Ten minutes late to her first appointment, Cyra Mane sighed.

Growing up on a farm, she had always imagined that city life was like in the movies. Cabs turned up at the flick of a hand, she’d make friends at any café she visited, and finding a job came with perks like cars. Wrong on all accounts. Maybe one day when she looked back on her decision to move to Detroit, she’d laugh at being so clueless.

She shifted around in the back seat of the cab, having run two blocks to catch the darn thing, and now sweat plastered her shirt to her back. Staring at the houses and streets they passed, she couldn’t ignore the nerves climbing up her legs because she had zero idea what to expect on her first solo field mission.

Impressing the big leagues at Argos, Inc., a clandestine demon hunting organization, was a must. Hell, that was an understatement! Two months ago, her grandma had broken her leg and insisted Cyra shouldn’t throw her life away by staying home caring for her, much to Cyra’s protests. And since her grandma was moving to another state, that presented Cyra with two options: live on her own or with her brother in the heart of Detroit. Yeah, right. So he could watch her every moment? No thanks. Besides, he left his clothes all over the townhouse, and if that didn’t drive her insane, the revolving door of his visiting Argos friends would. The place could pass for a gym with everyone pumped on testosterone, and it always smelled of dirty socks. Nope, she preferred being on her own, and she’d show Argos that even as a nineteen-year-old with limited work experience, she’d make an invaluable member to their magic team. After all, they’d hired her instantly after seeing her hexing skills.

The cab traveled past gated homes draped in snow. Her tiny studio apartment might be located in the seedy part of Detroit, where sirens and screams had become the norm, but it was all hers.

A three-story home complete with a pointy roof caught her eye with its S-shaped driveway and animal-shaped shrubs. Gorgeous. Christmas decorations dolled up the other residences—reindeer statues, trees decorated with tinsel and baubles. She’d move in today if anyone offered. After her parents had died in a boating accident when she was five, she and Chase had grown up on a small farm with their grandparents, and she adored them. But now living in the city, she couldn’t get enough of the fast pace, cafés at every corner, and fashion at her fingertips. What more did a girl need? Oh, yes. Money! So she couldn’t visit any of those cafés or buy any of that fashion, so she spent her weekends baking casseroles and cakes with ingredients she bought at a bargain. Just like her grandma, Cyra loved cooking, and right now she was going through a chocolate and banana bread phase. Everyone in her apartment had received a baked goodie after she’d found a huge bag of super-ripe bananas at her local grocery for five dollars.

Her phone chimed. She grabbed it from her pocket and read the message.

She tightened her hold on the phone. Typical Chase. She responded.

Her mistake had been telling her brother about her assignment. Sure, he’d put in a good word for her at Argos that had paved the way for an interview. But she’d nailed most of the magical tasks they’d thrown at her, and now she had a chance to prove herself and a real paying job as a spell creator. True, for the majority of her job, she was office bound, coming up with protection runes for the weapons hunters used against Hellish creatures, but occasionally, fieldwork was involved. She’d been with Argos for two months, and yep, this was exactly where she wanted to work. So Chase had to get over himself and trust her.

Crap, she sounded like her grandma. She always lectured Chase on letting Cyra work things out for herself. Regardless, her supervisor at Argos had insisted the mission was a straightforward haunting, the non-intelligent kind that didn’t interact with the living. So it should be a simple job. Residual energy signals behaved in repetitive actions, such as the ghost figure that had walked up the main set of steps back at her grandparents’ farmhouse every night. Most people got freaked out by such things. She’d grown used to it, especially after seeing her grandfather a few nights after he’d died following them around the house. He’d only stayed a short while, but the experience had confirmed to Cyra that life existed after death, meaning she’d see her grandpa and parents again.

Another message hit her phone.

She adored Chase because he cared about her, but there was such a thing as being overprotective. Like him popping over every second day or in the middle of the night, insisting she had to move out and live with him. His warning that druggies lived next door to her, or a brothel had opened up nearby, or whatever else he’d made up. She’d ignored him. Moving in with him was not happening. She was sick of being wrapped in bubble wrap. For the past two months, she’d made herself a comfortable living alone and befriended many of her neighbors with her baking. Glancing down at Chase’s message, she responded.

As the cab pulled up along a curb, another response came from Chase.

Right. She’d make a fresh Bolognese pie tonight on Christmas Eve because she had no other plans. Tomorrow, Chase’s buddies would stop by his place for Christmas lunch. While she could take their jokes and put them in their place, her thoughts sailed to Gunn. The guy who stole glances her way and left her burning up from a single stare, yet he never said a word to her. At twenty-nine, he was the oldest of the hunters and rowdy with his friends but silent around her. And hell if he wasn’t built like a tank. Her brother had once mentioned he had a broken past, but then again, who didn’t in this business? Besides, getting involved with a demon hunter came with massive baggage. Add to that cockiness and inflated egos. Yep, not for her.

She adored Chase, but in their company, he turned into one of them. Wolf pack mentality.

“Twenty-five bucks.” The cab driver’s voice snapped her back to the present.

“Oh, sorry. Thanks.” She handed over the cash from her pocket. Once outside, a chilly breeze caught in her hair, coating her in a shiver. The taxi drove off, and she turned her attention to the skeletal trees and posts swallowed in white. Nearby stood a three-tiered blue house with Tudor windows and arched doors. No fancy gates, just a yard with a fountain peeking out from underneath the snow. Nearby stood a post box with the number 296 on its side. This was the right location. Shrubs covered in a thick blanket of white dotted the land, divided by a pebbled footpath.

“Okay, let’s do this,” she whispered to herself as she swung her backpack over her shoulder. She tightened the collar of her leather jacket around her throat to keep the frigid winter at bay and hurried toward the marble veranda with two columns that supported the balcony on the first floor. She glanced down at her pin-striped pants. They were her most professional pair, and coupled with her buttoned-up shirt, she wasn’t going to upset anyone in this neighborhood.

Greeted by a fresh wreath made of pine cones and vinery on the door, she raised a hand to the bronze knocker. But the door swung open, and a coldness brushed past Cyra. The hairs on her nape lifted with a knowing sign that something supernatural lived there. She’d had that sense for as long as she remembered.

An older man with peppered hair and dressed in a padded vest over a green shirt and pleated pants greeted her. He didn’t bat an eye at her silver-dyed hair, but rather extended his arm and took her hand in a shake, his touch frozen. Why didn’t he put the heaters on or wear gloves? Back home, the heater was on the fritz more often than it worked, but she’d perfected the art of layering clothes to keep warm.

“You must be Cyra? I’m Henry.” He released her hand and held his head high with a mask of defiance and surety. Yet she’d spotted his trepidation in the slight quiver in his chin, the way he scanned the yard behind her more often than he looked at her. She’d seen that look on all the regular people—“innocents” was what Argos called them—she’d visited during the last three missions she’d gone on with her supervisor.

“Yep, that’s me.” Of course, she didn’t fit in this residential area with her dark makeup, but the guy didn’t even look her up and down. She liked him already.

“Thank you for coming on such quick notice. My local priest said you’d be able to help.”

Argos had secret connections to churches all over the country. Letting Henry believe she’d come on behalf of the church avoided lengthy explanations. Your average Joe had no clue the Argos organization that cleaned up the streets of demons existed, or that supernatural activity was more prevalent than anyone would admit.

“So, tell me what’s been going on,” she said.

“Yes, yes.” He gestured she follow him inside into a marble hallway, toward a curved staircase, and closed the door behind them. A wisp of lavender floating in the air. A dining room was to her right, a grand place with a mahogany table that took up most of the vast space. There was no tablecloth, just a crystal vase of fresh flowers and two candelabras with creamy white candles. Paintings of landscapes lined the pale yellow walls, and a chandelier dangled overhead. In the far corner stood a Christmas tree crowded with red and green ornaments, each perfectly aligned across the branches. All that was missing were the guests and food. To her, the festivities were about decorations in every color, baked cookies, and wrapping paper everywhere. Christmas chaos. Well, at least that was how she’d celebrated growing up.

“Should have mentioned,” Henry said. “My wife, Nora is in the TV room, watching a cooking show. It’s the only thing that keeps her calm. She’s too shaken to come to the door.”

“It’s understandable,” Cyra replied, not surprised the poor couple were scared. Anything supernatural unnerved most people.

Henry guided her up the staircase to the second floor, where the morning sun trickled through the windows in a few open rooms. “It’s here.” He remained near the banister made of dark wood. It lacked the ornate type of carvings she might have expected in such a house, but the railing was smooth and glossy.

“What’s here?” She pushed the sliding strap of her backpack back onto her shoulder and stared down the hallway, past the paintings and the floral rug running the length of the passage. She pulled away from Henry and stepped toward a closed door.

“This is where all the noises come from. Nora and I were downstairs watching television, but I swear an elephant was stomping up here. Last time I came to check, I saw something.” His voice shook, and he clicked his tongue, which she guessed was nerves. “A dark silhouette with no face.”

Cyra nodded, not surprised, as some spirits appeared like shadow people with no facial features. She wandered farther down the hall. She peeked into a bedroom with a single bed beside a chest of drawers. Toys decorated every piece of furniture, including the windowsill. The kids’ room reminded her of being four years old and seeing her first ghost. Since then, she’d always sensed their presence. Spirits hovered near her bed most mornings, then vanished seconds later. Never a word or indication of what they wanted, so she’d come to the conclusion they kept her safe as she slept.

Her flesh pinpricked again as if being watched and turned her attention to the door at the end of the hall. Could there be more there than just spirits in the house? “Anything else I should know about? Voices, things being moved around?”

“No. Just the thumping every night. Though the last few nights, it’s started happening downstairs in Nora’s reading room.”

“And it’s been going on for weeks now?” she asked, making mental notes.

“Yes.” He rubbed his arms.

The couple’s description fit with the claims Argos had given her. Ghosts sometimes left behind an imprint of themselves. “Have you started any new renovations in the house?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, I’ll start a cleansing then.” She’d know at once if her protection worked upon completion.

He nodded. “Let me know if you need anything.”

She offered him a smile. “I’ll be in and out of the house while I work, but you won’t even notice I’m here.” Throughout her training, Argos had instilled the mentality that she was to do her work in silence, not disrupt anything in the house, and make the experience as painless for the clients as possible. The supernatural was a difficult topic for most innocents, who preferred to pretend it didn’t exist.

“Thank you so much.” Henry still held the banister with a death grip, and her heart went out to the poor guy. It might take a few weeks of no spirit activity for him to truly feel safe in his house again. After seeing her first ghost, she’d slept with her parents for a month straight, terrified of switching off the lights. And then it had taken her a year to get comfortable with realizing that one, the spirits weren’t going to leave her, and two, they wouldn’t harm her. So yeah, she understood the unease of constantly looking over her shoulder, terrified to be alone in her own home. So, she’d do everything to help Henry out.

Cyra followed him down the steps. “I’ll have to check the outside first,” she said, and he nodded, heading down the hallway, deeper into the house. Start with the outside so nothing inside could escape and return later was her approach to cleansing a property. And as a final touch, she would leave a guarding spell in the house, a deterrent for any other ghosts that might attempt to make this their home. Yep, she’d do an amazing job and Argos would be super impressed.

And if she finished early, she had last-minute present shopping to complete—a new pair of slippers for her landlord. The elderly lady had rented her the studio even when she didn’t have the full amount for deposit. That deserved a gift in Cyra’s mind.

She traipsed around the property filled with oaks. Thirteen windows. She’d reach the top floor from inside. Two doors and no sheds out the back. A spread of perfect, undisturbed snow layered the yard and the trees lining the rear fence. Returning to the front, she took out a small pouch of crushed herbs from her bag, prepared yesterday for the occasion. The moment she opened the fabric pouch, the aroma of basil and cloves filled her senses. Best smell ever. It reminded her of the festive season.

The local grocery store offered basic necessities for spells, but a few blocks away from her apartment there was a magic store for the unusual ingredients. Plus, she’d left her business card there for anyone with spirit problems. No harm in doing side jobs. Argos paid her a low salary for her in-office days and commission for these kinds of jobs. Since she had no clue if Argos had a problem with her moonlighting, she kept the side work to herself.

A grunting roar of a motor echoed in the distance. Probably cops chasing a criminal. She grabbed her spray bottle out of her bag filled with salty water. At a window, she sprayed the frame. Under her breath, she murmured, “Salt and herbs. Cleanse away the spirits. Guard well this home.”

Again, the distinct shriek of a motor grew louder, grating on her nerves. Over her shoulder, the street remained calm. No cars, and no one was outside either. Just the motorcycle noise disturbing the peace. She expected it where she lived, but not here.

She hooked the spray bottle onto her belt and sprinkled a pinch of herbs into her palm. “With this small token, I banish all spirits from this residence.” A slight snap of energy rolled through her lungs. With a deep exhale, she blew the contents across the window, and they sparked on contact. Perfect.

Except when she looked through the window and into the room, a dark figure, twice her size and black as death, stared down at her with yellowing eyes.

She recoiled, a chill rising through her stomach and clinging to her ribs. The thing just stood there. Staring. Unmoving. Its form was like static, flicking between being solid and transparent as if it couldn’t hold shape. This didn’t look like the typical ghosts she’d encountered that were transparent and gray. The fear she’d experienced in seeing her first spirit was nothing compared to this. She gasped for air, her mind emptied as she drowned in a terrorizing straitjacket. What is that?

A screech of skidding tires resonated behind her. She spun, then froze as a huge guy on a motorcycle hit the curb, and then both he and the bike were thrown upward and forward—headed straight in her direction.

“Shit!”

The guy rolled sideways and launched up on his knees, but he was already on his feet, running toward her, his arms flaying about as his bike landed on its side, sliding across the lawn straight for Cyra.

Her world blurred as she inhaled her last breath, tensing. Her brain screamed to run. But her feet were cemented to the ground and her reflexes shot. All she imagined was the heavy bike crushing her legs and pinning her to the house.