“Nope, not even a little.”
Apparently, it was a rhetorical question because Wylder is already getting to his feet. He offers me a hand to scoot along the bench and, once I’m standing, tugs me into motion.
He closes the distance to Mr. Patterson with that predatory grace that does stupid things to my insides, and I follow, pulse hammering.
“Hey, Mr. P,” Wylder says easily. “Do you mind if we borrow your expertise for a second?”
Mr. Patterson blinks, and this close, I can feel the drain on his spirit energy. “Sure thing, son. Have a seat. What can I do you for, kids?”
Wylder settles into the booth across from him, and I remain standing at the end of the booth. It’s hard not to look at the ghosts huddled around him, but I try not to give myself away. Wylder meets my gaze once he’s seated, and I dip my chin.
“Poppy and I were talking about taking a group of friends on an end-of-season camping trip and wanted your opinion on where would be good at this time of year.”
The switch in Wylder’s personality is jarring. How the hell can he be acerbic and scowling at me one second and sweet and charming to someone else one second later?
And why do I always get Mr. Hyde?
Wylder picked exactly the right conversation because from the moment he asks, Mr. Patterson is off and rambling about the wonders of the local wilds.
Okay, so Mom and Sebastian agreed the problem I’m facing is the demon tether, not the ghosts. They believe that if I cut the tether, the spirits will disperse and then, once I remove the sigil, he’ll be free from targeting.
Which sounds perfectly reasonable, in theory.
But here I am, staring at the vacant gazes of three ghosts who seem to be in some kind of enthralled trance. If I’m right, they’re totally unaware that they’re playing the part of puppets to a demon master.
The prickling on my skin grows sharper, and I focus.
Right. Cut the tether. Remove the sigil.
The first part is much the same as when I cut the siphoning tether from the parasite demons feeding at the Harvest Festival last month.
“Unbind. Unwind. Undo,” I whisper, pouring all of my intention into those three words. “Unbind. Unwind. Undo.”
I pinch the first of the three red, glowing ropes, and focus on freeing Mrs. Patterson’s ghost from whatever evil she’s been forced to take part in against her husband.
The rope feels greasy in my fingers, and I’m hit with a stomach-churning urge to let go and back the hell away. I don’t. I fight through it, projecting my intentions.
I taste Tharuzel more than sense him. As I destroy the first of the ropes, the char of something burnt and vile settles on the back of my tongue and coats my throat.
It triggers a rush of bile, and I barf a little in my mouth.
Swallowing down that grossness, I watch the ghost of Mrs. Patterson fade away and continue onto the next tether.
By the time all three ghosts are free, I’m seriously regretting the pavlova and hot chocolate. My decadent sweet treat is curdling in my stomach, building a strong case for a second appearance.
Wylder is still shooting the shit about the importance of insulated sleeping pads and the beauty of fall foliage as I move onto the sigil part of my job.
I shake a bunch of salt into my palm, and discreetly sprinkle it over Mr. Patterson’s head. It falls like tiny white snowflakes, and I try to get it as close to his forehead as possible.
Movement at the counter catches my attention, and I realize Marty and Tanner are watching me, wide-eyed.
Dudes, I don’t just sprinkle salt on old men for no reason.
I’m working here.
They must sense that, because they make no move to interrupt. If Sebastian is right, these demon sigils thrive on imbalance and corruption. The salt is for purification and preservation.
With my focus honed, I whisper:
