“We don’t defend, Agent.We pursue,” I reply, shooting her a sidelong glance.
She snorts.
“Well, great.Nothing says public safety like a growly Lone Wolf with a God complex behind the wheel.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining when I carried your suitcase like a gentleman.”
“That was strategic.I was assessing your lifting capacity.”
“Uh-huh.”
“For science.”
“Sure.”
She bites her lip to hide a smile, and damn it, there goes that dimple again.
I have to grip the wheel tighter to keep from doing something incredibly stupid.
Like reaching over and tucking that one loose strand of hair behind her ear.Or pulling the car over and finally figuring out if she tastes like the citrus and fire she smells like.
No.Focus.
We pull up to the Crypt Mansion—an old Victorian monstrosity half-swallowed by overgrown vines and bad decisions.
The wrought-iron gate creaks as I push it open, and even Megan’s sarcasm dims.
“Charming,” she mutters, eyeing the second-floor balcony like it might collapse just from her looking too hard at it.
The cracked railings lean outward, and the shutters hang like broken limbs.The place is every bit the haunted house from a kid’s nightmare.
“You should see it on Halloween,” I say, stepping through the crooked iron gate.“The ghosts put on a real show.”
She rolls her eyes, arms folded, but I catch the twitch of a smile (and my favorite dimple).
“Cute.You’ve got jokes now.”
I don’t answer.
Because the second our boots crunch across the overgrown path leading to the porch, I feel it.
Everything stills.
No wind.
No sound.
Not even the birds.
The sun dims—not sets, just dims—like something thick is moving over the sky.
And then—they appear.
Actual fucking ghosts.
Dozens of them.Wispy figures shimmer in and out of sight, pale and flickering like busted Christmas lights.
They swirl across the porch, drift through the broken windows, crawl over the railings like fog with faces.
