We’re halfway to the kitchen when a thought strikes me. The jolt of fear has me skittering to a halt. I turn, point, but Malcolm has already read my mind.
“You start the coffee. I’ll check to see if she’s home.” He dashes up the stairs, and his footfalls echo overhead.
If Belinda is home, we’ll have to send her next door—at the very least. If this thing in the thermos is some sort of attack ghost meant for her, we’ll have to think of something to keep her safe. I peer into the depths of the thermos.
The ghost is cowering inside. I don’t talk to ghosts, not the way Malcolm and the other necromancers do, but I don’t need to do that to sense their feelings, their overriding desires. And right now, all this ghost wants is safety.
That’s not something I’ve encountered before.
In the kitche
