Page 7 of When Bones Whisper
An intrusive, honeyed voice ripped into her consciousness once again.
This one.
Charlotte halted before a grave, the name barely visible. Her inner voice had not led her astray yet.
Leaning down, she wiped away the moss but could still only just make out the letter D and the last name, Lysanmore.
A thrum of power echoed from it, her intuition pulling her closer.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
Moving the lid off the lawn crypt of her ancestor’s grave took more effort than she anticipated. Her muscles screamed in protest as she heaved until she finally pried it off. She knew she wouldpay for her extraneous activities tomorrow, but for now, she pushed through the pain.
She peered inside at the bones, coughing when a musky odor pinched her nose. A rush of unintelligible whispers rushed into her ears when she touched the bones, as if they were sentient. Before she could change her mind, she pulled several of them into her arms.
A shiver traveled down her spine, and before it could finish running through her, an icy embrace stole her next breath. She gasped as a pulse of magic rippled from her body, beating audibly, as if her powers had a pulse. Wide-eyed, she turned, watching the veil between the living and dead fall around her in ribbons of gray light.
Wild-eyed, she peered into the swirling fog for any sign of movement.
One by one, the ancestors of the Lysanmore bloodline stepped out of the darkness, translucent and faded, as if they were barely holding onto the essence of this world.
A chorus of distorted voices floated between realms, sounding inside Charlotte’s mind.
Leave now,the voice commanded.
She held the bones tighter and ran as fast as she could down the fog-soaked paths, ignoring the icy tendrils grazing her cheeks. When she reached the gates, she pushed the bones through the bars before climbing over them.
The skirt of her dress snagged on a spike, and she tumbled down the other side of the gate, crashing onto the ground with aloud thud. Her breath whooshed from her lungs, her ribs aching under the new bruises.
Their voices sounded collectively in her head again, the chatter growing clearer until it became one sound, the voice of one of her oldest ancestors.
Do not run.
Her ancestor’s harsh tone bit through her mind, but unlike her inner voice, it ached her skull.
The faded figure of a woman, with no real distinct features, swept closer, her bare, pale feet floating a few inches off the ground. She stopped at the bars, as if there was an invisible barrier preventing her from going any further.
We have been waiting for you to return.
Rising to her feet, Charlotte faced her ancestor, trying to appear braver than the tremor in her hands betrayed. “You’re a ghost.”
One word echoed through her thoughts.
Yes.
“Are my family here?” she asked when her mind finally processed the idea that she was talking with a spirit.
They are.
She swallowed hard, but it did nothing to budge the lump in her throat.
“I want to talk to them,” she said, picturing Alice and her mother, the thought of seeing them igniting the pain that had been long burrowed in her chest. “Please.”
They cannot talk to you.
Her brows pinched together. “Why not?”
They have not earned the right.
