Page 30 of Beasts of Shadows #1

“Historical reenactment,” Cat corrects, snorting.

Bri floats past like a night sky given legs. Her dress is deep violet, stitched with silver constellations, and her moon crown gleams like something stolen from a lunar temple. Her heels are too high, her lips too perfect, her smirk too knowing.

She doesn’t look at me. She only has eyes for Cat.

“Gods, could Reema be more obvious?”

I don’t have to turn. Picca’s voice always slices through like glass.

She appears at my side in a swirl of charcoal velvet, eyes rimmed in kohl, the tips of her braids dyed ice-blue for the occasion. She’s dressed like a storm given skin—sharp, cold, inevitable.

“You’re just mad she beat you to the whole blood goddess thing,” I say.

Picca’s mouth twitches. “Please. If I wanted to wear a massacre, I’d wear red better than that.” She eyes Reema with disdain, then adds under her breath, “she doesn’t deserve a Hound like him.”

I raise a brow. “Jealous?”

“Of them?” She scoffs. “I have higher standards. And far better taste.”

Her gaze flicks down to me—and stills.

She takes in the fitted black bodysuit, the stitched constellations blooming across my shoulders, the bare arms and bare throat.

“Well, well ,” she drawls, tilting her head. “Who do you have your eye on tonight?”

“No one.”

“Please.” Picca crosses her arms over her chest and studies the hill. “No one dresses like that without wanting a bed buddy. I hope it’s not Sumner. I don’t care what the deal is between you two—some lines shouldn’t be crossed.”

I choke on a laugh, imaging what Ravi might say to that. “Wow. Tell me how you really feel.”

She flicks her braids over one shoulder, unimpressed. “I did. And I’ll say it again if you so much as look at him sideways.”

“I’m not looking at anyone sideways.”

“Sure you aren’t.” Picca’s gaze sweeps the clearing again, sharp and hungry. “Well, whether you admit it or not, someone’s going to crawl into your bed tonight. Maybe not for long. Maybe not even for sleep.”

“It’s not prophecy,” I mutter.

“No,” she says, eyes glittering. “Just hope. And the way you’re dressed? You’re practically spelling it in stardust.”

“Come on, shadow girl. Let’s give the dead something to talk about.”

Picca drags me to the cider tent.

Nikolai’s already there, sleeves rolled and smile easy, handing out metal cups from a bubbling silver pot like some charming, curly-haired camp counselor.

“Don’t drink that one,” he warns Ta?sse, nudging her cup aside. “It’s laced.”

She arches a brow, still oblivious to our presence. “With what?”

“Joy. Mischief. Maybe rum.”

“You absolute menace,” she says fondly, but still takes a sip.

Nikolai’s attention shifts my way, and his mood immediately sours.

“Oh, cheer up, buttercup,” Picca says, patting his cheek like she’s not half a head shorter than him. “It’s a party. Even mortals are allowed to have fun.”

Nikolai catches her wrist midair—not hard, but firm. His smile stays, but it’s thinner now. “Careful, little carnal. I might take you seriously.”

“Try it,” she purrs, pulling free. “See what happens.”

He lets her go. Turns to me.

And just like that, the air shifts.

His gaze drags over me slowly, all pretense of charm gone. Just assessment now. Calculation. Hunger wrapped in velvet.

“Interesting choice,” he says, voice like velvet over a blade.

I arch a brow. “For the cider or the outfit?”

“Yes.”

He hands me a cup. Doesn’t let go right away.

I don’t either.

For one breath, we just stand there, fingers brushing around the tin rim, firelight catching in the glint of his eyes.

Then I take it.

And I don’t thank him.

His smirk returns—lazy, amused, dangerous. “Careful, Harper. That one’s laced, too.”

“With what?”

His smile deepens. “Me.”

Ta?sse frowns.

Picca snorts beside me. “Oh, please.” She hooks her arm through mine and steers me away like I’m luggage. “We’re not doing this tonight. Come on, Nari. Let’s find someone worth undressing.”

I toss one last glance over my shoulder.

Nikolai’s still watching.

But thankfully, he doesn’t follow.

#

Picca eventually wanders off to join her carnal friends planning an orgy.

I turn down the invite. I may have adapted to a lot around here, but I’ve never been one for exhibitionism.

Instead, I find my cousins by the still burning bonfire.

Cat’s got her arms around Bri’s waist, guiding her through some makeshift dance, their laughter cutting through the smoke. It’s loud. Warm. Real.

“You survived another major ritual without dying.” Cody loops an arm around my shoulder, cider in his other hand. “That calls for a toast.”

“To what?” I ask, raising my cup.

He pretends to think. “To…reckless decision-making.”

I knock my cup lightly against his. “So…to a regular Saturday, then.”

Cody grins, wide and familiar.

The fire cracks louder behind us. Someone starts a drum rhythm again, this one looser—more percussion circle than ceremony. The kind of beat that makes you want to move even if you don’t know the steps.

Geneir grabs Reema’s hand and spins her in a slow, dramatic twirl. Cat whoops. Bri rolls her eyes but joins in. The circle around the flames fills with students dancing, jumping, letting go.

Cody nudges me. “You could dance.”

“I could.”

“But?”

I lift a brow. “Who am I going to dance with?”

The beat stutters. My vision blurs—just for a second. Just long enough to catch the flash of a hoodie between the trees.

A frayed cuff. Faded black. Familiar posture.

Familiar ache.

My breath catches.

Cody doesn’t notice. He’s still looking at the fire, muttering something about the lyceans starting a mosh pit.

But I can’t hear him.

I can’t hear anything.

Because my grandfather’s standing just beyond the firelight. Sam .

His hands are loose at his sides, and his face is cast in flickering shadow. He’s not smiling.

He’s waiting.

I set my cider down.

“Nari?” Cody calls, but I’m already turning away.

Reema catches my eye. Her brow knits. “Where are you—?”

“Bathroom,” I lie. “Be right back.”

The words taste like ash, but I say them anyway.

I step out of the circle and into the trees. The music fades. The fire disappears behind me.

The moment I pass the first line of pines, the cold hits.

Sam doesn’t move.

I stop five feet away. “Why now?”

I know the answer, of course. Spirits are only free tonight.

The fire is long behind me. So is the noise.

I don’t know why I wander this far from the others—only that something tugs. Not a vision. Not a whisper. Just a pull in my gut, like gravity rerouted.

I walk until the bonfire’s glow is nothing but a smear on the horizon. Until the woods hush. Until I can hear my own breath, ragged and real.

The wind shifts.

And I feel him.

Not see.

Not yet.

But the surrounding cold deepens, and something inside me tightens. It’s not fear. It’s not even dread. It’s recognition.

The trees bend like they remember him. The ground stiffens beneath my feet.

Then—he’s there.

Seated beneath the bare skeleton of an ash tree, legs crossed like a tired god, or a soldier who finally put down his weapon. His form is more suggestion than flesh: hazy at the edges, translucent in the center. But I know that profile.

I’ve only seen it once. In a vision.

Samuel Ross.

My grandfather.

I step closer.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just sits, hands folded over a battered leather journal that could be a twin to the one Cody keeps in his room. The ash tree sways above him, iron branches casting shadows like a crown.

The moment I’m near, it hits.

Not words, because ghosts can’t speak. But images.

A younger version of him—pale skin and wind-creased eyes—standing beside a girl with my father’s curls and stare. A hospital room. A screaming child. A choice made in silence.

Sam turns, hollow-eyed, lips stitched tight by death. He looks at me—straight through the years, through blood and choice and whatever veil holds ghosts back.

And what he shows me next is not the past. It’s prophecy. Me—kneeling in a salt circle, hands stained, a crown just out of reach. Someone is at my feet. I don’t know who.

But I think I loved them.

Another flash. Quicker this time.

A bone carving. Unlike Ashki’s seal, this is a turtle. Floating. Burning. The eclipse mark glowing beneath my skin.

Then…

The ash tree.

Sam. Back under it. Holding his journal out.

I step forward, heart pounding, and kneel. But there’s nothing in his hands now. Just mist.

Still, I understand.

Not a memory. A message.

You have more than you were told. You come from both. You are the storm and the shield.

His eyes flick to the mark on my leg—the one shaped like an eclipse, hidden just above the curve of my thigh. Then to the horizon. To where Cody waits. To where the past can no longer guide me.

And I know, without a single word:

You won’t find your future in the past.

But you’ll need it to survive what’s coming.

A single gust tears through the clearing.

When I blink, he’s gone.

No final look.

No goodbye.

Just the silence of the dead. And the weight of everything he couldn’t say.