“That’ll be Jamal.” Mrs. Erickson reached for an apron, as if falling objects of decent weight were an everyday occurrence. “He can throw things when he loses his temper. Oh, no—that sounds far worse than it is. I think he throws things to prove that he can—that he does exist, that he can somehow still make his presence felt. He doesn’t really like it when I go out, but we’ve reached an agreement.”

“So...he throws things around because he’s having a tantrum in your house, and you call that an agreement?”

“No—he’s throwing things because he doesn’t like that I have a guest.” Her smile, as she turned it toward Kaylin, was almost affectionate. “I don’t have many guests.”

Kaylin could see why. She pulled one of her own long daggers. She’d just sprain her wrist if she continued to use Mrs. Erickson’s knives. “I imagine Jamal scares most possible visitors.”

“A bit, yes. If they could see him, they’d be less frightened, but they can’t. I try not to explain too much, because it makes visitors even more uncomfortable. On the other hand, the neighbor has never tried to enter my house again.”

Kaylin froze. “Again? You mean he tried to force his way in here before?”

“He visited with his mother as a child. But yes, he’s only made one attempt as the adult he’s become.”

“I don’t imagine Jamal cared for him.”

“He’s even objecting to you, dear.”

Fair enough. Kaylin finished cutting what she thought of as broccoli, although it was the wrong color. “Do you mind if I speak to Jamal?”

“Not at all. You might even be able to see him.”

Kaylin rose, wiping the blade before resheathing it. She couldn’t decide if that would be bane or blessing. But as she headed toward the arch—not door—that led from the kitchen, Mrs. Erickson almost shrieked.

“Are you all right?” Mrs. Erickson asked, her worry obvious.

Kaylin frowned in confusion. “I’m fine.” She then looked down at her arms: the marks that adorned her unexposed skin were glowing through the cloth of her sleeves.

04

Mrs. Erickson left off whatever cooking she’d intended to do. She seldom moved quickly, but made an exception; she was by Kaylin’s side in an instant. “Your arms!”

“They’re fine,” Kaylin replied.

“But they’re—they’re on fire!”

“No, it’s not fire. It’s like magic.” Which wasn’t a lie. “I don’t love it, either. But...your ghost, or one of your ghosts, seems to have set off my defenses.” She spoke as if this was totally normal, even mundane, which calmed Mrs. Erickson down—but not completely.

“He really isn’t dangerous,” she said. “He’s just—”