Page 53 of Beasts of Shadows #1

Because he didn’t give this to me with a flourish. He didn’t gloat or preen. He left it behind like a secret. Like a truth he couldn’t say out loud.

“I can’t touch you. Figured I had to show my affection somehow.”

Stupid, poetic bastard.

I trace the edges of the figurine, thumb catching on a rough notch at the base. It’s not flawless. Not polished.

Neither am I.

But he carved the slope of my shoulders like someone who’s watched me carry too much for too long. Gave the mouth a hint of defiance, not softness. Like he knew I wouldn’t want it any other way.

I lie back down without meaning to, the bone figure still clutched in my hand.

I should put it away. Bury it under shirts or hide it in a drawer like it doesn’t mean anything.

But my fingers won’t let go.

I slip back into bed with the carving still in my hand, the smooth weight of it grounding me more than I want to admit.

Just until the ache in my chest dulls enough to let me sleep.

But then—it does.

The grief doesn’t vanish. It settles.

Heavy. Quiet. Bearable.

My breath evens out. My muscles uncoil. The noise in my head finally, finally fades.

And for the first time since the storm, I sleep.

#

Dolomites Café smells like burnt espresso and cumin-spiced pastries.

It’s packed to the edges with mourners and well-meaning strangers, all nursing cups of thick coffee or gnawing at the ends of sugar-dusted conchas. The air hums with gentle conversation, clinks of silverware, the low thrum of a local jazz band my mom used to say had “promise.”

People keep touching my arm—local politicians, former castmates, producers with carefully somber eyes.

They offer soft condolences. Someone hands me a plate.I nod and smile and offer hollow thank-yous while my insides curdle like over-soured cream.

I don’t want food. I want her voice. I want the safe hush of her laugh in the kitchen. I want to go home.

I hover just inside the threshold, coat still on, throat tight.

I was up till midnight, working with my father to wash, anoint, and dress my mother for the procession. The only thing hiding the bags under my eyes is some heavy-duty make-up, thanks to Azalea.

Gods, I want Ravi. Not in the way I used to—burned hands and stolen moments—but in the way you want a lighthouse when the fog comes in heavy. In the way you want someone who’s seen you undone and hasn’t looked away.

But I know he can’t be here. It would bring up too many questions.

“Hey.” Cody’s voice cuts through the noise, low and real and grounding.

I turn—and there they are. Cody in a charcoal coat that makes his eyes darker, Cat in warm earth tones with a wind-blown scarf.

“You came,” I whisper.

“Of course we did,” Cat chimes. She’s holding a bundle of wildflowers and a dishcloth-covered basket. She lifts the baked goods. “Dad insisted on the scones. Said nothing says grieving like carbs and jam.”

I don’t realize I’m moving until I’ve closed the space between us, my arms tight around their shoulders. Cat gives a grunt of “Oof,” and does her best to return the affection. They’re both warm and steady and familiar.

“I missed you.” My voice cracks, but I don’t even mind.

“Mom’s here, too,” Cat says, once I pull back.

“Is that…a good idea?” I wonder, looking between my cousins. Emotion gathers at the base of my throat. A knot I can’t swallow.

“She wanted to be here for your dad. You know…since he doesn’t have any other family. She’s still in the car, though. Working up the nerve to come in. Long-lost bastard siblings, am I right?”

“You’re so weird,” Cody says, nudging Cat with his elbow.

“Come on,” I say, already weaving through the crowd toward the booth where Azalea and Marisol are holding court with half-drunk sodas and a mountain of garlic knots. “I want you to meet my oldest friends.”

Azalea spots us first. “There she is,” she announces, arms wide like I’m the returning hero of a soap opera. Then her eyes snag on Cody and Cat, and her expression sharpens with curiosity. “And who,” she drawls, “are these charming strangers?”

“These are my cousins. The ones I met at Van Ritten,” I say, voice steadier than I expect. “Cat and Cody. Cody’s the one with a soul. Cat’s the one who’d steal it for parts.”

Cat smirks. “Guilty.”

Azalea flicks her braids over her shoulder and gives Cody a long once-over, head to toe and back again. “Hi, Cody,” she says, stretching the syllables like warm caramel. “Are all the men at Van Ritten built like this, or are you a collector’s item?”

Cody grins, unbothered. “Like what?”

“Fine as hell,” she says, unabashed.

His lips twitch into a crooked smile. “Depends who you ask.”

Marisol slides back into the booth, eyebrow raised. “Are we flirting with the mourners now?”

Azalea shrugs. “Grief makes me honest.” Then, eyeing Cody’s gloves like they personally offended her, “Babe, lose the gloves. It’s barely sixty. You look like a villain in a heist movie.”

“He needs them,” I say, sliding into the booth beside Marisol. “His touch isn’t kind of…fatal.”

Cody lifts one hand in mock solemnity, the leather catching the light. “Death curse. Skin-to-skin contact is not recommended.”

Azalea’s brows shoot up. “Dios mío. You’re telling me you’re tall, broody, and lethal? Are you also single?”

Cody opens his mouth—probably to deflect—but Azalea doesn’t let him.

“Do you keep the gloves on during sex, or is that like, a trust fall thing?”

I cough on my soda. “Az.”

“What? It’s a valid question!”

“He’s taken,” I say quickly, before Cody can fumble his way through something vague.

Cat picks up on it immediately. “He is ?” she asks, gaze flicking between the two of us. “Reema? Oh gods, don’t tell me you’re boning my best friend.”

Cody looks at me for a beat too long.

Azalea grins, clearly enjoying the tension. “Okay, now I really want to know who cracked through Mr. Gloved-and-Deadly over here.”

“Eat your garlic knots,” Marisol mutters, pushing the basket toward her.

Azalea snatches one and leans back, chewing smugly. “I’m just saying. Gloves or not, that boy’s got main character energy.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself—because this is what I needed. A little healthy chaos. A little grounding. People who knew me before everything fell apart.

When I glance up, I catch Aunt Irene hovering by the café door, searching the crowd. She’s dressed simply—black turtleneck, charcoal slacks, a thin chain at her throat—but it’s her face that catches me. Braced. Like she’s steeled herself for something she can’t quite predict.

My father hasn’t noticed her yet. He’s still in the far corner with some studio execs. But I do. And I rise before I can talk myself out of it.

“I’ll be right back.”

Nerves flutter in my chest as I stroll. Irene meets me halfway. She seems older than I remember. Tired.

“He doesn’t know about me, does he?” she asks at last.

“It hasn’t come up,” I confess.

“I wasn’t sure I should come.”

My throat tightens. “They’re just over there.” I gesture toward the booth.

Irene’s eyes flick that way.

“Do you want me to introduce you?”

She exhales. “That would be…kind.” There’s a weight in those words. A quiet sort of compromise.

I approach my father, watching his face light up just a little when I come into his vision. The warmth dims, just a bit, when he sees Irene.

“Dad, this is Irene Douglas-Wyatt. She’s on the board of directors at school,” I begin. “Dean Douglas, this is my dad, Joshie G.”

“Ah, a Texas Toast fan?” Dad laughs, offering his palm. Irene gives a formal shake.

“Toast?” she repeats, peering my way in confusion. “I’d say it’s a bit too garlicky for my taste.”

I bite my tongue to keep from laughing, even as dad tosses me a “Is she for real?” stare.

“Texas Toast was dad’s band. Back in the eighties. It’s kind of dated, now, but they opened for Dolly Parton once.”

“Country music?” Irene wonders, looking skeptical.

“I was born and raised in Lousiana, Ma’am. Blues and country are my roots.”

I peer between them. This is the perfect opening.

“Speaking of roots, dad. There something you should know. About…about Dean Douglas.”

“Al-right,” he drawls. I don’t blame him for being suspicious. I’m his only daughter. I’ve been gone for four months at a college I didn’t have a choice of attending. My mom just died , and here I am introducing him to one of the deans.

It would almost be funny, if it weren’t so heavy.

How do I put this kindly? Here’s your dad’s first kid. The one he abandoned to have you?

Grandpa was always good at abandonment?

“I’m your sister,” Irene says in her usual blunt fashion, before I can think of something better. “I don’t care to speak ill of the dead, but apparently, our father was good at making children. Raising them? Not so much.”

Josh blinks. Once. Twice. Then lets out a low whistle.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

He glances at me again, but I don’t look away. I give a small, steady nod.

A beat. Then Dad laughs—not cruelly, not nervously, just his usual deep, bewildered kind of warmth like life’s thrown him a curveball and he’s decided to catch it anyway.

“Guess that makes you family,” he says, reaching to pull Irene into a one-armed hug. “You drink coffee? Or are you one of those herbal tea folks?”

Irene stiffens—but only for a moment. Then, slowly, she nods. “Coffee is fine.”

“Great. Come on, sis. You gotta try the conchas. They’re not half-bad, and they’re made by people who loved my wife, which means they’re sacred. Come meet the crew.”

I can’t help the smile—and tears—that make their way to my face as I watch my dad embrace Irene.

At least one good thing came out of this whole mess. Mom would be happy to see them together.

I wipe my face before anyone can see the tears, turning back toward the table—and that’s when I feel it.

I turn back toward the booth—ready to rejoin the table, to fold myself into the comfort of garlic knots and too-loud laughter—when something makes me stop.

A shift in the air.

That faint, impossible pull at the base of my spine.

And then I see him.

Nikolai.

Standing just inside the café. Hands in his coat pockets. Watching me like he’s been there the whole time.

When he sees he has my attention, he slips towards the exit.

And I follow.