I’m not my mother. She was the one who believed in everything—psychics, hauntings, demonic possessions, alien abductions, past lives. You name it, she bought into it. Spent herwhole life savings chasing miracles and cons. I promised myself a long time ago I’d never be that gullible. And maybe through my channel, I can stop it from happening to someone else.
“I’m not gullible,” I whisper into the fog. “Hauntings and curses aren’t real. Legends are for struggling towns to claim tourist dollars. Nothing more.”
I don’t sound brave. Or convincing.
“I’mnotgullible,” I say again, firmer. “I won’t be scared by silly marketing ploys.”
My valiant words ring hollow, as if they’re nothing more than a promise I won’t be able to keep.
CHAPTER TWO
Declan
The needlehums steady in my hand. Familiar sound, familiar weight. I drag the needle in steady lines. Skin stretches, blood beads. Ink seeps in. Wipe. Repeat. Client winces and squirms, then pretends he doesn’t. I don’t look up.
“Almost done,” I murmur, voice flat, concentration laser focused.
Iron floods my mouth every time the machine buzzes over bone. The Rider’s tack stirs against my ribs like he’s trying to climb out. Always the Rider first. Today he yanks hard, reins pulling tight across my chest. Hoofbeats echo faint in my ears, too steady to be imagination. Hot breath ghosts across the back of my neck, rank with iron and smoke. My grip tightens on the machine. The metallic taste sharpens until I could bite clean through my own tongue. For some reason, the pressure won’t ease today.
The shop door creaks. A rush of knife-cold air snakes in, stinging with pine and exhaust. Bells from the café across the street jingle faintly, a cheery sound that doesn’t belong in this town.
Only one person enters this slow and heavy.
“Sterling,” he calls out, tone gruff and to the point.
“Sheriff.” I keep the needle moving. Why can’t Lucy be here today to deal with him?
He stomps his boots by the door, even though we’ve barely had a dusting of snow this week, then ambles up to the counter. I don’t need to turn my head to know he’s leaning on it like he’s the one paying the mortgage.
I lift the needle, wipe down the line, and turn my head toward the sheriff.
His walks closer, his gaze cutting from my client’s arm to my face and he dips his chin in greeting. “You hear?”
I set the machine down and strip off one glove. “I hear plenty. Be more specific.”
He lets out an irritated sigh and saunters into my room uninvited. “That YouTube gal. Fancies herself an ‘investigative reporter.’ She’s in town, dancing around the bridge. Chatting up locals. She’s even asking questions about the Widow.”
I grunt. That’s new. Usually, people are only interested in the “legend” of the Ironbound Rider. “And your point is?”
“I don’t need this when I’ve got a missing kid to hunt for.”
I don’t bother hiding my impatience. “Maybe you should get on that.”
He studies me. “The town can’t afford to have her stir up ancient history.”
If only it really was ancient history.
I lean back on the stool, roll my wrist to ease the sting under my skin. My ivy tattoo burns icy cold. “Not my problem.”
“It’ll be your problem if the Widow weeps and stirs the Rider again.” His eyes narrow. “Keep her safe. Encourage her to move along. Maybe she can go bother the fine folks up in Salem. They stole our idea and are doing aFrostfright Festivalthis year.”
I snort out a laugh. “Not my job.”
“Sterling blood carries the pact.” He glances at the instruments laid out on my bench. “That makes it your job.”
The bell jingles as he leaves.
Silence returns.
