I’m doing it anyway.
I close my eyes, trying to sense the wraith like I did back at the hospital. My control’s gotten way better since the day I got this human body. I don’t feel like a half-set jelly on a stick anymore. Now it’s like there’s a tunnel running through me—narrow, but steady—and I can channel power through it.
The only problem?
Just how damn much power I actually have.
I tighten my grip on Cassian’s dagger. It’s still humming with a trace of the scythe it used to be. There’s real power in it. Not overwhelming, but stronger than mine.
I let that power settle into my hand, syncing with it. Feeling it. Trusting it. And it works.
I feel her. The wraith. She’s circling somewhere nearby.
But this time, she’s not just lashing out blindly, dumping all that soul-deep rage and looking for relief. No, this time she’s hunting. She doesn’t want Cassian’s mother dead. Not yet. She wants her used. Drained slow. And she wants Cassian to suffer for it.
“This harpy just keeps leveling up, huh?” I mutter, then open my eyes and start creeping down the hall.
I can’t pinpoint her exactly. It’s like she’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. But Cassian was right. If she shows up next to him or his mom, I’ll know. I’ll feel it.
It’s hard to explain. It feels more like pressure than presence. But deep in my bones, I know she’s here. And for now, she’s hiding.
I slip past an old linen closet and pause by a narrow doorway leading into another room. The doors are closed, and whatever’s behind them feels heavier than the rest of the house.
I raise the dagger. My other hand moves to the doorknob, fingers trembling just a bit.
I twist it slowly.
The hinges creak as I push the door open.
The second that heavy air hits me, I know exactly what this room is. I’ve never seen it before, but I can taste the grief in the air.
Cassian’s sister’s room.
Sabine’s room.
It’s a little smaller than his mother’s. The walls are soft blue, the furniture white and carefully chosen. A vanity sits under the window. Dust covers old perfume bottles, a dried-out mascara wand, a jewelry box with the lid half-open like someone left in a hurry, and never came back.
God.
It looks frozen in time. Like Cassian’s mom couldn’t bring herself to touch it.
That weight I feel? It’s grief, I think.
She was murdered, wasn’t she?
Maybe what I’m sensing is the pain she left behind.
A photo on the wall catches my eye. It’s Cassian and Sabine, both younger. She’s laughing at something off-camera. His arm’s draped protectively around her shoulders, his expression unreadable. Even as a teenager, Cassian looked like he was always on high alert. Makes me wonder why.
He mentioned today that his dad was an asshole, and I haven’t seen a single photo of the man in this house. When I read his soul earlier, it was only tethered to his mom—no sign of the father at all.
Maybe he’s been in protector mode since he was a kid.
He seems like that type.
One thing’s for sure: if we’d met when I was still alive, we wouldn’t have had much to say to each other. He was a soldier, a man of action, a brother, a son—and back then, as devastatingly handsome as right now. Me? I was an orphan. A married woman. Closed off. Wrecked by my husband’s treatment.
We’d have passed each other in a grocery store without a word. I would’ve looked away. He wouldn’t have noticed me. Or maybe he would’ve thought I looked haunted—and he wouldn’t have been wrong.
