Daniel agreed to meet them at The Wiche’s Broom, a name he recognized from his nightly wanderings of Santa Luna.

Once the two women left him, he allowed himself to fade, his strength all but depleted. He seldom manifested completely, preferring near invisibility to hysterical screaming. The modern world had forgotten how thin the wall between life and death could be, that the spirits of those they loved, and hated, were close, often watching them for years before they finally lost the will to hold on to this world and faded away.

Juliet kept him here; her agony tied him as securely as physical ropes, and he would not leave her until she was free. He owed her that much, when he had not been there to protect her.

The image of her filled his mind, as it had every night since his death, wrapping around his heart, torturing him. Clear blue eyes that had been able to look straight into his soul, a heart-shaped face, dark brown curls, their silky feel against his fingers as clear as if he had touched them yesterday. Her smile, her warm laugh, the scent of lavender that had always clung to her soft skin—every detail drove into him, left him aching and laid bare.

“Forgive me, my love,” he whispered, his voice quieter than the fog sliding over the damp grass. “I will find a way to free you this time, even if I must sacrifice myself and the witch to do so.”