"I TOLD you we should've been one of the first people on the scene!" Guinevere screeched in my ear as I drove toward the police station.

"And I told you that isn't my job," I snapped back at the passenger seat, where Guinevere's frantic energy was practically vibrating through the car. Her hands flew in the air like she was conducting an orchestra, except the orchestra was chaos, and she was hopelessly unqualified.

"My granddaughter—"

"Is almost in the custody of the police now. Just like they let me do my job, I have to let them do theirs," I interrupted before she could start her whole speech again.

Her seven-year-old granddaughter, Sylvia Nightly, was the reason the old bat had been a pain in my ass the last three weeks. Sylvia came from a prominent family of vampires who kept to themselves outside Ashenport and had been out on a walk with his grandmother when they were attacked. Guinevere was killed while trying to protect her granddaughter which was a mystery in itself since vamps were notoriously difficult to kill, and Sylvia had been abducted.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, trying not to think about how little I actually knew about Sylvia—or, frankly, what kind of mess I was driving headfirst into. I wasn't a babysitter. I wasn't a hero. I was a medium, which meant I dealt with spirits and ghosts, not missing children...or so I liked to tell myself.

But Ashenport had a funny way of laughing at your assumptions.

I could feel Guinevere vibrating beside me, practically bouncing in the seat like some caffeinated imp. "She's just a child!" she wailed. "They—those monsters—she could be—!"

"Relax," I snapped, cutting her off before her voice could turn into a full-blown panic attack. "Monsters are my business, not yours. Keep your volume below decibels capable of rattling the dead, and maybe, just maybe, we get her back in one piece."

She gasped. She probably didn't like the tone. Good. I didn't like hers.

Kidnappings weren't my forte, but that didn't stop Guinevere from haunting me with all her fury until I agreed to help her. The woman was a force to be reckoned with when she was angry and unfortunately for her granddaughter's abductors, she was furious.

We'd spent the better half of a week asking around and traveling to find out anything we could about the crime which led us to Grimwade, a known trafficking ring in the underground. Guinevere was sure she'd seen a snake tattoo peeking out of the sleeve of one of her attackers and, luckily for us, there was only one group brave enough to attack the Nightly family on their property and use that tattoo. A little more digging told us there was supposed to be a Grimwade truck coming in tonight and one call to the police was enough to get them to intercept it which led us to where we are now.

"What if she's not there?" Guinevere worried. "What if we've been chasing the wrong lead and she's...she's in Antarctica by now!"

I gritted my teeth at that. Antarctica. Of course. Because obviously Ashenport's human trafficking rings had secret bases on frozen continents.

"She's not in Antarctica," I said flatly, keeping my eyes on the road. "She's in Ashenport. In a moving van, probably terrified out of her mind, and probably surrounded by more than one Grimwade asshole. And if we don't get there fast, she's going to be moved before the cops can even blink."

Guinevere's hands clutched the edge of the dashboard like she was holding on for dear life. "You really think you can get her back?"

I didn't answer her immediately. Part of me wanted to say no. That would have been honest. I wasn't exactly a "superhero," and I certainly wasn't the type to chase a moving van full of prey and supernatural predators without at least a plan. But another part—the part that had been nagging me ever since I'd taken the case—knew that if I didn't, whoever was inside that truck would have their way, and there would be nothing left for anyone to rescue.

"You don't have to like me," I said finally, my voice low and steady, "but I will get her back. And if you open your mouth one more time, I swear I'll—"

"—I know, I know! Don't throttle me, Marcel," she interrupted, rolling her eyes. "But what if she's...already gone?"

I pressed down a little harder on the accelerator. My car roared, merging into the flow of traffic that was thinner than usual—because tonight, Ashenport was alive in ways most humans didn't see, and everyone seemed to know we were on the same road. My fingers tapped the wheel in rhythm, feeling the pulse of the city, listening to the whispers of the dead, the lingering traces of fear, and the faint scent of whatever predators were moving ahead of us.

"By the time we get there, the police will have already begun arresting and unloading the van. Just hope that when we find her today and stop thinking of the worst outcomes."

Guinevere grumbled but otherwise didn't argue.

The rest of the drive was silent—well, as silent as one could expect when they could constantly hear and see the dead. Guinevere's eyes stayed glued to the window until the crime scene came into sight.

The night air hit me like a cold slap when I killed the engine and stepped out. Sirens had already split the darkness into neat blue and red slices; police cruisers boxed the Grimwade van in like predators circling prey. Men with badges and guns fanned out, flashlights cutting through the dust and exhaust. Perfect. Procedural. Boring. Exactly what Guinevere wanted.

Only nothing in Ashenport was ever that simple.

"Stay—" I started, because I have the patience of a saint and the mouth of a sailor, but Guinevere had already leapt from the passenger seat like it was a stage and she was performing. She staggered toward the nearest officer as if worried squeals were a legal negotiation technique.

I didn't argue. I kept my head down and listened.

Medium work wasn't glamorous. It wasn't ethereal, either. The better part of my job was helping those stuck between the realm of the living and the dead. Anything involving the living was out of my field of expertise and I had to pass the baton, but that didn't mean it wasn't nice to see the outcome.

Guinevere frantically glanced around as criminals were detained and people were carefully released from cages. I watched that darkness that'd been clouding her eyes since the day we met slowly disappear when a small girl with long, platinum-blonde hair was helped off the truck. Nobody else could hear her, but that didn't stop Guinevere from breaking out into high-pitched squeals of joy.

"We found her!" She shouted at me. "We got her!" She raced to my side, her energy skyrocketing. "You have to tell her Nana never stopped looking for her! Will you do that for me?"

I knew the moment I revealed myself, I'd be opening the door to a world of trouble from the cops. Technically, I wasn't allowed to be here but that didn't stop me from doing it. I was never good at following rules that made no sense, and "don't draw attention to yourself" was a guideline that bent under my particular brand of stubbornness.

I cautiously approached Sylvia, careful not to startle her. Those blue eyes that looked identical to her grandmother's flickered to me tentatively and I knelt to her level.

I kept my smile soft and lowered my voice so it sounded like a secret. "Hello, Sylvia. It's okay. You're safe now."

Her eyes darted to the cops and back to me, pupils swallowing the pale irises. There was a tremble at the corner of her mouth that told me she didn't yet believe the word safe. No one would, after what she'd been through. I let my hands rest where she could see them—palms up and empty, the universal non-threatening gesture—and the dead began to tug at the edges of my awareness like curious children. Guinevere was there. She smelled like lavender and brimstone, and for a beat I let her press against me. Don't push too hard, I told her silently. She obeyed, if only a little.

"Your Nana's here too," I said aloud. The girl exhaled, a sound like a small cord snapping. She reached for my hand like she'd decided I wasn't a stranger after all, just a very odd adult with dirty shoes and eyes that'd seen too many funerals. "She wants me to tell you she loves you so much and she never stopped looking for you. Never."

"Can you tell her—" she began, and then she didn't, because what child wants to say aloud the things that might bring the dead closer? "Can you tell her I-I love her lots and miss her?"

Her eyes welled with tears and Guinevere smiled softly down upon her granddaughter. Her hand was moving as if she were brushing a stray hair from the girl's face. "Tell her Nana heard her."

"She heard you. Every word."

Sylvia's small fingers tightened on mine. "Promise?" she whispered.

"I don't make promises," I murmured, leaning closer so only she could hear. "But this one's true. She's right here. She's not leaving you."

Guinevere's presence pulsed again. She was calmer now, less frantic, her edges softening the way spirits do when they know their last tether is being cut. She knelt next to me, though Sylvia couldn't see her, and whispered in my ear like she'd been doing for three weeks:

"Tell her I love her. Tell her to go home. Tell her to live."

I swallowed hard. "She wants you to go home, kiddo," I said gently. "She wants you to live."

Sylvia nodded, her face crumpling and smoothing all at once, a child trying to be brave. Her fingers slid into mine, tiny and cold, and she whispered, "Thank you."

"I'll stay with her until her parents arrive," Guinevere told me. "Thank you, Marcel Crowley. Thank you."

I started to respond, but the sound of an impatient cough from behind interrupted me. I turned around, unsurprised to see an officer standing there with his hands crossed over his chest and foot tapping against the ground.

Dark curls with shaved sides, the beginnings of a stubble forming, fair skin that had grown slightly tan from all the hours spent working, and the obvious sets of canines poking out were enough to make me sigh.

"Hello, little brother," I greeted the werewolf.

"Don't 'hello' me," Octavian growled. "You're not supposed to be here, Marcel."

"Yeah, well. You're doing your job and I'm doing mine."

Octavian's eyes narrowed, the golden hue flickering with irritation under the streetlights. "Your 'job' doesn't mean you can stroll into a crime scene—"

"Is this really the place to be discussing this?" I interrupted him. "I get it. Entering a crime scene is bad. You can yell at me later, but shouldn't you be—"

"This isn't right! This isn't right!" A voice shouted.

I turned my head just as the last victim, a young man in his early twenties was loaded off, but it wasn't his voice I heard. It was the spirit, a girl similar in age, attached to him. 

"This isn't right!" She wailed again. "Come on, Corbin! Why can't you see me?!"Her head snapped, taking in everyone around her and I cursed to myself, trying to look down before she saw me but I knew it was too late when she hurried over. "You! Can you see me?"

"Marcel!" Octavian called out at the same time. "You need to go home."

"I know you can see me!" The girl continued. "Please, you have to help me. This isn't right! I need you to help me and my friend."

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed. Sometimes, I truly hated being a medium.