Page 22 of She Haunts Me Still

“I have a…present,” she adds, and his thumb pushes against her pulse.

“You might need to be more specific.”

Mallory chews her lip. “I bring you my hair. And my blood.”

“One more thing.” Ezra leans even closer. His whisper brushes her ear. “Repeat after me.”

She nods.

“Redeo vita,” he recites softly, “mea tibi.”

“Is that Latin?”

“Yeah. I read it in a book about séances; it helps build a bridge between worlds. It means ‘return to life.’ ”

Mallory studies him, trying to imagine Ezra as a teenager curled beneath blankets with a dusty book. Underlining and highlighting, clinging to ideas others might call frightening but to him felt soothing. Like reaching for a hand in the dark and feeling it reach back.

“Okay,” she murmurs. “Redeo vita mea tibi.”

Something shifts in his stare, as though he can see the strings of her trust knotting in real time. He lowers his gaze, and Mallory wonders if the idea of someone simply believing him is hard for him to absorb, too.

But then, a distinct coldness pools around her, siphoning her thoughts. It reminds her of that same cold from class earlier. She imagines long icy claws scraping at her throat, stroking beneath her hair. Pebbling her skin with goosebumps. Her exhale blooms white in the shadows, and she squeezes Ezra’s hands.

“Do you feel that?” she whispers.

He looks back at her. “Feel what?”

“It just got really cold,” she says. “Like a freezer.”

His eyes widen, disbelief fluttering across his face. Mallory’s shoulders ripple in a shudder as a numbing breeze whisks her neck. The candles flicker, threatening to plunge the room to black.

“I’m scared,” she admits quietly, twisting her hands in his. “Can we stop?”

“Wait, wait,” he counters. “Focus on me. Tell me something real.”

Her teeth clack together. “Real?”

“Like, ordinary.” Ezra rethreads their fingers. Tighter. “Do you like coffee or tea?”

“C-coffee.” Her breath fogs the air like she’s outdoors in winter.

“Any pets?”

“Um. I used to have a cat named Lucifer. Like in—”

“Cinderella. Cute.” Ezra squeezes her hands. “Now ask me something.”

Mallory wonders if her lips are turning blue. “When’s your birthday?”

“November twenty-first.”

“Hmm.” She narrows her eyes despite the cold. “That makes you a Scorpio.”

His response is amused. “Is that bad?”

“Depends who you ask.”

Warmth unexpectedly returns to the room, enveloping Mallory’s shoulders, smoothing her goosebumps. If she’d been alone, she might have been able to convince herself thecold was a coincidence. Her imagination. But with Ezra’s candles at her side and ancient words on her tongue, it’s hard to think of that chill as anything but a sign.