucien paled. "I take it back. I might be dying."

Mailah clutched her chest. The burning was fading, leaving a strange, tingling cold beneath her ribs.

Grayson tipped her chin up, searching her face. "Mailah. What did you see?"

She swallowed. "Her. The woman. And someone else. Someone talking about... me."

"Are you sure?" Lucien asked.

Mailah nodded. "They said—’find the twin.’"

Silence fell like a dropped blade.

Lucien blinked. "Okay but... which twin? You or—"

"Me," Mailah whispered. "They’re looking for me."

Elin swore softly. "Varrow. It has to be."

"But how would he know?" Lucien asked. "Only we know who you really are."

Mailah went cold. Very cold.

Unless...

She turned slowly toward the staircase.

Shadow sat there, tail wrapped neatly around her paws, eyes gleaming like molten amber—as if she’d been listening the whole time, judging the appropriate moment to intervene.

Watching. Waiting.

Lucien frowned dramatically. "Why is Shadow looking at us like she’s the only adult in the room?"

Oliver sighed. "Because she is. She’s a familiar. This is her entire personality."

"We know she’s a familiar," Elin added, waving her hand. "What we don’t know is why she looks like she’s about to deliver a prophecy."

Shadow blinked—slowly, purposefully.

Mailah felt the hair on her arms rise. "She knows something."

Grayson stiffened. "Oliver, does she usually... stare like that when something’s wrong?"

"Define wrong," Oliver muttered. "She stares at Lucien every morning like he’s a walking catastrophe."

"She’s right," Lucien said mournfully. "I am a catastrophe."

Shadow gave a single, low, resonant meow. Not distressed. Not confused.

Directive.

Then she turned and padded down the hall.

Mailah stood immediately. "She wants us to follow."

Lucien raised a hand. "I’d like to formally request we don’t follow the magic cat into unknown supernatural trouble before breakfast."

Shadow stopped, looked over her shoulder, and flicked her tail sharply.

"Okay, okay," Lucien said. "Under protest."

But they went.

Shadow led them through the villa—past the sun-warm sitting room, down a corridor they rarely used—until she stopped in front of a door none of them had touched since arriving there.

Grayson stared at it, brow furrowing. "No one goes in here."

"It’s locked," Lucien added. "Warded, I thought."

Shadow sat. Perfect posture. Ears forward. Waiting.

Mailah reached for the doorknob.

It turned under her hand with a soft click.

Grayson swore in a language that made the walls hum.

The door creaked open.

Inside was darkness—thick, undisturbed, tasting faintly of dust and forgotten things. Only thin slashes of morning light pierced the shutters, illuminating the motes hanging suspended in the air... and the object standing at the center of the room.

A mirror.

Tall. Silver-framed. Ornate. Ancient.

Mailah’s breath caught in her throat.

It was the mirror from her vision. The one that had shown her a distorted reflection, whispering warnings she didn’t understand.

"Grayson," she whispered. "This is it. This was in my dream."

He grabbed her arm instantly. "Don’t touch a thing."

Oliver hovered behind them. "So we all agree this room is cursed, yes? One hundred percent cursed."

Lucien’s expression hardened. "The wards stop here. Something isolated this room from the rest of the house."

"Is that possible?," Elin murmured.

Shadow slinked forward, tail brushing the floor, then sat directly in front of the mirror.

Oliver pointed accusingly. "No. No. When the cat sits ominously in front of the ancient mirror, we turn around and go home."

But the air around the mirror shifted—pulling, humming, alive.

Mailah stepped forward despite Grayson tightening his grip.

Something was calling her.

"Mailah," Grayson warned, voice low and lethal.

She touched the glass.

It rippled like water.

"OH ABSOLUTELY NOT," Oliver shrieked. "THAT IS PORTAL ENERGY. PORTAL. ENERGY."

The mirror shimmered—

—and then a voice whispered through the room.

Soft.

Cold.

Close.

"Found you."

Every vein in Mailah’s body turned to ice.

Grayson yanked her backwards just as a hand—pale, impossibly thin, fingers too long—pushed through the liquid surface of the mirror.

Mailah screamed.

Oliver attempted a ward—more instinct than skill, his palms shaking as the faintest shimmer flickered and sputtered in the air.

Elin filmed anyway, whispering, "What the actual hell..." as if commentary might somehow stabilize the situation.

Lucien lunged forward, sweeping an arm out as a band of searing gold ignited across the room. Divine fire arced like a shield between the entity and the group, humming with barely contained force.

"Back! All of you, behind me!" he barked—then immediately added, with rising panic, "Why is it always ghosts? I was trained for demons, curses, angelic warfare—not spectral boundary violations!"

"I am TRYING," he snapped at the trembling ward Oliver had cast, "but this is a skill I have not unlocked yet!"

The hand pushed farther through the veil—translucent, searching. The faint outline of a face began to bloom behind it like a nightmare coming into focus.

Grayson didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed Mailah and flung her behind him so abruptly she struck the wall and gasped.

His power detonated through the room—silver-bright, incandescent, rattling the shutters, warping the air with heat and pressure. Every light flickered. The entire estate groaned like it might kneel before him.

"Everyone OUT!" he commanded, voice thick with raw demon authority.

But the entity didn’t leave.

Didn’t even flinch.

It leaned in—closer, clearer—its presence brushing against the edges of reality.

And then the whisper came again.

Soft.

Intimate.

Ruined with longing.

"Mailah... come home."

Her pulse collapsed.

Because she knew that voice.

Not Varrow.

Not the silver-haired woman.

No—

This was a voice that should not exist anymore.

A voice she had buried.

A voice she had become.

"Lailah?" Mailah whispered.