I made myself look back . . . and screamed.

There was a face behind me, or what might have been a face. It was pale and gauzy and mostly transparent, its mouth and eyes stretched into horrifying angles.

“Noooo,” it yelled out, like a whistle through hollow bones, and tightened its grip on my shoulder.

We were under attack.

By ghosts.

I wasn’t sure how I knew that. I didn’t doubt the existence of ghosts—not when a childhood friend had been a necromancer and I had a degree in supernatural sociology. I’d just never seen one IRL. But the evidence was too strong to ignore. The cold, heavy magic. The voices on the wind. The goddamn horror of the thing that was staring back at me and digging bone-claws into my shoulder.

I didn’t think ghosts were supposed to manifest physically; they weren’t supposed to have substance. They were supposed to be ethereal. Whispers and fog and, yeah, sudden cold temperatures and electrical spikes. Not fingers squeezing with enough force to bruise—or magic that felt physically repellant.

“Nooooo,” it hissed again, with creepily perfect timing.

Was it saying no to me? To Rose? Some kind of refusal to let her leave the gang she’d run with?

Since I was the one in the middle of it now, I had to push through the fear and horror, and remind myself who and what I was—and what I was holding. I raised my sword, swiping it around my body and through the creature. Its torso was less dense than its fingers, but it was still like slicing through that same magical slurry.

Its scream pierced the air, as sharp as my blade. And then it oozed.

It was my turn to say, “No,” but it was more of a plea as the specter fell into a pool of pale green sludge that smelled like sour milk and luminesced in the darkness. And coated my blade with enough magic to have it vibrating.

“Freaking ghosts,” I said, and flicked the handle to send the ooze swinging through the air and splattering onto the road.

That just made them angrier, prompting more screaming, with voices resonant as bass drums and screechy as nails on a chalkboard. Every nerve in my body was on alert, waiting for the onslaught.

They came forward by the dozen. Some whistled past me, turning the air to ice, while others grabbed at my hair, my shirt, my ankles. I wielded my katana like it was both sword and shield, slicing through them, trying to fight my way through this waking nightmare.

“Noooo,” they screamed again, a chorus of hatred. The howling began again, and I felt movement around my legs, heard the snapping of jaws, the pounding of feet, as ghostly hounds brushed past my legs.

Because this nightmare needed a little sprinkle of extra terror.

Then there was another hand on my shoulder, and I whipped the blade and turned, and found myself with my blade pointed at Theo’s chest.