Page 39 of Ghoul Me, Maybe
“I swear to gods, Lyle,” she mutters, “if this is about merfolk tax codes again?—”
“No, no, no, this is different.Thisis proof.” He slaps a parchment down in front of her like he’s delivering gospel. “Thebeach. The bay. The Maiden’s wreck. All of it—it’s built on aknot.A perfect intersecting knot of five ley lines.”
I lean against the back wall, arms crossed. My shoulders still ache from dragging her out of that cursed tide two nights ago. There’s a crack in my ribs that feels suspiciouslyreal. And now this man wants to wave some chalk-scribbled star chart in my face and declare destiny?
“Don’t do it,” I growl.
Sienna doesn’t look up. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t indulge him. It’s never just one theory. Next thing you know, he’s reading moon phases off fish guts.”
“Iheard that,” Lyle calls without turning around. He’s already arranging candles around the parchment like he’s about to summon a forgotten god—or make a really chaotic birthday wish. “And fish guts are highly reliable if you know what you’re sniffing for.”
Mira snorts from behind the counter but wisely says nothing.
Sienna stands, arms folded. “Okay, walk me through it. Slowly. Use small words.”
Lyle beams. “Right! So ley lines—magical rivers beneath the earth, yeah? Flowing energy, ancient stuff, connects to places of power?—”
“Get to the point,” I interrupt.
“The wreck’s at the heart of a convergence. Anexus,if you will. Old magic, built up over centuries. It’s like dropping an anchor in a whirlpool and wondering why it drags.”
Sienna frowns. “You’re saying the Ruthless Maiden didn’t just crash—it waspulledthere?”
“Exactly!Somethingcalled to it. And whatever cursed Elias got tangled in that call.”
I step forward, slow and deliberate. My boots thump heavier than they should—part intimidation, part habit. Lyle’s eyes flickto me like he’s wondering if I’ll throw him through the door. I don’t—yet.
“You think there’s a prophecy,” I say flatly. “Let me guess. The ghost captain, the witch’s daughter, a relic sealed with blood, yada yada fate?”
“Well… yes,” he says, unbothered. “But it’s more specific than that.”
He yanks out another sheet—a charcoal rubbing of a stone tablet, smudged and water-damaged.
“Found this at the base of the cliff, right where the ley lines intersect. Lost language, pre-Sundering. Only caught a few phrases.”
He traces the symbols with one nicotine-stained finger.
“‘Where tide forgets and stone remembers… the bound shall wake the buried.’ And this one here—‘The hand that breaks the seal must bleed with ancient guilt.’ Sound familiar?”
Sienna’s eyes flick to mine.
I grind my jaw. “Coincidence.”
“Sure,” Lyle says. “Like it’s acoincidenceyou’ve been half-corporeal for a century until she showed up and now suddenly you’re playing ghost with a heartbeat.”
I move before I think about it—one step, two, right in front of him. Lyle doesn’t back down, which surprises me. He just adjusts his cracked glasses and looks me dead in the eye.
“You’ve got storm eyes, Captain. You think you’re the thunder. But you’re theconduit.The spark.”
I lower my voice. “I’m not a damn prophecy. I’m a dead man who didn’t stay buried.”
“That’s whatmakesyou the prophecy.”
Sienna steps between us, hand on my chest. I flinch. Still not used to being touched. Still not used tofeeling.
“Easy,” she says, voice low. “He’s not wrong.”
