Ghostlight (The Reflected City Book 1) by Rabia Gale (i can read with my eyes shut TXT) 📗

persuaded that only the crossest and ugliest men are deemed suitable dancing masters for young ladies.”

“But, of course. You can’t have the daughters of peers running off with their dashing dancing masters. Something about the music and the movement tends to addle the brain and makes one more susceptible to attachment.”

Her feet faltered for a moment, but Arabella recovered quickly. “How absurd, sir. I imagine that hundreds of ladies and gentlemen dance together without the least danger of falling in love.”

“Indeed. That has been my personal experience,” said Trey. He felt her shift away from him and berated himself for leading them into this perilous conversational thread. She had so few friends at the moment; she didn’t need to worry if he had designs on her. The notion was ridiculous. “You, I’m sure, are far too sensible to do so.”

She inclined her head in gracious acceptance, but she had gone remote again, her gaze beyond his shoulder and her head tilted as if listening to distant music.

Music.

Saints!

Realization struck him with the force of a blow.

He’d been so focused on putting Arabella at ease, at striving to be pleasant and sociable, that he’d missed the Shadow Lands creeping into the scene. The music had changed from the sprightly waltz to something slower, melancholy, haunting. A pipe, carved from the thigh bone of a murdered child, raised its voice in lament, while strings twisted from the hair of drowned maidens carried on a sobbing counterpoint.

And he himself had slowed, matching his steps to the otherworldly tune, drawing himself and Arabella into the web spun by that eerie place. Already it gathered around her, changing the angle of the light and casting odd shadows that shouldn’t have been there.

Without thinking, he tightened his grip and pulled her closer. She felt light and delicate as a sparrow, as if at any moment she would fly away—or snap.

Trey forced himself to think of an earthly tune, repeating the melody in his own head, drowning out the phantasmal song with his own voice. Ta da da da. Ta da da da da dum. His feet seemed to be stuck in mud, they were so slow to follow his lead. Trey looked down at Arabella, at her dark hair like shadows in a midnight forest, her substance thin and translucent like porcelain.

Her entire body strained to follow that other music. She lagged, resisting his hold. “Arabella,” he said, through teeth gritted with the effort of keeping them back from that hungry maw, “I’m leading, not you.”

Awareness dawned on her face, mingled with horror. She started to turn her head—he had no idea what she saw—but he said roughly, “No! Don’t give it your attention. Keep your eyes on me.” Obediently, she stared up at him, her expression fixed and scared and intent. He saw the flicker of her eyes as her look strayed to the sides, saw her struggle to keep her gaze on him.

“Good girl. Now, mind, follow me. Focus on my face, my voice, my steps.” Trey hummed the melody, moving out of the pattern, dragging Arabella with him. He felt her tension; she wanted both to stay and to go. He thought, Its call grows stronger.

But, grim and determined, Trey took them both back out, retracing the careless path that had brought them into peril. The other realm’s hold loosened. Another step, a final effort, a last jolt. With a pop, the Shadow Lands let them go.

They were back in the courtyard of Merrimack’s, the waltz washing over them as if a soap bubble of silence had burst. The lights from the windows were at a full cheerful blaze, and the shrubbery was just as meager and sad as before. Trey was out of breath, as if he’d run a mile, and there was a quivering ache in his muscles. He gripped Arabella by the shoulders; she was pressed up to his chest.

“Hey.” He gave her a little shake. “Are you all right?”

Arabella gave a little sigh and snuggled closer. She said, voice small and muffled, “It’s so cold, Trey. So cold. I feel the wind blowing right through me. I’m so cold, and you’re so warm.”

A frisson ran like fire through his nerves. Memories flashed through his mind.

Celeste’s lovely voice, throbbing and broken-hearted, saying, “Warm me up, my love”… Damien pulling her close… Her shudder of relief, and then her head turning, fangs flashing, teeth sinking into his brother’s neck… Damien’s warm red blood spurting…

Trey pushed Arabella away from him, his fingers clenching on her shoulders. His wards buzzed, and Arabella flinched. “Ow!”

The hurt look she turned on him was completely human. Her eyes didn’t turn red, her mouth didn’t split open into a maw, she didn’t wail or attack him with suddenly-extended claws.

“Sorry,” said Trey. “But remember you’re a ghost and your substance yearns for a body. And you can’t have mine.”

“I have a perfectly nice one of my own, thank you,” said Arabella indignantly. “I don’t want yours.”

He grinned at her. “That sounds naughty, Miss Trent.”

It still amused him that a ghost could flush, and in spectacular fashion. Her cheeks flooded with pink. “It’s only naughty if you take it that way,” she told him, trying for frostiness but failing.

“I’ve been told before that I’m an indelicate boor,” said Trey. “You won’t have to put up with it too much longer.”

The color in her cheeks subsided. “I have to thank you once more.” She started to look over her shoulder, then checked herself. “The… the other realm was very near.”

“It was my fault. I should’ve been more careful.”

“Who was she?” Her expression was solemn.

“What?”

“The woman in your memory just now,” said Arabella. “The one who turned.”

His jaw tightened. So she had seen that, had she? The boundaries—between worlds, between bodies—were indeed blurring for her.

That wasn’t good.

Never you mind. He opened his mouth to say just those words. But what came out, slightly hoarse and stumbling, was, “Her name was Celeste. She was my brother’s wife.”

“So the man was…?”

“Damien,