Page 44 of Ghoul Me, Maybe
SIENNA
Idon’t go into town planning to get threatened by a guy who looks like he moonlights as a Bond villain. I just want a goddamn coffee and maybe five blessed minutes where nobody’s talking about ghosts, curses, or my dead dad.
No dice.
The bookstore smells like old pages, burnt vanilla, and existential dread. Mira calls it “literary musk.” I call it “trauma with a hardcover.” But the coffee’s good, and I need to pretend my life isn’t unraveling one ley line at a time.
I’m mid-sip when I feel it.
Not a chill. Not a jolt. Just a weird...pause. Like the air’s holding its breath.
Then he speaks.
“Sienna Vale.”
The voice is smooth. British, probably. Rich enough to have been pressed in a velvet box and handed out with caviar.
I turn.
And the man standing there does not belong in Lowtide Bluffs.
Slick black coat. Tailored. Shoes like mirrors. Hair neat, dark, expensive. Skin pale enough to suggest he doesn’t gooutside unless it’s into a black car with tinted windows and sinister motives.
He’s got cheekbones you could use as weapons and a presence like a quiet threat.
“You’ve got the wrong girl,” I say, keeping my tone light.
He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I think we both know that’s not true.”
My stomach knots.
I set the coffee down carefully, like I might need both hands free.
“Alright,” I say. “Let’s pretend Iamher. What do you want?”
“To offer you a choice,” he says, stepping closer, casual as sin. “You’ve inherited something very dangerous, Ms. Vale. And you’re in far over your head.”
I snort. “You and everyone else.”
He tilts his head, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s already solved.
“Your father was a difficult man. Brilliant, certainly. Reckless. But hedidmanage to uncover something remarkable before his... unfortunate end.”
“You knew Jonas?”
“I knewofhim. As most in our circle did. He had a talent for uncovering things better left buried.”
I cross my arms. “You going somewhere with this, or are we just casually dragging my dad’s ghost through the fiction section?”
He glances around the store—empty, save for the barista restocking teas and a tourist flipping through a murder mystery.
Then he says it.
“The relic is not what you think it is.”
I go cold.
“What do I think it is?” I ask carefully.
