Page 46 of Marked By His Hunger
She was tall and luminous, strawberry-blonde hair falling in soft waves, skin pale as winter milk.
“I’m Emery. Soothsayer.”
Short red curls. Amber eyes. Calm, assessing gaze.
Everyone had accents.
Soft Irish lilt.
Low Scottish tones.
Ancient vowels.
And then there was me—aggressively American.
I sounded like Louie DePalma in those late-night cable reruns of Taxi.
Which, admittedly, had been my survival strategy.
When you grow up seeing ghosts, you either scream or you find distraction.
For me, distraction came in the form of syndicated television at three in the morning.
Some people call that the Witching hour.
For me, it was prime rerun hour.
Ghosts were most active at night.
Especially at 3:00 a.m.
Especially when the house was quiet.
Especially when fear had nowhere else to go.
God, how I begged for a television when I was ten.
Miraculously, Aunt Gabby and Uncle Patrick gave in.
After I told Grandpa and Grandma about the dead woman in the black dress standing in the hallway watching them open presents one Christmas Eve.
They never visited again.
But I got a TV and cable.
So that was something.
“Want to explore before calling it a night?” Ursula asked.
I nodded, pulling on my raincoat.
My stomach had settled, but my nerves hadn’t.
And honestly, there was so much I still hadn’t seen.
Chapter 5-Draugr
I knew the second I caught her scent that I would be undone.
