Page 40 of Beasts of Shadows #1

The door creaks open before I knock.

Of course it does.

The room is dim—candles burning low in their iron sconces, shadows licking the stone walls like something half-starved. Charms hang from the ceiling like the trophies of a war priestess—bone, brass, thorn. The air bites cold, sharp with crushed cedar and ozone.

In Picca’s private lair, I feel like I’m in the medieval times, instead of the mid-nineties.

Picca is already barefoot in the center of the chalked circle, a long black shawl cascading off her shoulders like smoke given shape. She stands tall, still, waiting like someone who doesn’t need to announce her power—only to be obeyed.

She doesn’t look up when I enter.

But she knows. Of course she knows.

She cocks a brow without turning. “Your shadow got here first. It’s been pacing. Loudly.”

I shut the door behind me. “I walked the long way.”

“You never take the long way,” she says, finally turning. Her gaze slices over me—measuring, unimpressed. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Her lips twitch—not a smile. Something sharper. “Then why do you look like you’ve been holding your breath for days? Afraid you’ll exhale and say something true?”

I don’t answer. There’s no way she can see what happened between Nikolai and I.

I double checked all day—no one else can see the mark on my wrist. Unless there’s something about her psychic powers?

If Picca sees it—sees him —it’s over. She won’t be quiet.

She’ll tell Ravi. Tell Dr. Kite. Gods, tell my aunt .

And once they know… I’m not sure what they’ll do. But I can’t say I’d blame them.

I cross to the mirrorless table, fingers skimming the oils.

“Are we doing this or not?”

She pauses—just long enough to draw blood with silence.

“There’s something new in you,” she says softly. “Something trying too hard to seem like it’s always been there.”

Perhaps what Reema did only concealed my mark from most everyone. Picca doesn’t play by mortal rules. She has a third eye; senses things that don’t want to be seen.

If she sees it—sees Nikolai—it’s over.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Liar.” Her voice is like flint.

I look up. “Are we joining sight today, or just playing riddler and judge?”

Her grin is sudden. Bright. Cruel. “Both.”

She steps into the circle and extends a hand—nails lacquered like shattered bone. A threat disguised as an invitation.

I take it. Her sight, her aura, probes mine—not just for color or shape, but for fault lines. Secrets. The air tenses.

But just before we breach the veil…

“Are you ready for the solstice?”

I blink. “What?”

Her smile slices. “Two weeks. About. Formal. Required. And very, very telling. It will be your chance to meet the competition.”

I drop my hands, wondering why she’s bringing all this up now. I thought we were going to break fate’s veil today. To glimpse whatever it is Roz—the goddess of fate, Nikolai’s actual mother—has been hiding from us. From me.

I tried prying details out of Nikolai the other night, on the way back from the duel. He just said his mother only ever gives you enough to move her pieces where she wants them.

“The Hag?”

“Don’t call her that to her face,” Picca warns. “But yes. She spends the solstice with us, then works her way to the other institutes in the US and Celtic pantheon. The Scots host the biggest festival for her—a three-day thing. She won’t be back until just before spring.”

Sometime before my birthday, I imagine.

“Why are you telling me this?” I wonder.

“Two reasons.” Picca tosses her fine dark chocolate hair over her shoulder. “The first is that you can fool a lot of people with that silly enchantment on your skin,” she beckons to my arm, “but you won’t fool the Mother of the Gods . I take it Sumner hasn’t seen what you’ve done, yet?”

“I’m fully capable of making my own decisions,” I snap, even as I tug my shirt lower down my arms.

“ Nikolai , though?” Picca wonders. “His smell is all over you. What could the Prince of Poison Promises possibly offer you?”

The nickname lands like a slap—too clever, too cruel, too close to the truth.

I force myself to meet her eyes, but something twists in my stomach.

Should I tell her? That he isn’t just some entitled shade with a god complex—he’s a full-blooded deity. A maker of gods. A breaker of vows.

That I let him mark me. That I marked him back.

That I married him.

No.

Not yet.

If I say it out loud, it becomes real.

And I’m not ready to admit I might have chosen this. That I might have wanted it.

“I mean, of all the people to bind yourself to—.”

“I won a duel,” I retort.

“Sounds like you lost, if you’re stuck with him,” Picca replies.

I clench my jaw.

“The second thing?”

I brace myself.

The first thing was a warning.

The second will be worse.

Because if anyone can see past the veil I’ve woven around the truth—it’s her.

Picca tilts her head, that cruel smile curling again. “You need to pick someone to bring to the solstice.”

I blink. “What?”

“It’s expected,” she says, dragging a clawed finger lazily through the air between us. “Public claim. Symbolic alignment. Who you walk in with tells everyone exactly where you stand. And who you stand with.”

My mouth goes dry.

“And let’s be real—Sumner can’t go with you. Calea can’t see him. Can’t know his curse is broken, yet. And whatever this is with Nikolai—he would be an equally disastrous date. You just can’t go alone. That only works for oracles and recluses. You’ve made yourself far too interesting for that.”

I don’t respond. Can’t.

“So choose carefully. Because once you walk through those doors, there’s no more pretending. About anything.”

Picca’s smile sharpens.

“I think I’ll ask Genier.”

“What?”

“To the Feast,” she says, like it’s a foregone conclusion. “He’ll look lovely in black. I want someone with good bone structure if I have to suffer through court hymns.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious.” She examines her nails like they bore her. “It’s everyone else who thinks I’m joking when I say exactly what I mean.”

“He’s with Reema.”

“For now.”

“He’s in love with her. And…she doesn’t deserve that. She’s a good person.”

“On paper,” Picca retorts. “Everyone’s got something to hide, though, and your Zerelli is no different. I’ll figure something out, and then…Geneir will be mine.”

I drop my head in my hand. What has happened to our training for today?

“Why are you so obsessed with him?” I demand.

Picca only grins—wolfish and unrepentant.

“Because he’s beautiful,” she says simply. “And strong-willed. I want to see what makes him crack.”

I gape at her. “You want him like… like a science experiment?”

“I want him like a mirror,” she corrects. “To see what reflects back when I break the surface.”

“That’s—.”

“Unkind? Unethical? Unwise?” She steps back into the center of the circle, twirling one finger in a lazy loop. “Pick your poison, Harper. You’ve clearly already picked one of your own.”

I flinch.

The silence stretches again, weighted now. Thicker.

Then, finally, she looks at me—not through me this time, but at me. And something in her expression stills. Less cruel now. Almost… curious.

“I’m not judging you, Nari,” she says. “I’m probably the only one who actually wouldn’t.

But you need to get yourself under control before Calea arrives.

Your emotions, your premonitions. Everything about you right now screams something’s up, and Calea’s crew will narrow in on it.

And then…well, she may not wait until your birthday to sacrifice you.

While she promised no blood this year, let’s not give her a reason to change her mind. ”

I stare at her hand—already extended, open.

Same lacquered nails. Same sharp edge.

But this time, it’s not a threat.

It’s an offer.

I exhale slowly. Then step forward and take it.

The pull is immediate—quicker than before. More violent. Like something has been waiting. Like the veil wants to be opened now.

Our auras snap together, sparks of violet and dark red peeling off like heat from a forge. The circle burns bright, then dims, pulsing in time with our breath.

Picca’s voice threads low through the space between us. “Focus. Think of what you need. What you fear. What’s already in motion.”

I try.

I do.

But I can feel her consciousness brushing mine—brushing too close. I tighten my grip, just slightly, trying to hold the enchantment in place.

It holds.

Mostly.

But her brows twitch.

A flicker.

The vision hits like a punch to the ribs.

Woods—wet and black with rain.

A low altar carved into the earth. Bone-white stone veined with red.

A girl kneeling.

Red dress. Bare feet. Wrists bound in gold wire, tight enough to draw blood.

She lifts her chin—slow, defiant. Familiar.

Reema.

No words. Just the sound of breath caught in her throat.

And me—gods, it’s me—standing above her, a blade in hand.

Not trembling. Not hesitant.

Like it’s already done.

The image flickers.

The altar becomes a hearth. Then a desk. Then the dais at the center of the solstice hall.

The knife stays steady.

A voice—mine again, but wrong. Too calm. Too ancient.

“This is the price.”

The gold around Reema’s wrists tightens, turns to flame.

She doesn’t scream.

The blade drops.

The vision shatters.

I stagger back, gasping, heart trying to climb out of my chest.

The room spins.

The chalk circle is cold again. My hand is still tingling where I held Picca’s.

Her eyes are pale, unfocused. Her jaw tight.

She blinks once, then again—slower this time. Like surfacing from deep water.

I break the silence first. “That wasn’t real.”

Picca doesn’t reply.

“It wasn’t a vision,” I say, louder. “Not a true one. That came from you.”

Still, she says nothing.

I push forward. “You’re the one obsessed with Reema. With Genier. With whatever fantasy you’ve conjured where she’s the enemy. You’re jealous—so you projected it.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes snap to mine, and something dangerous flashes there.