Their irritable rumbling abruptly changed pitch into a disgruntled hum—which escalated very, very quickly into the kind of blood curdling wail you could only really describe as “eldritch.”

The thing about summoning circles is, they’re a one-way barrier, meant to keep things in rather than out. And the thing about ghosts of the restless dead is, they’re territorial by nature, hostile to interlopers on their domain. I’d guessed that a trespasser like Davara—one that belonged in this realm even less than they did—would read as the ultimate provocation. And despite the huge power differential between a first-tier demon and a bunch of revenants, I was banking on strength in numbers, the way an angry swarm of ants can bring down an elephant.

As the throng of shades stormed Davara, a roar of pain and rage rising from the center of the circle once they’d closed in on her, I could see that I’d been right on both counts.

Then the shriek cut off abruptly in a massive flare of scarlet light, as the demon finally called it quits on this earthside outing. Apparently the prospect of munching on a witch’s soul and wreaking some small-town havoc wasn’t worth the trouble of getting nipped to (un)death by a rabid spectral horde.

“Woooooo!” I cheered, yanking down a victory fist as the light faded away, bright afterbursts still popping in my vision. “And that is how it’s done, motherfuckers!”

The ghostly mob slowed in their maddened whirling, settling back to hover just above the stones. Then they turned to fix the glowing craters of their eyes on me—aka, the presumptuous scally who’d seen fit to drag them here.

“Oh, fuck me,” I groaned, the garnet at my throat throbbing as I flexed my fingers. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

2

Not Enough Heart

I’m not gonna say I agree with Aunt Elena, because that would be treacherous,” Letha said, sidestepping the hairy animatronic tarantula that leapt out at her, hissing, from inside the dark passageway that led out of the teenage witch’s lair. “But let’s say, just as a hypothetical, if you turned my house into a poltergeist nest for shits and giggles? I, too, might be a little spicy with you for a while.”

My cousin was referring to the lingering psychic fallout from my improvised banishment. It had taken me all night to subdue my ghost militia, and even then the fix had been only temporary; over two weeks later, we still had knives embedding themselves in the ceiling, shadowy figures hovering over you while you slept, doors slamming open and closed in a syncopated rhythm designed to drive us all mad. Not to mention the way the mirrors distorted your reflection into a Munchian horror show when you were just trying to put on some fucking mascara. You know, the kind of trippy shit that really got under your skin.