Page 54 of Beasts of Shadows #1

You’ve got to be kidding.

I push through the café door hard enough to rattle the glass, the bell overhead jangling like it knows I don’t have the patience for pleasantries.

The cold outside hits different. Not just winter chill, but something older. Sharper. Like the kind of cold that sinks straight into your bones and carves out everything soft.

He’s already halfway down the alley behind Dolomites—coat catching the wind, posture maddeningly relaxed. Like this is a social call. Like showing up uninvited to my mother’s wake is normal for him.

“Nikolai!”

He doesn’t stop walking. Just slows. Slightly.

“I swear to every pantheon,” I snap, boots crunching against the gravel, “if you disappear into mist, or some weird god shit, I will stab you.”

That makes him pause.

He turns—just enough to glance back over his shoulder, eyes gleaming faintly under the amber glow of a flickering streetlamp. “Hello to you too, wife.”

The worst part isn’t that he showed up.

It’s that a part of me hoped he would.

I close the distance between us in four furious steps. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He lifts a brow. “Would you believe me if I said I missed you?”

“No.”

“Pity. It would’ve made for a charming lie.”

“Why are you here?” I grind out.

Nikolai shrugs, all mock innocence and unbothered grace. “I didn’t know your kin was also coming. I thought you might need a shoulder to cry on.”

I stare at him. “You thought I’d want your shoulder?”

He tilts his head. “Well. You married it.”

I clench my fists just to keep from doing something reckless.

Like slapping him.

Or dragging him closer.

Instead, I exhale through my nose, fingers twitching at my sides. “You’re insufferable.”

“Ooh, big word. I didn’t know your vocabulary came with cutlery.”

“Shut up, you dick.”

“Ah, there it is.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. Sharp. Surprised. I shove him playfully.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet,” he says, spreading his hands slightly, “here I am. Like fate. Or a curse. Take your pick.”

“I didn’t call you.”

“No. But you wanted me,” he says softly, voice dipping into something more dangerous. “Don’t lie, Nari. Not to me.”

He’s not wrong. Not completely.

I did want something—stability, power, someone who could stand beside me without crumbling. But I didn’t want him. Not like this. Not slipping through the veil between gods and mortals just to make a scene at my mother’s funeral.

“Of course you know what I’m feeling,” I snap. “You probably enchanted the damn thing to whisper my thoughts while I sleep.”

His smile is slow. Infuriating. “Is that your confession to holding it like a sacred relic?”

I cross my arms. “If you came all this way just to gloat or be cryptic, save us both the time.”

“I didn’t come to gloat. I…” His tone falters. He looks like he wants to say something heavier. Something that burns at the back of his throat. But instead of fire, he swallows it. “I’ve been cruel to you. Dismissive. Difficult.”

His jaw flexes once, like the words taste bitter on the way out.

“I wasn’t trying to mock you. I was trying to stop myself.”

I blink. “Stop yourself from what?”

“Wanting,” he says. The word lands like it costs him. “More than I’m allowed to have.”

He hesitates—again. Like he’s standing on the edge of something vast and awful. Something honest.

“You have a strong backbone, Nari,” he continues. “You don’t defer to gods. You don’t worship power for the sake of it. You stand exactly as you are—half-broken, still bleeding—and you demand the world take you seriously, anyway.”

My throat tightens. I can’t look at him.

“I carved your image because I couldn’t touch the real thing,” he says. “It was the only version of you I could hold without destroying.”

The air leaves my lungs like a gut punch.

I stare at him.

Not because I believe him. But because for the first time, I might.

And that’s more terrifying than anything else he could have said.

“I didn’t come here to stake a claim,” he finishes, voice quieter. “I came because… you buried your mother today. You…shouldn’t be alone.”

He stops there.

Like he’s about to say something more. Like he wants to—but the moment curls in on itself. The words die behind his teeth.

He just watches me instead, unreadable.

And for some reason, that silence hits worse than any prophecy.

Because I can feel it—whatever truth he came to say. It’s there, just under the surface.

But he swallows it. Leaves it buried.

Maybe I should push. Demand answers. Force the divine cards out of his hand.

But I’m tired.

Too tired to fight gods and grief in the same breath.

And he’s here. For whatever reason—he came. Right now, that’s enough.

The ache in my chest sharpens, sudden and full. It’s not hunger. Not fury. Just the brutal, lonely weight of it all pressing down at once. I don’t need answers.

I need to be held.

I swore he wouldn’t touch me. Made it part of the damn vow. No contact. No warmth. No blurred lines.

But right this minute?

I’m willing to break it.

Not forever. Not for him.

Just for me.

My voice barely makes it out. “You can touch me. Just this once.”

A breath. A beat. “Please… hold me.”

He doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t smirk.

He just steps forward and folds me into his arms like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like he’s been waiting.

And I let him.

I let the weight of him anchor me, his coat cool against my cheek, his hand steady at my spine.

There’s no seduction in it. No scheming. No ego trip.

Just quiet. Just heat. Just him.

For the first time all day, something inside me settles.

Not healed. Not whole. But held.

And gods help me, that’s enough.

#

Nowhere Island, Canada

January 18, 1999

Classes resume like nothing happened.

The halls of Van Ritten are just as cold, just as cruel. Only now, they’re thinner. Hollower. The laughter doesn’t bounce off the stone quite as much. The shadows stretch a little longer between the hedges. And no one says it out loud, but we all feel it.

We’ve been trimmed.

Not weeded—culled.

I pass the courtyard bulletin board on my way to morning drills. Someone’s torn down the roster of top scorers and replaced it with a new ranking list. I don’t stop. I don’t need to.

I already know where I am.

Middle of the pack. A black star on my blazer, probationary ascot gone.

I should be proud. I should be grateful.

I’m not.

Because Avril isn’t here to chew her nails and ask if anyone else dreams in black static.

Carlos isn’t here to wring his hands and mutter about how his old fencing coach never covered “what to do when a shade sprouts talons and aims for your spleen. Niko—the mortal one, not the god-shaped disaster I married—isn’t here to sneak me candy bars wrapped in spell tags.

They’re all gone.

Some were “excused.” Some “transferred.” A few just… didn’t make it back after break.

The bottom ten.

It’s cruel how that phrase used to feel like a scoreboard.

Now it reads like an epitaph.

Last semester, I was too busy clawing my way up the ladder to look down. Too desperate to survive to think about who I was stepping over to do it.

Did I write their death sentences indirectly?

Not with a blade.

Not with a curse.

Just by outranking them.

By being a little faster, a little meaner, a little luckier.

The school doesn’t send out notices. No memorials. No headstones. Just missing beds, empty chairs, and a quiet reminder that Van Ritten was never meant to love us back.

My boots scuff over a chalk stain in the flagstone where a duel likely ended in something no mortal healer could fix.

I don’t ask who it belonged to.

We’re halfway through the year. That’s supposed to mean we’ve made it.

But all I can think is—halfway to what?

A throne I don’t want? A prophecy I never asked for? A war I might not survive?

A gust of wind pulls at the edges of my coat as I reach the dueling yard. The sky overhead is the color of old nickel, and the trees beyond the west wall rattle like bones when the cold threads through their limbs.

I haven’t seen Reema since I got back. Nor Ravi, or Picca.

Cody’s on the field, sparring with a second-year who keeps favoring his right leg.

“Nari!” He shouts across the way. “You coming to my game tonight?”

“Someone needs to cheer for the opposite team!” I retort.

When I turn away, my feet drag.

Because even surrounded by friends, I feel the hole where others used to be.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Hard. Just to stay present.

You’re still here, I remind myself.

You made it through.

But the thought doesn’t comfort.

Not when I can’t stop asking—made it to what?

#

It smells like pine cleaner, sweat, and that brand of cheap stadium popcorn I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. VAN RITTEN HARES rock the home side. RIVEREN DEVILS take the away, gathered together in blue for their pre-game pep talk.

The bleachers are packed with students who know Cody’s the Institute’s top goalie.

His name is on the board in bold lettering—C.

WYATT, #3. I stare at it with pride before finding my seat beside Cat.

Reema has, wisely, decided to sit this game out.

I’m still not sure what became of the fallout between her and Geneir after the last full moon. Honestly, I don’t think I want to know.

This is the first game since everything went down, and I’m a little curious about what will happen with both Geneir and Cody on the ice. Last I heard, Cody’s still sleeping on Erik and Lucian’s floor.

Cat balances two hot cocoas in one hand. “Guess who scored me free drinks from the concession stand?”

“Please don’t say Jeremy.”

“Jeremy,” she says with a grin. “I swear, he and Bri were on fire last night. I think I’m going to commit to the polyamorous lifestyle.”

I accept the drink. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m a resourceful menace,” she corrects. “And hey—look alive. Your cousin and his former best friend are about to publicly kill each other.”

“Can you read emotions from here?”

“When they’re being broadcast like that? Oh yea .”

I glance down. The Devils are charging. Fast, coordinated, ruthless—the kind of play that ends in a goal if the defense blinks for even a second. One forward passes to another with a flick of his stick, circling wide, trying to pull Cody off center.

Cody doesn’t bite.

He tracks the puck with razor focus, crouched in the crease, pads planted like stone.

Geneir cuts across the ice in a blur, intercepting the Devil with a crunch of shoulder and steel. The puck spins loose—and that’s when it happens.

Geneir’s momentum carries him too far.

Right into Cody.

The impact isn’t subtle. It slams Cody sideways, helmet snapping back against the post. The whistle doesn’t blow. Not here.

Cody recovers fast, straightening, eyes already locked on Geneir.

“You good?” he snaps, voice muffled behind the cage.

Geneir glares. “You should’ve seen the check coming.”

“I was watching the puck, not bracing for a cheap shot from my damn teammate.”

“Right,” Geneir growls. “Too busy fantasizing about screwing my girlfriend?”

The words land like a blow.

The air in the arena changes. Tightens. The shades stand with excitement. This is what they came for. bloodshed. Bullets formed as words.

Cody rips off his helmet. “Say that again.”

Geneir doesn’t hesitate. “Reema deserved better than you.”

Cody steps out of the crease—rare, intentional. Dangerous.

“Get off the ice,” one of the refs warns, but neither of them listen.

Geneir tosses his gloves.

Cody doesn’t wait.

They meet at center ice with a sickening crack of fists on armor. Geneir swings wild, angry. Cody counters with brutal precision, trained and cold. Pads be damned—he moves like he’s been waiting for this. Like every inch of restraint he’s shown since fall term is snapping loose, piece by piece.

“Do you think you’re any better? Picca ? After everything last year?” Cody snarls, grappling Geneir’s collar. “Do you have any idea how much you hurt her?”

“Enough for you to take advantage of it.”

Another punch. Blood this time. Cody’s nose or Geneir’s lip—it doesn’t matter. They’re locked in it now.

“Admit it,” Geneir grimaces. “You’ve been waiting for this.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You missed your chance in high school, regretted it, and you’ve just been waiting for me to fuck up so that you can slither in like the fucking snake you are.”

The refs finally swarm, dragging them apart.

Geneir’s hauled toward the penalty box, still spitting curses. Cody doesn’t resist. He just wipes the blood from his mouth with his glove and turns back toward the net.

But for a second, he glances up.

His gaze finds ours in the crowd.

“Ugh, I hate when he hides his emotions from me,” Cat complains, falling back into the chair. “Him and Reema both. They’re like reading a damn wall.”

I’m still trying to catch my breath when someone touches my elbow.

“Nari Harper?”

I turn. The girl standing beside the bleachers is tall and familiar. I muddle through where I’ve seen her before.

Then it hits.

Ashki’s sister. Matoaka.

“We need to speak.”

“Now’s not a good time,” I say, gathering my stuff. “I should go check on—.”

“It’s about your mother.”

The words punch through me like frostbite. Sudden. Deep.

I pass my things absently to Cat. I barely feel the bag leave my hands, they’re so numb.

“Wait—where are you—?”

“Don’t follow,” Matoaka says coolly. When she tugs me down the stairwell, I don’t resist.