THE FIRST NOVEL IN THE USA TODAY BESTSELLING ALEX CRAFT SERIES! Grave witch Alex Craft can speak to the dead, but that doesn’t mean she likes what they have to say. As a private investigator and consultant for the police, Alex Craft has seen a lot of dark magic. But even though she's on good terms with Death himself, nothing has prepared her for her latest case. When she's raising a "shade" involved in a high profile murder, it attacks her, and then someone makes an attempt on her life. Someone really doesn't want her to know what the dead have to say, and she'll have to work with mysterious homicide detective Falin Andrews to figure out why.... Praise for the  USA Today  bestselling Alex Craft novels   “A rare treat, intriguing and original. Don’t miss this one.”—Patricia Briggs, #1  New York Times  bestselling author   “An endlessly entertaining world....Alex Craft is quickly becoming one of the heavy-hitting protagonists in urban fantasy.”—All Things Urban Fantasy   “Fascinating magic, a delicious heartthrob, and a fresh, inventive world.”—Chloe Neill,  New York Times  bestselling author   “If you love urban fantasy, DO NOT miss out on this series.”—Kings River Life Magazine   “This series is more addictive than chocolate.”—Huntress Book Reviews   “A truly original and compelling urban fantasy series.”— RT Book Reviews Kalayna Price  is the  USA Today  bestselling author of the Alex Craft novels including Grave Ransom ,  Grave Visions ,  Grave Memory ,  Grave Dance , and  Grave Witch . Ms. Price draws her ideas from the world around her, her studies into ancient mythologies, and her obsession with classic folklore. CHAPTER ONE The first time I encountered Death, I hurled my mother's medical chart at him. As far as impressions went, I blew it, but I was five at the time, so he eventually forgave me. Some days I wished he hadn't—particularly when we crossed paths on the job. "Ms. Craft, this is beyond unacceptable." Henry Baker accented the statement with a plump fist slicing the air before his face. Behind him loomed Death. Eighteen years of practice kept my gaze off the jeans-clad soul collector and on my client, whose face darkened from cherry red to bruised purple. I fingered the spray of funeral lilies at my side, dreading the direction this conversation was taking. "Our contract stipulated I raise the shade. I did." Baker swatted aside my protest. "You promised me results." "I said you could ask your questions." I leaned against his father's coffin. It wasn't exactly respectful, but I'd just shoved the senior Baker's shade back into his body two hours before his funeral. Respect had nothing to do with this job. But hey, a paycheck is a paycheck. Baker turned on his heel and stomped across the aisle. I waited. I knew what was coming. Baker was a fortune hunter—a failed one at that—and I'd worked with his like before. Death followed in Baker's wake. He exaggerated each heavy step, mocking the chubby man's jerky movements. All the while, a grin clung to his lips, his dark eyes never leaving me. This had better be a social visit. I met his gaze, pleading, warning—I didn't care which—him to leave my client alone. He flashed a row of perfectly straight teeth, which didn't tell me anything. Baker continued to pace. Well, best get this part over quickly. "According to our contract, you can pay by cash, check, or money order. Will you need a receipt?" Baker jerked to a stop. His eyes bulged, the skin hanging from his cheeks shaking. "I refuse to pay for this." Here we go. I shoved away from the casket. "Listen, mister, you wanted a shade raised. I raised a shade. If dear old dad didn't say what you wanted, well, that's your problem, not mine. We have a binding agreement and if—" He dropped his fist, and his eyes flew wide, startled. That was simpler than I expected. I let out a breath to purge the rant from my tongue and pasted on my professional smile. "Now, will you need a receipt?" Baker gripped his chest and wheezed. Once. Twice. Then, in slow motion, his neck twisted and his gaze moved over his shoulder. The amusement melted from Death's face. Oh crap. Angel of Death, Soul Collector, Grim Reaper—whatever you called him, most people saw him only once. He strolled forward, and Baker stumbled back a step. Crap. I jumped from the casket platform. "Don't." Too late. Death reached into Baker's pudgy torso, and the color leached from my client's face. He swayed. Death stepped back, and Baker blinked once more before crumpling. A scream rang from the corner of the room, followed by the clatter of chairs. The funeral director sprinted up the aisle, Baker's wife and teenage son behind him. His assistant, her eyes already glistening, fumbled a phone from her waistband. "Nine-one-one," she said as Baker the third—and last remaining—pumped his father's chest. Poor kid. I crept away from the commotion. Giving the family space was all I could really do. Death had already collected the soul—there wasn't a