My arms tightened around myself. I sat, shivering, on the couch. Part of it due to the ghostly aura surrounding me. Most of it was remembering the feel of Noah's hands on my wrists, his weight pushing me down. Trapping me.

I shuddered again and Cyril let out another heavy sigh. "You should have let us..."

"What?" I asked in the silence that followed. "Hurt him? Kill him? No."

"He deserved it," Oliver grumbled, his voice coming from near the apartment door. Disgust radiated from his voice. "Attacking a woman like that."

Another shiver went through my arm. "I'm fine, Cyril. Really."

The chill left and I heard Cyril's voice a few moments later coming from across the room. "If he comes back, I'm finishing what I started."

When I shuddered again, it was for entirely different reasons. My mind snapped back to Noah hurtling across the living room. The sound of his back connecting with the wall. The whoosh of metal flying through the air. Screaming. Shouting. Chills. Fear.

I hadn't been afraid of the ghosts until that point.

But I was now.

My eyes fell on the debris scattered around the living room. Books ripped from shelves, the torn tapestry, the ottoman flung across the room. The lighter knick-knacks we'd used to decorate littered the floor. Our curtains had been ripped off their rods—all except one, which hung limply in the window.

It'd been like standing in a tornado. Cyril's fury had turned into wind and madness as objects flew. Noah had taken the brunt of that wrath, and when he'd left, he'd been covered in budding bruises and red cuts.

Oliver had stayed beside me, his lingering touch on my shoulder chilling. The howling wind, the levitating objects, the taste of ozone in the air—it had all been Cyril.

One ghost.

Just one.

"He's not coming back," I said, my arms tightening around me. "I won't—he's not coming back."

He sighed again. "I'm sorry I lost control like that."

"It's fine."

"Stella, I—"

I stood up from the couch. "It's fine," I repeated, grabbing the nearest thrown book and smoothing out it's wrinkled pages. Bronte would pitch a fit when she came back.

God, Bronte. What was I going to tell her?

"Stella—"

"I ordered him to get off of me," I said, not looking up. Not that I could see either one of them but still, I couldn't look up into the room. Instead, I picked up another book from the floor. "My voice...it changed."

"We know," Oliver said. "We heard it."

"Have you ever heard anything like it before?"

"I haven't—neither of us have." Oliver sighed and I could hear his frustration. "And you can't remember how you did it?"

"No."

"You sounded angry."

"I was angry."

"Maybe that's part of it?"

Cyril remained quiet.

With my arms full of books, I took them back to their shelves.

Oliver continued. "What else did you feel?"

"Just angry," I said, but my voice didn't even sound that convincing to me.

Oliver hedged softly. "Scared?"

Sighing, I slid the last book home but kept my hand on it. I stared at the spine of it. Another something I saw everyday but hadn't really looked at—just like with the pocket watch. The pocket watch, that despite the storm, had stayed perfectly still on the fireplace mantle. "Yes."

"What went through your mind?" Oliver asked.

I grabbed the curtains and moved toward the window. It was easier to talk if I worked. "He was...he was just on top of me. His hands were around my wrists and it hurt. It felt like an Indian burn—you know, where someone twists your skin in opposite directions. And I was so angry that I'd invited him into my home. I felt so stupid. And then I hated how weak I felt, how easily he just seemed to—"

"Where are you going?" Oliver interrupted.

I turned then, looking into the empty room. But I still couldn't see them.

"I can't hear this," Cyril grumbled.

"Cyril—wait."

I stared into the empty room for a beat longer before turning back toward the windows. I'd just managed to get the curtains back up when Oliver's voice floated from near my shoulder. "Please continue."

I managed to turn my jump of surprise into a swooping motion as I bent to pick up another book and place it on the shelf. "Where's Cyril?"

"Your bedroom. He just needs a minute. What happened next? You felt angry?"

Nodding, I moved toward the Paris painting that had been on the mantle—now in the kitchen. Thank goodness it didn’t look damaged. Hefting it up, I answered. "Yes." Then it all came out in a rush, so much easier now that Cyril wasn't listening. "And terrified. I just kept thinking of how I couldn't do anything. I couldn't get him off me, I couldn't call for help. I'd just let him hurt you two like that." I shoved the painting back into its place.

"We're fine, Stella. We're fine."

Tears began to well in my eyes and I brushed them angrily away with the back of my hand. "And I just kept remembering how Rose had stormed in here yesterday, repeating his name as if it meant something when we had no clue what she was talking about. Noah Walker. Noah Walker."

It hit me. I looked down at my hands. "Noah Walker," I repeated, still staring.

Oliver caught my change in tone. "What is it?"

I flew into my bedroom, throwing the door open as I did.

"Stella, not—" Cyril started then stopped as I dashed straight to my bookshelf. "What is it?"

My eyes skimmed the shelves, looking for the familiar hefty, black bound book. When I found it, I snatched it and held it reverently in my hands.

Oliver read the title over my shoulder. "The Name of the Wind?"

"It's a story about a guy who can conjure the wind. Because he knows the name of it."

I could hear the frown in Cyril's voice when he spoke at my shoulder. And it took everything I had not to jump at the sound. "What is the name of the wind?"

"The reader doesn't know. It's something only he—the main character—does. But he can control it because he knows the name of it." Still clutching the book, I turned toward the room and prayed I was at least somewhat facing them. "It's name invocation."

There was a beat of confused silence before Oliver asked. "What's name invocation?"

"It's the power of names. Naming thing, knowing their names, it gives you power over that thing. It's a type of magic—well, fictional magic. I've read about it in fantasy stories. This one is the latest I can think of having read, but it's not the first time I've come across it."

"Not so fictional anymore," Oliver chuckled drily.

I managed a small smile. "No, not fictional anymore."

"How does it work?" Cyril asked. I turned as he took the Samwise figure from the shelf behind me. He took it to the far end of the room.

I slid the book back onto the shelf. "Everyone has three names. A given name, an assumed name, and a true name. They're really self-explanatory: a given name is what your parents call you when you're born, an assumed name is a nickname you take on for yourself, and a true name is the name supposedly etched on your soul. That one is absolutely unique—no two names are exactly same. It's supposed to be the name bared on your spirit when you stand before your maker—so that in Heaven or whatever you believe in, you're completely unique. It's also the most precious. Supposedly, in all these stories, if someone learns your true name, they could have complete control over you. Your soul is theirs to command."

"Note to self," Oliver aimed for levity, "don't tell Stella your true name should it happen to dawn upon you."

I quirked up a smile.

"What else?" Cyril asked.

I looked over at the Samwise figure. "Your given name is the second most important. Magicians, or, I guess in my situation, psychics, can exert a little bit more influence if I'm given a given name."

I could practically hear the frowns so I explained. "Giving your given name—or birth name—to someone is dangerous. It's why introductions used to be so big back in the day. It's dangerous for a person to volunteer their name to another. Hearing it secondhand from someone else lessens the impact because it's not given directly—because we all say names differently: the tone, the inflection, the sound. If we give it out, we give the exact way it's said, so there's more power in it. And there's supposedly a power in giving things. As owner of a name, you're not supposed to give it out. It'd be like—like giving a voodoo shaman a lock of your hair or something. It's a big no-no. Does that make sense?"

"As much as anything else that's happened today," Oliver mumbled. "People shooting laser beams out of their eyes, name invocation. And I thought we were weird."

If he was expecting Cyril to respond, he didn't. Samwise continued to float but he didn't comment.

"Go on," Oliver said.

"The last one is an assumed name. It's like a ward meant to completely protect against someone holding your name against you. There's no power in it so it's safe to give out. Charlotte's name, Bronte, would be an example of that."

"But I thought the story went that you gave her that name?"

"I did. Or rather, I suggested it. But she was the one who took it and ran with it—using it to introduce herself to other people."

"So you unknowingly gave her a shield against your own power," Cyril mused.

I looked at Samwise. "I guess so."

"What on earth?"

I—and I imagine the ghosts did too—turned toward the unexpected sound of Bronte's voice. Then I raced into the living as Samwise plummeted to the bed.

Bronte stood just inside the entrance, staring at the wrecked apartment in absolute horror. When she saw me charge into the room, her eyes snapped up to meet mine. Her lips moved, forming silent words, but it took a minute for the sound to follow. "What happened?"

Oliver let out a low whistle. "You're going to have to tell her now. About everything."

I tried to ignore how pleased he sounded by that. "It's a long story."

Bronte waved at the destruction. "Good. You can tell me while you're cleaning it up."