Spirited: A Reverse Harem Fantasy Romance (The Academy of Spirits and Shadows Book 1)

by C. M. Stunich

  At this point, I was neither.

  I knelt down next to the mouse and clutched my necklace with my free hand.

  “Hey, little guy,” I whispered, nesting my torch in a small pile of rocks so I could reach out and touch the translucent little critter with my fingertips. With something this small and simple, I was okay exorcising the spirit without Jasinda around but anything bigger—even one step up like a cat—and it was a no-go.

  I felt the wicked smile behind my back long before I heard those full lips speak.

  “You should stop doing that; you're going to wake him up.”

  “Wake who up?” I asked, calm, collected. I reached out and touched the mouse anyway, sending the poor creature on its way. Mice were normally straight-forward, simple creatures. They didn't get their spiritual panties in a twist and decide to hang around and torment the living; something was keeping them trapped here.

  I grabbed my torch, stood up, and turned slowly to face the man—sorry, ghost—that had put my dislocated shoulder back in place.

  “Mr. Grandberg,” the spirit said, slouching like a lazy king in a tattered wingback chair a few feet away from me. Around his booted feet, a hoard of rodent spirits crouched, just a white-blue cluster that blurred and blended into one another, shifting and squeaking as I stared at the man above them. “He doesn't like guests, and he really doesn't like spirit shouters.”

  “I am not a shouter,” I snarled through clenched teeth. It usually wasn't of much worth to get angry at a spirit, particularly when I was planning on pushing them through to the other side anyway, but I couldn't take an insult like that. A shouter was the derogatory term for any magic user—aka whisperer—that plied their craft in a way that harmed and used others for profit or personal gain. Me, I lived on the scraps that the royal treasury paid out to spirit headhunters stupid … I mean brave enough to seek out and exorcise angry ghosts.

  “Well,” the man said as he stretched his arms above his head in a loose, easy way that both excited (he was exceedingly handsome and had a body that just wouldn't quit) and annoyed me. He, too, had a pair of wings on his back, but he moved around like they were just a part of who he was, not some malformed lumps that were more trouble than they were really worth. “Then if he hates shouters, he really hates bleeding-heart whisperers. If I were you, I'd head for the north staircase and I'd run.”

  I paused in front of him, studying the tattered remains of a shirt and coat reminiscent of the Royal College uniform, albeit from a year or so back. The front pocket was still properly located on the left breast, just over the heart, and the buttons were gold and shiny, even in death. His breeches were black, tightly fitted to muscular legs that ended in a pair of standard issue academy boots.

  “You're Elijah of Haversey,” I said with no small amount of surprise, attempting to run my hand down the shock white length of braid hanging over my shoulder. I grimaced as my muscles burned and ached in response. “That student that went missing last year; you're a spirit whisperer, too.”

  “Was a spirit whisperer,” he said, his voice as cool as the air that circulated through the basement room we were standing in. I still couldn't see anything beyond the circle of orange-yellow light pooling around us, flickering and dancing in a breeze of unknown origin. I thought about opening up my second sight, but I was almost afraid of what I would see.

  Hellim, Hellim, Hellim, Hellim written all over the walls in blood.

  It wasn't that the God of Darkness was bad or evil or whatever you wanted to call it, in and of himself, just that his gifts were a lot easier to bend in the wrong direction. Feeling the anger of the spirits in this house, and seeing that word written in blood, told me we had an extremely pissed off shadow whisperer somewhere on the grounds.

  “I came here for Mr. Grandberg, too,” Elijah said, tapping long fingers against the arm of his chair. The longer I looked at him, the more corporeal he got, that telltale blue-white light around him fading away until it was nothing but a haloed glow around his tall, lean muscular body. He must've been pretty flubbing powerful to do that, make it so that he looked almost … alive. “And I ended up in pieces.”

  Elijah flashed me a debonair smile as he rose to his feet, his expression at odds with his words.

  I went completely still, my breath hitching as he fingered a loose strand of snow white hair hanging next to my face. His hand, when it brushed against my skin, was warm.

  Wow.

  Scratch what I said. Elijah of Haversey wasn't just flubbing powerful—he was a mother flubbing master of being dead.

  “Helio Grandberg pulled me limb from limb while I was still alive and then made my spirit watch as he tossed what was left of my body into the blackberry tangles outside for the local wildlife to pick apart. Look, you're a very pretty girl and I am awfully lonely, but really, I'd like you to get out of here while you still have the chance.”

  Elijah pulled his hand back and looked at me from eyes the color of a full-blooded angel's—a clear pale blue, almost white, like a winter sky. But his hair was dark, thick and wavy, as shiny and sleek as a raven's feathers, and his skin was pale. The human half of his biology didn't hail from the desert like mine did; he clearly had an Amerin ancestor in his background.

  “Look, I'm not arguing, but I have been known to be a tad directionally challenged, so if you could just lead the way …”

  Elijah laughed, adjusting the tattered remains of his Royal College uniform. I didn't mind the tears so much since, you know, I could ogle his muscles as he reached out and plucked the torch from my fingers. Without skipping a beat, he tossed it over his shoulder where it rolled across the floor and came to a sputtering stop at the base of some stone steps.

  “Now,” he whispered, his voice cut through with just the slightest hint of a royal accent, “run.”

  I didn't wait for a second invitation, taking off through the dark toward the small circle of firelight, my feet catching on every single piece of loose debris, broken board, and mouse carcass that littered the floor. Thank the Goddess that I wore my leather boots today …

  Bending low, I snatched the torch on my way up the stairs and cleared a good ten of them before I felt the first icy curls of another spirit.

  “Brynn!” Jas was calling from somewhere ahead of me.

  “I'm here!” I yelled back, heart racing, sweat pouring down the sides of my face as I struggled up the steep steps and into a dilapidated receiving room, furnished with sagging couches and the crystal-free skeleton of a chandelier lying in the middle of the floor.

  Mice and rats—both living and dead—scattered in my wake, squealing their displeasure as they dove into cracks in the walls and floor. I blinked to adjust to the bright beams of silver-white moonlight—how long had I been passed out? it'd been sunny when we got here—leaking through a massive hole in the ceiling.

  Blowing on my torch, I put it out and slid it back in the leather loop on my belt.

  “Jasinda!” I called again, taking a second to catch my breath and starting off in a direction that I thought might lead me to either my handler or at the very least, an exit. Behind me, I could feel the heavy weight of another spiritual signature, one that was definitely not Elijah's. I had no idea how many spirits were in this house, but there were a lot—and that estimation didn't even include the plethora of rodent spirits scurrying around.

  I pounded down a narrow servant's hallway and nearly sobbed in relief when I saw the gaping front doors and the spill of moonlight across the dirty, warped floor.

  As I exited through what used to be an elaborate archway and was now just a faded, molded caricature of its former self, I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with a nightmare.

  My feet skidded on the dirty floor as I came to a sudden stop and bit back a scream. My handler was hanging in the center of the room, suspended by nothing, but clawing desperately at her purpling throat. The distinct shape of fingermarks was visible even from down here.

  As Jas's booted feet kicked
uselessly at the air, I reached up and grabbed my necklace.

  Closing my eyes, I whispered “Haversey,” and then flicked my lashes back open, activating my second sight. Normally, my good ol' regular eyeballs were enough to see spirits—most of them wanted to be seen so they put some effort in, too. But sometimes, if they were scared or shy or just plain flubbed-the-Hell-up, they'd hide themselves and I needed my second sight to spot them.

  A cold angry wash spread over me, like the first wintery curls of wind in a blizzard, chilling me to my core, making my body quiver as I looked up at the spirit holding my handler in thrall. That had to be Helio Grandberg himself, dressed in the fashions of his day (men never really did look that great in tights, did they?) and smiling in a rather urbane manner that scared me a hundred times worse than a scowl might have.

  Without a word, he tossed Jas aside and sent her slamming into the wall above the front doors, straight into the shredded remains of a portrait so ugly that it was the only piece of artwork left behind in the house that hadn't been taken, stolen or eaten by rats. I couldn't even take a moment to try and catch her as she fell; Grandberg was on me in a second.

  He hit me so hard and so quick that I barely had time to throw up a small circle of protection, white light blooming around me, as fragrant and delicate as Easter lilies. Grandberg's spiritual form smashed into my magic with the distinct sound of breaking glass, shattering the spell to pieces before I had time to sketch, utter, or otherwise cast another.

  Long, thin fingers curled around my throat this time, lifting me from the floor and straight off my feet. But by making himself corporeal to attack me, he'd also left himself vulnerable.

  I flung the dark expanses of my wings forward with a surprising amount of strength, knocking Helio Grandberg loose and sending him skidding across the floor this time. I might not have been the most astute at keeping up with my workouts, but it took a lot of muscles to fly and that, that was something I did alright at.

  Lifting my wings up high and then dropping them low propelled me into the air as easily as if I were jumping rope in the courtyard—only I stayed up. Air currents and gravity aside, this was magic, and an angel's innate ability to fly—even a half-angel's ability—was unquestionable.

  Drawing the jeweled knife from my belt, the one that was imbued with the same magic as my necklace, I dropped down on Helio Grandberg like a Valkyrie, raining death from the sky.

  A pair of cold arms wrapped my waist and threw me back, my body crashing into one of the crumbling staircases. As soon as I sat up, I saw with a bright shock of fear that whoever had just grabbed me had probably saved my life.

  Another ghost had risen from the floor, this one dressed much the same as Helio Grandberg—long black velvet coat, matching velvet slippers, white tights—but instead of a ring of gray hair around a shiny bald head, the newly arrived spirit had long, blonde curls.

  “That's his wife,” the smooth, crisp voice at my ear said, and I turned to find Elijah by my side, see-through and glimmering, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Flub, I told you to run.” He also didn't exactly say flub, but I was getting to the point where my mind just sort of dubbed that word into place of a lot of others.

  “His wife? He's clearly way too old for her,” I said, but I only had a split second to contemplate the ages of the spirits in front of me. Jasinda was groaning, rolling onto her side and lying in a thick, dark ruby red pool of blood. If even one of the two Grandberg ghosts set their sights on her, she was as good as dead.

  I stood up and squeezed the blade of my knife with one hand, drawing blood. Droplets of it hit the gritty floor and pooled in shimmering little globules. With the other hand, I held my star shaped necklace.

  “Spells won't work,” Elijah said from beside me. “At the time of their deaths, the Grandbergs were the most powerful shadow whisperers on the continent. They'll cancel out anything you throw at them. Trust me, I found that out the hard way.”

  I remembered the sound of breaking glass, of my shield falling away to nothing, and glanced sharply in Elijah's direction, all that color in his eyes and hair I saw earlier leached from his body now that he was fully back in spirit form. Currently, he was just the vaguest outline of himself, glimmering white-blue and standing not quite on the step below his feet.

  “Any suggestions?” I asked, searching my repertoire for ideas.

  “Run them through with Haversey's knife?” he suggested, his voice edged with a nervous fear that did nothing to help soothe my nerves. This ghost, he was worried about me. Not a good sign, not a good sign at fucking all.

  I gritted my teeth as a few feathers drifted to the floor around my feet. Oops.

  I adjusted my grip on the knife and used a burst of magic to heal the slice on my palm. Blood was always a good offering for any god, but only if their spells were actually useful in battle. Right now, it didn't seem like I'd be needing any.

  “I'm not exactly combat trained …”

  “What spirit whisperer is?” Elijah asked with a long sigh as the Grandbergs brushed themselves off and then looked up at me, both of them smiling genteel little smiles. Creepy as Hell. “Just … wing it,” he added and I gave him a look as he reached out and ran his ethereal hand over my wing, the same shape and size as his own, only his were as white as my hair. If he'd actually touched me, I would've stabbed him with the jeweled knife in my hand—a gift every spirit whisperer received from the goddess—because to an angel, wings were as private and personal as well, boobs.

  “You did not just make a wing pun,” I muttered as I turned back to the pair of maniacal ghosts and ducked just in time to avoid a flying chair. It shattered against the steps behind me, bits of sharp wooden shrapnel spinning out and catching me in the legs, arms, and back. I cursed and healed those wounds, too, polishing off the dull throbbing ache in my shoulder while I was at it. Normally, healing took way too much energy for me to risk wasting during combat—unless, of course, the wounds were life-threatening—but if I didn't need Haversey's magic to fend off these spirits, I may as well use it for something.

  I grabbed the banister and flung myself over, missing yet another flying piece of furniture by a fraction. I hit the floor a little too hard and cringed at a slight twinge in my ankles, rising up to my feet and lunging forward. My feet skidded on more rubble as I turned at the last second and threw myself at Mr. Grandberg, knocking him to his back on the floor as icy chills cascaded over my skin and made me gasp.

  “Brynn,” Jas choked out, and I felt the warm reach of her spirit as she curled her hand around my ankle, anchoring me to this plane of existence. Bare skin was better, but we'd have to work with what we could get. I was lucky that she was even alive to ground me at all. Jas was entirely human after all, and in no way magically inclined. That's what it took to be a handler—an absolute absence of power. But it was my job to keep her physically safe and I was failing miserably.

  I plunged the knife into Helio Grandberg's chest and closed my eyes.

  “Goddess-speed and happy endings,” I whispered, a lame catchphrase I know, but I was required to come up with my own and all the good stuff was taken.

  Silver beams of moonlight coalesced around the spirit's body, wrapping him up in ribbons of power. His form shivered and wavered beneath me, blurring and flickering until I felt my knees hit the wood floor, my knife scraping against gravel and rotting leaves.

  That was when Mrs. Grandberg hit me with everything she had, sending me flying into Jas.

  The three of us went out the front door and down the steps, rolling to separate stops in the mess of blackberries and prickly weeds that filled the manor's grounds.

  Contrary to popular belief, ghosts and spirits can leave the house in which they haunt. In fact, it's never actually a specific building or lot that they're bound to, but a central point and a radius around it. Usually, that central point is where they died, but it can just as easily be the location of their first kiss, their first time, their happiest memory.
/>   Or their worst one.

  I rolled onto my back just in time to see the angry, twisted face of Mrs. Grandberg as she grabbed my arm with one hand and braced her foot against my ribs with the other. Elijah's warning of being ripped limb from limb came rushing back at me.

  But before I could kiss my right arm goodbye, Elijah was there with my knife in his hand—I must've dropped it on the way outside—and he was swinging it in an arc at Mrs. Grandberg's throat. Her ghostly skin split like a second smile as he muttered some words under his breath.

  “All things are born in light, and to light all things return.”

  Hmm.

  Elijah's spellwords were infinitely better than mine.

  Mrs. Grandberg shivered and shimmied, light cupping her body like a second skin, and then … she, too, was gone.

  Ah.

  Even in death, most whisperers retained the most basic of their powers—a real blitz (so much less sexist than the alternative word, that infamous witch with a 'B') when dealing with magically inclined spirits of pretty much any kind.

  Except right now … I was kind of grateful for it.

  “I've been waiting a whole fucking year to do that,” Elijah said, and I cringed a little. Although, Jas was right: I didn't lose any feathers. He tossed the knife at my feet and smiled that wicked sexy smile at me. While it was possible to exorcise a ghost without Haversey steel, it required magic—a lot of magic. That explained why Elijah hadn't bothered to try before. Personally, I was just surprised that he hadn't gotten pulled along with Mrs. Grandberg's spirit and straight out of this world. With no one to ground him—and you know, because he was already dead—he really must have been a serious bad-bum (badass counts as cursing, okay?) to get through that exorcism with his spirit intact.

  I sat up, ignoring him even though I kind of wanted to just keep staring at his handsome face, and crawled over to Jas, sweeping dark hair from her forehead. There was a smattering of blood at her temple and across her lips, but she was still breathing. Reaching deep into myself, I pulled up what little magic I had left and let it wash over her, healing her wounds as best I could. For the rest, she'd need to see an actual flesh whisperer—a fairly pervy sounding name for healer—once we got back into town.