Page 25 of A Ghost’s Guide to Haunting a Witch

“A witch’s shop,” he pointed out.

“True, but none of it’s real. Trust me. It’s mostly made in China. The only thing magical about most of this stuff is the markup that I put on it.”

He didn’t even crack a smile. Instead, he sighed. “Maybe this place isn’t real. Maybe this stuff—” he gestured around him — “isn’t real. But you are.”

“No.” She spoke bluntly. “I’m not. The only difference between me and the stuff I sell is that I wasn’t shipped over here from Yiwu.” She looked down, exhaling deeply. “You said you needed my help. What sort of trouble are you in?”

He shifted. “I’m not in trouble — or at least, I’m not any more. I’m beyond help at this point.”

That didn’t make any sense at all to her.

“But you said you needed my help?” she queried, looking up again, utterly bewildered now. “If you’re beyond help, and not in trouble, what exactly is it you need from me?”

He stepped forward, and once again, she was hit by that delicious smell. It was almost unfair just how good this man looked and smelled.

“I’m beyond help,” he said again, his voice low. “But someone else might be in trouble because of me, and I’m worried about them.”

“Who?” she asked, curious now.

He licked his lips, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Not for certain.”

“You . . . don’t know,” she repeated flatly. “So, let me get this straight. You’re beyond help, but not in trouble. You have my card, but don’t know how you got it. And you’re worried about someone, but you don’t know who?”

“I know, it sounds crazy, but I’m really not,” he offered, looking at her with pleading eyes, which did something worse to her than even the cinnamon did. “If you can just help me, I promise to explain everything.”

“I can’t help you,” she said again. “I really can’t. That thing you asked me to do—”

“Speak to the dead,” he finished for her gently.

“Yes, that. I can’t do it. Even if I wanted to.”

“You can do it,” he urged her.

“No. I’m a fraud.”

“You’re not,” he assured her. “You’re not a fraud.” He raised a hand towards her, perhaps about to take her own, before apparently thinking the better of it. Augustine wasn’t sure whether the drop in her chest was relief or disappointment.

“Oh, I’m not a fraud?” She gave a brittle, airy laugh. “You truly think I can speak to the dead? That I’m some all-seeing oracle?” She stepped towards him now, lifting her chin. “Tell me something then. How can you — a man I don’t even know — be so certain of that?”

“I am certain,” he said, his words soft and steady. “I’m very certain.”

“Because . . . ?”

He drew in a breath, and for the first time since he’d walked into her shop, he looked afraid. “Because,” he said, “I’m dead.”

Silence pressed in around them, sudden and awful.

“I’m dead,” he repeated. “And here we are talking.”

Chapter Nine

His words hung in the air, like the breathless instant before a firework splits open and lights up the night sky.

Dead.

This attractive, cinnamon-scented, steady-eyed man. Dead.

No. No, no, no, no, no. It couldn’t be true.