The emergency room smelled like disinfectant and fear.
I'd followed the ambulance to Seattle General, staying far enough back to avoid questions but close enough to see them wheel Damian through the automatic doors. Now I sat in the parking lot, trying to figure out how to get inside without blowing my cover.
The problem was simple: I wasn't family. I wasn't even a real doctor. I was just a woman who'd caused a man to have a seizure by pretending to be his therapist.
Not exactly visiting privileges material.
But I had to try. Mark's spirit was trapped inside Damian's mind, and this might be my only chance to communicate with him while Damian was unconscious. While whatever barriers normally kept Mark locked away might be weakened.
I walked into the ER and approached the information desk. The clerk was a middle-aged woman with tired eyes and the patience of someone who dealt with distraught families all day.
"I'm looking for Damian Grey," I said. "He was brought in about an hour ago. Seizure."
"Are you family?"
I'd prepared for this. "I'm his therapist. Dr. Sarah Mitchell. I was with him when it happened."
She typed something into her computer. "He's been admitted for observation. Third floor, room 312. But visiting hours end at eight."
I glanced at the wall clock. 7:15. Plenty of time.
"Thank you."
The elevator ride to the third floor felt endless. When the doors opened, I was hit with the familiar hospital atmosphere—fluorescent lights, beeping machines, the quiet urgency of people fighting for life and health.
Room 312 was halfway down the hall. Through the small window in the door, I could see Damian lying in the narrow bed. He looked smaller somehow, more vulnerable. Wires connected him to monitors that tracked his heart rate and brain activity. His face was pale against the white pillowcase.
I knocked gently and pushed the door open.
"Damian? It's Dr. Mitchell."
No response. The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound.
I pulled a chair close to his bedside and sat down. Up close, I could see the stress lines around his eyes, the way his hands lay clenched even in unconsciousness. Like he was fighting something even in sleep.
"I don't know if you can hear me," I said quietly. "But I wanted to check on you. Make sure you're okay."
His breathing was steady but shallow. The monitors showed normal vital signs, but there was something about his expression—a tightness around his mouth, like he was concentrating on something difficult.
I reached for his hand.
The moment our skin touched, the familiar chill raced up my arm. But this time it was different. Stronger. Like touching a live wire instead of ice water.
Mark's presence flooded my consciousness immediately.
Ivy. His voice in my mind was clearer than it had ever been. Finally. He's unconscious. I can speak freely for a few minutes.
"Mark?" I whispered aloud, though I knew he could hear my thoughts.
I'm here, sweetheart. I'm so sorry you had to find me this way.
Tears sprang to my eyes. This was the Mark I remembered—gentle, loving, concerned for my wellbeing even in the middle of his own crisis.
How long have you been trapped?
Since the night I died. Weber drugged me at dinner, then used some kind of binding ritual to attach my spirit to this man. But something went wrong. Instead of controlling him like Weber planned, my consciousness got stuck inside his mind.
What was Weber trying to do?
Control him. Make him into a weapon. Weber's been using his family's old magic for years—binding spirits to living people, then using the spirits to influence their hosts. But I was too strong. Too angry. The binding backfired.
I squeezed Damian's hand tighter, feeling Mark's spiritual energy pulse through the connection.
Why didn't you try to contact me sooner?
I did try. Every night for three months. But when he's conscious, I can barely surface. His mind fights me. It's only when he's asleep or unconscious that I can take control.
The heart monitor's beeping seemed louder now. Damian's face was peaceful, but I could feel the struggle happening inside his mind—two consciousnesses sharing one brain, one body.
Mark, what really happened that night?
Weber found out I was investigating him. I'd discovered he was using bound spirits to manipulate business deals, steal money, eliminate competitors. When I threatened to expose him, he decided to eliminate me.
But why use Damian? Why not just... kill you normally?
Because Weber's not just a criminal, Ivy. He's building something. An empire based on supernatural control. He needed to test his methods, perfect his techniques. I was his test subject.
"And Damian?"
Damian was supposed to be the murder weapon. Weber chose him because he was isolated, vulnerable. No family to ask questions. Weber drugged him, bound my spirit to his consciousness, then planned to make him drive into me.
My blood ran cold. "So Damian really was innocent?"
Completely. He had no idea what was happening. Weber turned him into a puppet.
I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of everything I'd learned. Damian Grey wasn't my husband's killer—he was another victim. Weber had destroyed three lives that night: Mark's, mine, and Damian's.
What does Weber want now?
He knows you're investigating. He's been watching you since you started looking into my files. Ivy, you have to—
Mark's voice cut off abruptly. Damian's hand went rigid in mine, then started to pull away.
Mark?
But something else had entered the connection. Something cold and alien and wrong. A presence that felt like spiders crawling across my consciousness.
Leave him alone.
The voice wasn't Mark's. It was older, harsher. Full of authority and barely contained rage.
You're interfering with something you don't understand, girl.
I tried to pull my hand away from Damian's, but couldn't. The alien presence held me in place, flooding my mind with images that weren't my own.
An old man in Victorian clothing, holding a silver ring. A woman screaming as shadows poured from her eyes. A dozen different faces, all with the same look of hollow desperation—spirits bound against their will.
Weber's family has been practicing soul magic for generations. You cannot stop what has been building for over a century.
"Let go of me," I said aloud.
But the presence only pressed closer.
Your husband was a fool to challenge us. Just as you are a fool to continue his work.
Fear shot through me. This wasn't Weber himself—it was something else. Something attached to the ring Mark had mentioned. A spirit Weber was using to monitor and control his other victims.
You will stop your investigation. You will forget what you've learned. Or you will join your husband in eternal servitude.
The connection shattered like glass.
I jerked my hand away from Damian's, gasping. The room felt normal again—just medical equipment and antiseptic smells. But my skin was crawling where the alien spirit had touched my mind.
Damian's eyes opened.
"Dr. Mitchell?" His voice was hoarse, confused. "What happened? Why am I in the hospital?"
"You had a seizure during our session," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "You've been unconscious for about two hours."
He tried to sit up, winced, and fell back against the pillows. "I remember talking to you. Then... voices. Arguing. Someone was very angry."
My heart hammered. "What kind of voices?"
"Two different ones. One sounded familiar, like a friend trying to warn me about something. The other one..." He shuddered. "It felt evil. Ancient. Like it wanted to hurt me."
Mark and Weber's guardian spirit. They'd been fighting for control of Damian's consciousness while I watched.
"Do you remember what they were arguing about?"
"Something about a ring. And someone named..." He frowned, struggling to remember. "Weber? They kept saying that name. Weber."
A nurse poked her head into the room. "Mr. Grey? You're awake. How are you feeling?"
"Confused," he said honestly. "But better."
"The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation. Make sure there are no more episodes." She checked his IV line and made a note on his chart. "Dr. Mitchell, visiting hours are over in ten minutes."
I nodded. "Of course."
When the nurse left, Damian looked at me with an expression I couldn't read. "Dr. Mitchell, I know this sounds crazy, but I feel like I know you. Not from today, but from before. Like we've met in dreams or something."
Because Mark's memories were bleeding through. Because my husband's spirit had been showing Damian pieces of our life together.
"Trauma can create false memories," I said gently. "It's more common than you'd think."
But even as I said it, I knew he was right. We were connected now, all three of us. Mark's spirit, Damian's mind, and my own consciousness, all tangled together by Weber's magic.
"Will I see you again?" Damian asked. "For therapy, I mean?"
I gathered my purse, trying to think of an answer that wasn't a complete lie. "I think you might benefit from a different kind of treatment. Someone who specializes in your specific type of... episodes."
Which was true, in a way. Damian needed a exorcist, not a psychologist.
"Dr. Mitchell?" He caught my hand as I stood to leave. The touch sent a jolt through me, but this time it was just human warmth. No spiritual connection. Mark's presence was buried too deep for casual contact to reach.
"Thank you. For staying with me today. I know it's not standard procedure, but... it helped. Having someone here who understands."
I looked down at him—this man who'd become an unwilling prison for my husband's soul, who'd been turned into a weapon against his will, who was fighting a battle inside his own mind that he didn't even understand.
"Get some rest, Damian. And if the voices come back, try not to listen to the angry one. Listen to the one that sounds like a friend."
I squeezed his hand gently, then let go and walked toward the door.
"Dr. Mitchell?" he called after me.
I turned back.
"Be careful," he said. His eyes were clear, alert. For just a moment, I could have sworn I saw something familiar in them. Something that looked like Mark's concern for my safety.
"There are people who don't want you to help me. Dangerous people."
The warning sent chills down my spine. But I just nodded and walked out of the room.
In the elevator, I finally let myself feel the full weight of everything I'd learned. Mark was definitely trapped inside Damian's mind. Weber was using supernatural forces to build some kind of criminal empire. And now Weber's guardian spirit knew I was investigating.
Which meant I was probably already marked for death.
But as the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, one thought kept echoing in my mind:
Damian Grey was innocent. He was as much a victim as Mark and I were.
And if Weber's magic could trap one soul, it could trap others.
How many people was Weber controlling? How many spirits had he bound against their will?
And what would happen to Mark—and to Damian—if I couldn't find a way to break the binding before Weber decided to eliminate all the evidence?