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The moment Avery stepped out of Kilmorran with his things, Wolfe disappeared to the weird liminal space he’d taken to calling ‘the mists’. It wasn’t quite deep into the veil, but nor was he as present as he was inside his home. His consciousness moved, but his body was far, far away from him.

He was fog rolling over hills, the spray of the sea kissing the shoreline, breath clouding around a perfect mouth. Avery climbed into her car—that had been a fascinating thing to learn about. She drove down the coast, windshield wipers moving in staggered intervals to keep up with the rain.

Even far from Kilmorran, he felt more grounded than he normally did.

More himself.

The pocket watch glowed in her pocket. His portrait warmed. The ink in his journals began to bleed.

As if they knew where they were heading—like they knew he’d been waiting all this time to pick them up again.

If this worked—and Christ, he hoped it did—he would be able to manifest himself whenever he pleased. He could come and go, stepping in and out of the sunlight. If he were lucky, if the connection stayed, he might even be able to pick something up. Feel the texture of a blanket. Heat from the fire. Cold from the stones.

As Avery navigated to the ruins, he resolved not to get too far ahead of himself.

It was a jarring revelation. Up until now, he hadn’t cared about anything. Not the sunlight, not the warmth. He’d given that up. Anyone who wanted to bring him through now was for entertainment purposes or morbid curiosity.

Perhaps part of Avery’s desires to bring him through were to satiate some of her questions, but Wolfe recognized loneliness.

He spoke it fluently.

The closer they came to the church, the more restless he grew. Lightning flashed and the air outside the car changed. Streaks of gray and black moved through the trees and he recognized them for what they were—spirits.

Ones content to wander, to lurk in the forests, to play tricks and steal little ones from their beds.

This was a dangerous thing she was about to do.

And he was selfish, wicked, because he did not tell her to stop.

It was a horrific thing, that thirteenth observation.

He was beginning to know Avery Eden, and he wanted her to know him too.

More than just tiles or knocking into furniture or closing doors.

Him.

Who he’d once been.

Avery parked along the road, tires half bumped up on the hill. Wind tore through the open fields, howling between the stones. The old church—which had been perfect and whole when he was alive—was built right on the bluff. A sharp drop to the waves below awaited on the other side of the structure and when he was really young, he used to daydream in his family’s pew, eyes locked on the horizon line.

Never did he imagine seeing it like this.

And in this state, no less.

“Come on, Avery. We need to move.”

Rain came in sheets, soaking her to the bone in seconds. She struggled to lift her hood and he felt useless, hands and body too weak to do much of anything but watch her struggle. Finally, she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and began the walk up to the ruins.

He followed, watching the treeline around them warily.

They were watching.

Waiting.

“I’m with you,” he promised. “I’m right here.”

Avery made her way up the hill, boots slipping in the mud. She righted herself, arms flailing for balance.