Pathological Possession: Even Death Will Not Part Us-Chapter 101: Caught Up

Mr. Ghost disliked the perpetual darkness and emptiness of Cryos. Looking out, all he saw was endless glaciers and frozen snow; even the streets at the town center were deserted, unbearably lonely and desolate.

They drove through the entire small town. Eleanor sat in the back seat, clutching a backpack. Inside lay two hundred thousand Euros.

At the current exchange rate, that’s two million yuan, roughly equal to two hundred fifty-seven thousand Euros.

But their identities weren’t real, and they used underground channels. After adjusting for the rate and commission, being able to keep two hundred thousand was already thanks to Mr. Ghost’s years of friendship.

Eleanor planned to use the money to settle down. Among The Five Kingdoms of Nordheim, Mr. Ghost recommended Froskar. This was the perfect season to view the Northern Lights, and best of all, people in Froskar were severe introverts, with low settlement costs—so long as she could stand staying indoors, she wouldn’t fear being found again.

"What are you thinking about?" Mr. Ghost glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "In a bit, you’ll take the boat to Froskar. First thing after landing is finding someone to process your residency—I’ve got connections, it’ll be done by tomorrow. Then immediately set up a bank account, deposit your money, buy a house, furniture, I’ll check all the utilities for you. Once that’s done, it’s time for me to head back home."

The road out of captivity, reaching this point, was basically at its end.

Eleanor was safe now. She relaxed a little, her eyes smiling, "I never noticed before—you can fix utilities too, boss. A real jack-of-all-trades artist."

Mr. Ghost was momentarily stunned. "The tone—am I a taxi driver to you? No, hold on, ’jack-of-all-trades’ is praise, but add ’artist’ and it’s almost sarcastic."

Eleanor shook her head. "It’s not sarcasm, it’s gratitude—calling you a hero. But if I mention age, it sounds wrong; saying you’re knowledgeable is shallow, not enough. Adding ’artist’ along with other jobs hints at true mastery."

"In my heart, you’re not a snakehead. Because you’d never help those criminals actually wanted by the state. You help people like me, driven down by personal vendettas with nowhere to go. Mr. Ghost, you’re the Ferryman."

"..." Mr. Ghost said, "And you’re no spoiled rich girl, you and President Sinclair—very alike."

Eleanor hadn’t expected him to bring up Damian Sinclair again. "You seem to really admire him?"

Mr. Ghost nodded, lifting his eyes to glance at her from the mirror, but his expression changed instantly.

Eleanor’s heart skipped. She didn’t bother asking questions, just turned her head to look out the rear window.

Less than two hundred meters away, two black Range Rovers, like steel-fanged panthers, sped side by side toward them.

In the blink of an eye, they closed another hundred meters—the threat even clearer than the license plates on their grills.

"Hold tight, put your seatbelt on." Mr. Ghost shifted gears. When the two cars began to split to box them in, he yanked the wheel hard. The vehicle shot off the road like a wild bull, charging directly onto the snow plains.

Because of the cold climate, Cryos had few forests—just shrubs, lichen, and grassland.

The two cars behind probably weren’t locals—they didn’t know the terrain like Mr. Ghost. Eleanor kept reporting their position: fifty meters to the left, stretching to the left slope at three hundred meters, zigzagging past two clumps of bushes.

Through the rear window now, all that remained was Cryos’s dim skies and the vague clarity carved by the snow. In this boundless stretch between earth and sky, the roar of engines giving chase gradually faded into the swirling snowdust.

Eleanor didn’t allow herself to relax for a second. She glanced at Mr. Ghost, whose face was grim as he sped onto a narrow path, accelerating instead of slowing down. "I’ve got no enemies here, that I’m sure of. Those two are after you."

Eleanor’s scalp prickled. "Did our info get leaked?"

Mr. Ghost replied, "I’m the Ferryman. I know every detail along this route. Check your belongings—see if there’s any trackers or signal transmitters."

Eleanor froze.

Mr. Ghost caught the look in the rearview. "Right. I bet you’ve never dealt with this kind of thing before. Even if I asked you to check, you probably wouldn’t know what to look for."

"My suitcase only has clothes—zip-up styles, pullover hoodies."

When she bought clothes, she never picked those with buttons. Too easy to undo, too easy to take off, too ’convenient.’

"The suitcase went through customs checks four or five times. Shouldn’t be anything else in there." Eleanor’s lips trembled uncontrollably. "Except that hair clip—I’ve kept it close the whole time."

Mr. Ghost was silent. "Your enemy’s planning to chase you to the ends of the earth, aren’t they?"

Eleanor didn’t answer. She gazed back out the rear window, feeling that behind the thick fog, there was another invisible shackle waiting.

Half an hour later, they reached the wharf. They’d booked the soonest boat, but after that long detour through the snow plains, they arrived just as the gate attendant was about to close the gates.

Mr. Ghost grabbed her suitcase and rushed forward, leaping three steps at a time. At the last possible second before the gate closed, he wedged the case through, shouting back, "Hurry! If this boat leaves, we’ll have to wait another two hours—who knows, those bastards could catch up."

Eleanor darted through, showing her ticket info to the stunned attendant who’d tried to block her.

Mr. Ghost squeezed through, bracing the gate. The attendant just shrugged, made no fuss.

Eleanor finally breathed out.

Mr. Ghost urged her onto the boat. "Life in Nordheim moves slowly. It’s not like home, where it’s jets and rockets here, it’s grandmas walking across the street. Day-to-day life’s not aggressive, so if you stand out, no one cares. But everyone’s mentally fragile—when the snow melts, the mud triggers thousands of cases of depression every year—"

Eleanor had traveled all around Europe before, just like a Chinese tour group—eating, snapping pictures, ticking off the sights. She’d never really gotten to know the locals’ lives. Listening to Mr. Ghost now, she found it interesting, but he was staring at the shore, suddenly cutting himself off.

Eleanor’s heart thumped hard, and she glanced back again.

............

Since the last time Cillian Grant and Mrs. Grant clashed head-to-head, this morning when he returned to the Grant Family home, he was composed and poised, his face placid and unreadable.

But his patience was even more threadbare. After a brief greeting to Mrs. Grant, he went straight upstairs to his room.

Mrs. Grant couldn’t accept his coldness. After breakfast, she tried going upstairs several times, but Mr. Grant stopped her each time.

"You’re his mother, not his maid." Mr. Grant took her to Phoebe Grant’s room. "Liam Xavier’s uncle tried currying favor with me and sent a piece of Ice Purple Jade Material. You and Phoebe should see a designer about a sketch. If all goes well, you two can wear it at the end of the month for Phoebe’s wedding."

Mrs. Grant adored the gentle energy of jade. On her wrist was the Tourmaline Bracelet Cillian had given her.

That day, he’d just returned from a business trip to Indigo Province.

Everyone in the family received a thoughtful gift.

Phoebe got youthful, energetic earrings. Mr. Grant received a jade faux pipe—a subtle hint to cut back on sneaky smoking.

Only Eleanor had nothing. The reason was cold and blunt, no room for sentiment.

With such obvious loathing, it couldn’t possibly have been his choice.

Mr. Grant understood her feelings, placed an arm around her shoulder, and saw her to the car.

When the tail-lights vanished at the gate, Secretary Rhodes appeared from somewhere, saying, "Madam, I’m afraid this is too much—"

A gardener watered the flowers nearby. Knowing how gossip spreads, Secretary Rhodes swallowed the second half—"Eleanor is pregnant."

"Grace is sentimental, you know. She sides with her own, not with reason." Mr. Grant’s gaze was tender, "She cares more about children than anything. That troublemaker couldn’t possibly be Cillian’s; it must be Eleanor’s."