I stared at the red-brown stain covering the mutilated back of the armchair. Thankfully, it was dry, but at some point in the past it had been wet enough to roll down and soak the cushion below it.

“This is the start of the problem?” I muttered.

“Pardon?” Jacky said from behind me.

“You’re going to have to give me a second.” I motioned to the mess. “The only other death I’ve been in the room for was my own. It was a lot more personal, but at least it wasn’t gruesome.”

“Do you see anything?”

“A lot of blood. Oh, geez. Is that brain-stuff?” My stomach heaved.

That morning I’d been relieved to learn I could still enjoy eating. Now I could see one or two downsides to it.

“I doubt it,” Jacky said. “Professor Wayde was shot in the chest.”

I eyed the skeleton. “Did you actually see the body, or do you know how everybody dies?”

“I saw the body. I arrived while the police were here.”

“Oh.”

I resisted the urge to ask if the police had noticed him.

To get to Professor Wayde’s trendy, century-old home, we had to walk through the college where he’d worked. Classes had been dismissed a minute before. We wove our way through crowds of students. There were a few glances directed at my bald head, but none at my companion’s.

Which I found distinctly unfair.

When I had raided Olivia’s closet that morning, I discovered that black was her signature color and dresses were her go-to outfit. I didn’t think I could pull off the full-witch style, so I counted myself lucky when I found a pair of black jeans and a black shirt, but I still looked like the world’s most devoted goth-punk, complete with a pale, skinny body, and a shaved head. I knew it looked edgy, but you’d think a walking skeleton would distract them a little.

I had asked Jacky if the students saw him. He said that was a good question. When I asked him for the answer, he said, “Why ruin a good question with an answer?”

Bony sot.

“And he was sitting in the chair when he died?” I asked.

That was a dumb enough question, Jacky didn’t see the harm in answering it.

“Yes. With a large hole in his chest.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. And what did you want me to do?”

From the way Jacky put his fingers up to his skull, I got the feeling he regretted the fact he didn’t have eyelids to rub.

“Emerra, look around. Do you see anything unusual—anything aside from the blood stains?”

I turned and wandered away from the small sitting area.

Even if Jacky hadn’t told me Trevon Wayde was a professor, I would have known. There were papers piled on every surface and books stuffed in every shelf. Where there weren’t books, there were artifacts. Dozens and dozens of them. Even the walls were covered with them. A large African mask hung beside a small tapestry decorated with a magic circle. There was a framed old map up on another wall, sitting beside a crowded cork-board. Along the top of the bookshelves were dolls, figurines, and something that looked Egyptian.

It was probably fake.

Either that, or Wayde had a mummy’s organs, in a canopic jar, on his bookshelf.

“What was he a professor of?” I asked.

“Anthropology.”

I nodded. That answer matched the decor. As I made my way behind Wayde’s desk, I said, “Are you sure he was a professor?”

“Yes?” Jacky said with a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

I picked up the jacket that had been hanging off the back of Wayde’s desk chair. It was tweed. There were patches on the elbows.

“I mean, either this was a man desperately trying to pretend he was a professor, or he was a professor who loved to make fun of himself, because there is no way this is anything but a farce.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nevermind.” I put the jacket back. “I’ve looked around. The whole room is strange.”

“Human strange? Or…more strange?”

I threw my arms up in a massive shrug. After lowering them, I said, “Jacky, what were you hoping I’d see?”

“His soul.”

I stumbled into the desk chair beside me. Then it occurred to me that I was sitting in the chair of the deceased. Just as I was about to get up because of some weirded-out respect for the dead, I realized that, as a dead girl, I had more right to sit in that chair than almost anyone in the world.

“His…soul?”

Jacky nodded.

Even to me, my voice sounded forced. “Sure. Yeah. Okay. What does a soul look like?”

“I can’t say. Each one appears different.”

I did have eyelids, and I did rub them. With vigor. To make up for poor Jacky who must have been at least as exasperated as I was.

“All right. Let’s start from the beginning,” I said. “Can you tell when people are dying?”

Jacky grabbed the second armchair—the one that had been across from Wayde when he was shot—not the bloody one—and turned it so he could see me when he was sitting down.

As he lowered himself into the chair, he said, “Yes, but not in the way you think. I can sense when any living thing is dying in the same way that you can see every single particle of light that passes through your field of vision. There are so many things dying, every moment of every day, that the experience becomes a stream of perception—a flow of sensory experience. The difference is that if I asked you to pick out a single photon, you couldn’t do it, whereas I can focus in on the death of any single being.”

Overcome by the sheer scope of it, I could only mumble my sarcasm: “That must be a nice little talent.”

“That isn’t the important part.”

“What is?”

“I can tell when it goes wrong.”

I won’t lie, I got chills.

Jacky went on. “Trevon Wayde died, but his soul did not pass over. Nor did it get caught. When I came to see what had happened, I could sense no trace of it—”

“But if you can’t even sense it, what good could I do?”

“There are certain magics that can make it difficult for me to sense a disembodied soul. They’re rare, but they exist. If it had been something like that, then you should have been able to see it.”

“Me?”

“Yes, Emerra.”

“I can see souls when you can’t?”

“I think it’s odd how quickly you picked up on the fact I have no vocal cords, but you failed to notice I have no eyes.”

“But I’ve never seen a soul before! Or have I? Would I know what a soul looks like?”

“The people who can see them don’t seem to struggle with identifying what they are.”

My head bobbed in a dumb nod. At that point, I was doing nothing but taking in facts. Sense would have to come later.

“Okay,” I said, “but I don’t see anything that looks like a soul.”

“Yes.” The word was intoned—like a low bell with ominous echoes. “That means it’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“Taken.”

“Someone can take a soul?”

Jacky stood up and turned, but he stopped with his hand still on the back of the armchair. “A few people. Very interesting people. This is a serious matter.”

The tip of his index finger bone tapped on the chair, then he started toward the door. I stood up and followed him.

As we walked toward the front of the house, I said, “What kind of serious are we talking about?”

“That would depend on how interesting they are.”

He took my hand so we could pass through the front door without having to open it or bother with the police tape that was completely failing to do its job.

As we walked down the sidewalk, I jammed my hands into the shallow pockets of my jeans. My sense of guilt and unease grew with every step. When the weight was enough to make my stomach sink, I forced myself to speak.

“Jacky?”

He hummed to show he was listening.

“Jacky, what if…what if my eyes aren’t working? What if the soul was there, but I can’t see it?”

In the privacy of my head, I added, What if I’m no use to you?

“Your eyes are working. If you couldn’t see the soul, it’s because it wasn’t there.”

“You don’t know,” I grumbled.

Jacky stopped and turned to face me.

I raised my voice. “You don’t know! Maybe my eyes are defective or something.”

“I know.”

He sounded Certain. Capital-C—Certain.

“How?” I asked.

“Because the moment you opened your eyes, you saw me for who I was. I’ve been around for a long time, and only one other person has ever managed that feat. They had eyes like yours.”

His eyeless stare was getting heavy. I looked away.

“Trust me, Emerra. Not all of your powers are awake yet, but seeing a soul is a pastry stroll compared to recognizing me.”

We walked in silence for a few feet.

“Jacky, did you mean ‘cake walk?’”