He grunts—somewhere between distracted and guilty—thumbs out a quick reply and sets the phone face-down with a quietthud.
“Who was that?” I ask, keeping my tone light.
“Nothing.” His voice is careful and his answer evasive. “I need to head to the shop. I have a client coming in.”
I clutch the sheet tighter around me. “Right now?”
He hesitates, glancing at the green glow still faintly pulsing up my arm. “Not this second.” He scrubs his hand over his jaw. “We’ll eat first. Then I’ve got to talk to the sheriff—he’s breathingdown my neck about the carnival. I’m on the roster for the haunted hayride.” He rolls his eyes. “Sorry, hauntedslayride.”
“I read about that.” I arch a brow. “What is it exactly? Community theater?”
That earns the smallest of tired smiles. “Not quite.” He swallows hard. “You should come with me to the hayride. You can be my co-pilot.”
“I don’t know how to operate a tractor.”
He chuckles. “This year, it’s being pulled by horses. All I do is point out the historical landmarks and tell a spooky story.”
“Ohhh.” My lips tilt into a grin. “That sounds fun and like a good opportunity to gather more research on the town.”
The smile slides off his face. “You’re still doing your story?”
“Of course.” I hold up my arm. “As you so kindly pointed out, I’m part of the story now.”
And it hits me like a jolt of electricity—I’ve finally found a credible ghost story. I’m not sure how much I believe about this “Rider” Declan keeps mentioning, but I can’t deny something strange is happening in Crowsbridge Hollow.
“Emery.” His tone sharpens, an edge of command sneaking in. “You can’t post about this.”
“Why not?” A blush heats my skin. “While this has been lovely,” I smooth a hand over his side of the bed, “the town’s lore is what I’m here to investigate.”
He runs both hands over his face, jaw tightening. “Curses thrive on attention, belief, and storytelling. I checked out your channel. Broadcasting that the legend’s real to a huge, engaged audience will only make it stronger.”
I fight the urge to preen athugeandengaged. “I’ve spent years building that audience. They trust me to tell them the truth.”
“The town’s already on edge, and belief is peaking. A whole YouTube series—especially with your name tied to it—will pourgasoline on that fire. Views, comments, clicks—it’s like feeding him through a thousand screens at once.” His gaze catches mine, raw and desperate. “You want to help? Then don’t hand him a spotlight.”
I open my mouth to argue, but his next words come quieter. “You’ve already got his mark. Don’t give him your name, too.”
The air between us goes still. “What do you mean?”
“Names hold power.” He moves closer to the edge of the bed. “He already has your body through the mark. If he learns your name—your essence—you risk belonging to him completely.”
We stare at each other for several heartbeats then Declan turns away, breaking the spell between us. He drags on a pair of jeans, and I can’t even take pleasure in the fantastic view as he covers his magnificent backside.
“Go ahead and get dressed,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ll make coffee.”
I force a smile. “Sure. I’ll be right down.”
He hesitates, as if there’s more he wants to say, then nods and leaves without another word. But I can’t help turning over his words.Names hold power.Curses thrive on attention. Neither of those feel like a complete answer. Power doesn’t move without direction.Somethingwas the catalyst for the curse.
And I can’t leave Crowsbridge Hollow until I figure out what—or who—set it in motion.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Emery
Downstairs,the rich scent of coffee leads me to the large house’s kitchen. Declan’s at the counter with two mugs. A box of cereal and two bowls sit next to the coffee maker.
“If you’re not in the mood for cereal again, we can stop?—”
