Chapter 4: Blood Debt Revealed

All I did was buy time.

"Ms. Quinn, have some coffee."

The Blackwell mansion looked even more extravagant in daylight, all marble and gold fixtures.

Sunlight streamed through tall windows, glinting off a crystal chandelier. The place smelled like lemon polish and old money.

Housekeepers started cleaning. This was Mason’s private wing—he never let anyone stay over at night.

If he could turn back time, he’d never have stayed alone.

I sipped coffee, glancing up at the chandelier—had to be worth a small fortune.

Plenty of crystal balls and crosses in the living room, but all for show—no power at all.

Mason was still in shock.

He stared at his trembling hands, as if expecting them to turn transparent.

"Ms. Quinn, can you fix this? I’ll do whatever you want!"

"Of course—"

"No!"

Before I could finish, a woman’s voice cut in.

Mason stood up. "Mom, why are you back?"

It was Mrs. Blackwell, who’d been in Europe but rushed home when she heard her son was haunted.

She stormed in, "How dare you bring some woman home? The internet is blowing up about you two."

I sat there, sipping coffee, unfazed.

Mason hurried to block her. "Mom, what are you saying? This is Ms. Quinn, don’t be ridiculous."

"Me, ridiculous!" Mrs. Blackwell pulled up Facebook. "This woman stripped you on camera last night—it’s trending!"

"Mom, last night was an emergency. Ms. Quinn was saving me."

"Saving you? You’re a grown man, needing some girl to save you? Let me tell you, Mason, I don’t care what you do outside, but anyone you bring home has to have my approval—not some fame-chaser!"

She looked me up and down, eyes full of disdain.

"With a face like that, who knows where she’s been hanging out?"

I slammed my mug down.

"So noisy."

I stood up to leave. Mason panicked and blocked me, "Ms. Quinn, please don’t go. I’ll apologize for my mom!"

He looked desperate, the last thread of bravado gone. I almost felt bad for him.

"Mason, if you don’t kick her out, don’t ever call me mom again!"

I sneered, grabbed Mason’s wrist, making him wince.

"Good luck, Mason."

Mrs. Blackwell, desperate, tried to hit me with her purse.

My maple baton finally couldn’t be contained, pointing straight at her.

"Mrs. Blackwell, I’ll wait for the day you come begging."

She froze, not sure if it was the baton or my words that scared her.

My mentor called to check in.

"You already guessed it was spirit infants, right?"

I checked my Venmo—Mason’s tip was five figures. Not bad. Not bad at all. Gotta admit, that felt good.

But after taking his money, I didn’t bother reading his frantic messages.

Mentor: "That’s right. Mason’s luck looks black, but I calculated the real evil doesn’t come from him, so he shouldn’t die. I didn’t let you act before to teach him a lesson for his wild past.

"As for the forbidden ritual, you need to find out who did it."

His tone went cold: "They can’t be allowed to live."

My eyes narrowed, remembering Mrs. Blackwell’s face.

Her brow was pinched—a sign of endless trouble; her eyes bloodshot—a woman haunted by guilt.

There was a ghost.

Mason showed up even faster than I expected.

I started my stream on time at eight.

The internet’s reach was wild. I saw a video of the shirt-stripping incident, cut with a headline blasting me for indecency.

Heard the Blackwells had hired a bunch of priests and mediums to cleanse the house, but no one knew what happened.

The stream was still popping, mostly people there for the drama.

Of course, I had loyal fans.

[Hmph, taking things out of context. I saw it all last night. This streamer’s the real deal. I learned a little from my grandpa—she’s right.]

[Upstairs, how much per tip? Bring me along.]

[I say, why be a streamer? Just marry into the Blackwells and live large.]

I smiled calmly.

"Don’t say that. Be careful—ghosts might come knocking at midnight."

[You think I’ll believe that?]

Right then, there was a knocking sound.

The chat went wild.

[Whoa! There’s really knocking!]

[Amazing, streamer!]

[Mom! Watching this stream is giving me a heart attack.]

I blinked and apologized, "Sorry, that was from my side."

Viewers: "..."

Sometimes, ghosts aren’t as scary as the living.

When I opened the door, a haggard woman dropped to her knees.

"Ms. Quinn, please, please help me!"

I leaned against the door, indifferent. "Mrs. Blackwell, it was your son who was haunted. Why do you need my help tonight?"

Mason trembled and knelt too.

"Ms. Quinn, my house is crawling with things. My mom and I nearly died."

He pointed to his neck, covered in bruises.

I wasn’t surprised, just raised my brows. "Mm, I figured."

"You figured? You knew all along—why didn’t you save us!" Mrs. Blackwell’s face twisted, eyes fierce, pointing at me.

"You witch! How could you just watch us die! Boohoo!"

A charm flew into her mouth, silencing her.

I flicked my wrist, letting the paper slip between her lips. I’d had enough drama for one night.

"In my place, you dare talk like that? Get out!"

I waved them off.

They left, but their shadows lingered.

These days, Mason Blackwell, prince of Maple Heights, was tipping a small streamer every night, drawing more and more eyes.

Some envied, some hated, some slandered.

When trolls showed up, he shut them down with money.

Even I was impressed by his generosity.

After the stream, I called him.

He answered weakly, "Ms. Quinn, what happened that day was my family’s fault. If you help me through this, I’ll give you anything you want."

"Anything?"

He sensed hope, his tone brightening, "Of course! Of course!"

I smiled. "Wait."

He called after me.

"I’m right outside your door."

Me: "..."

So he’d been camping out here for days.

A few days later, when I returned to the Blackwell mansion, it was surrounded by angry spirits—no one dared live there.

The air was thick with fog, the kind that clings to your skin and makes you check over your shoulder.

"Ms. Quinn, you look serious—is it…"

I rubbed my fingers, frowning. "Today’s the seventh day."

Mason was confused. "Whose seventh day?"

I looked at him. "Yours."

He recoiled in horror, swallowing hard.

"What kind of joke is that? I’m alive and well."

I shook my head solemnly.

"No. Remember what I said the first time I saw you?

"Your life is borrowed. You should’ve died ten years ago. Today, ten years ago, was your seventh day."

The reason I came again was that I’d finally figured out the spirit infants’ story. If the killer wasn’t found, this place would become a haunted house—or worse, a disaster.

Mason trembled, hand shaking.

Honestly, before all this, he’d never have believed in ghosts. But after I read his fortune, everything got weird.

He looked miserable.

"Why am I so unlucky? Is this payback for my wild past?"

I held a bell, face blank, and walked forward.

"Ms. Quinn, what are you doing?"