Where You Go ― Jason Grace

xviii. ghost girl vs. ghost goddess

OPHELIA'S BLOOD TURNED to ice-water in her veins. "Wait."  

"Phee?" Leo asked, frowning in her peripheral. "What's wrong?" 

"Hmm," the voice from a moment ago—feminine, scratchy and high-pitched—hummed mockingly. "What is wrong, little ghost whisperer? Shouldn't you feel at home here, among the spirits?"

Ophelia swallowed. "Get behind me," she said. "Both of you." 

"Ophelia, what is it?" Hazel asked.

A figure solidified out of nothing in front of them. Her face was hard to focus on—it shifted, never settling on a face, but Ophelia caught glimpses. She saw her mother's wild eyes; her aunt's rare, battlefield expression; Maren's cruel smile; Matt's face twisted in an unnatural glare. There were other faces, too—faces of legionnaires she'd fought beside, who'd fallen during the Battle of Mount Othrys. 

Behind her, Leo inhaled sharply. His voice was smaller than Ophelia had ever heard it as he whispered, "Mom?" 

Hazel gasped in horror. "No." 

Ophelia caught glimpses of unfamiliar faces—a woman with curly hair just like Leo's, and another who looked like an older version of Hazel. 

Their mothers' ghosts, Ophelia realized. 

But Hazel's mother had passed into the Underworld. And why would Leo's mother's ghost be lingering in Greece, of all places?

The emptiness in her gut filled Ophelia with discomfort. When ghosts were around her, she could always feel them—their energies seeping into her own, trying to steal it so they could manifest into the real world, long enough to finish their business on earth. But with the ghost in front of her, she felt nothing of the sort. 

Because she wasn't a ghost. She had the faces of ghosts, but she was solid. Living, though not the way mortals lived. 

Her name was on the tip of Ophelia's tongue, just out of reach. 

"I've heard much about you, Ophelia Imai," the figure taunted. "You and your mother. She dabbled in the world of ghosts, and now you do." Her voice turned sharp and cold. "It is an insult." 

"What are you talking about?" Ophelia asked. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her sword. 

"Your grandmother thinks she can claim ghosts as her domain." The figure's face settled into  Maren's. "I will show her and her descendants who is the true master of spirits."

Around them, spirits flickered into existence. They weren't entirely solid, but they were more solid than the ghosts Ophelia was used to dealing with. They turned their gazes to Ophelia and their friends, but she saw only contempt in their eyes. 

She felt no tugging at her energy. These ghosts wanted nothing from her—they only wanted to obey their master. 

And their master, with Maren Russell's face, was glaring at Ophelia with pure hatred in her eyes. 

Ophelia knew it was hopeless, but the tiniest part of her still made her try. "Leave us alone!" she commanded, filling her voice with as much power as she could. 

The ghosts did nothing—not even a single one wavered. 

The woman with Maren's face laughed . "You have no power over these ghosts, Ophelia Imai," she snarled. "They are mine to command."

"Ophelia." Hazel's voice trembled, but there was knowing in her voice. "What Hecate told you."

"Do not speak that usurper's name!" the goddess with Maren's face hissed. "She has no power here. I am the goddess of ghosts, not her!"