Page 10

SYLVIE

T he candle burned itself out sometime after midnight, but the room still shimmered with violet light. Sylvie lay tangled in her quilt, neither awake nor fully asleep, drifting on the edge of a dream that felt too vivid to be only imagination.

She floated in Moonshadow Apothecary—yet not the real shop.

Shelves glowed like constellations, and melted wax ran upward instead of down.

In the center, a single black candle towered taller than the doorframe, flame leaping green-gold.

Nicholas stood on one side of it; a great striped tiger prowled on the other, each mirror-bright amber eye trained on her.

“Sylvie.” Nicholas’s voice reverberated like temple bells, low and thrumming. “Come here.”

“I’m not crossing that line,” she answered, though she couldn’t see any physical barrier, just a shimmer in the air, as thin as soap film.

The tiger huffed, breath steaming. Its tail lashed like a metronome. Somewhere high above, wind chimes clattered though no wind stirred.

Nicholas extended a hand. “Trust me.”

She wanted to. Saints help her, she wanted to. But something in the candle’s flame twisted, reshaping into a snarling maw—her own spell gone feral. Heat rolled off it in suffocating waves.

“What if we burn?” she whispered.

“Then we burn together.”

The tiger let out a rumbling roar that rattled every jar on every shelf. Wax dripped upward faster. The black candle cracked down its center, bleeding violet light. Panic lunged for Sylvie’s throat, but behind it—shamefully—thrummed wild excitement.

Nicholas’s gaze captured hers: earnest, unguarded. Choose, that look said.

She took a single step. The shimmered barrier shattered like spun sugar. In the same breath the tiger leaped—not toward her, but through her, striping her vision with white-hot heat. The shop disappeared.

Sylvie snapped awake in her loft apartment above the apothecary, chest heaving. Night still clung to the windowpanes, yet a faint orange glow lit the room.

“Oh, no, no, no—” She flung off her quilt. Her cotton sheets smoldered in three neat claw-shaped streaks, smoke curling toward the ceiling. She hurried to her kitchenette sink, filled a bowl, and dashed water over the scorch marks. Steam hissed.

Hands braced on her knees, she forced slow breaths. The violet band at her wrist pulsed in frantic sync with her heartbeat.

Dreamwalking. She’d done it as a teen—tame little lucid strolls through memory. Never like this. “Great,” she muttered. “Now the binding is hijacking my REM cycle.”

A sharp rap echoed downstairs: the back service door. She grimaced; the clock read 3:14?a.m. Only one person knocked like he owned the night.

She clomped down the stairs barefoot, still in an oversized sleep shirt reading Spells Before Coffee . When she cracked the door, Nicholas stood under the security light, hair mussed, T-shirt damp with perspiration. He held out a thermos like a peace offering.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Figured you couldn’t either.”

Sylvie considered slamming the door in his face. Instead she stepped aside. “Your timing is creepy.”

“Tiger senses.” He shrugged, sheepish. “They said you were awake…and maybe on fire?”

She pursed her lips but led him into the shop. The air still carried faint smoke; candles on a side shelf flicked to life unaided, responding to her mood. Nicholas’s gaze swept over them—worried, not judgmental—and something in her chest softened.

She folded arms across her chest. “Dreamwalk. You were in it.”

“That explains why I jolted up feeling like someone shoved me through a furnace,” he said, unscrewing the thermos lid. Coffee, and not the cheap stuff, perfumed the space. “Hazelnut latte. Least I could do for barging in.”

Sylvie wrapped her hands around the offered cup, savoring warmth. “Thanks.” She sipped, winced. “Too sweet.”

“I was guessing your order on the fly.” His grin flickered, quickly tempered by seriousness. “Tell me about the dream.”

She relayed details about the black candle, the barrier, the tiger leaping through her. Nicholas listened, elbows propped on the worktable. As she spoke, the violet glow around their wrists glimmered in sympathetic rhythm.

He exhaled when she finished. “My tiger’s been unsettled since yesterday’s patrol. This…fits.”

“Patrol?” she echoed.

“Found something weird in Echo Woods.” He patted his jeans pocket, then paused, expression going wary. “It’s in my gear bag outside. A broken statue.”

Sylvie’s brows knitted. “You brought a random artifact home after we got curse-bonded?”

“Look, I collect field trinkets all the time. Didn’t feel cursed, just odd.” He lifted palms. “Fine, half my tiger wanted to bury it. I ignored him. Stupid, yeah.”

Sylvie set her coffee down with a thunk. “Rule one of woodland witchcraft: if your animal spirit growls at an object, leave it . Return it tomorrow.”

“I will,” he said quickly. “Promise.”

Silence settled thick but not unfriendly. From the street outside came the distant hum of a delivery van; otherwise, only their breathing and the pop of candle wicks.

Nicholas nudged a vial of chamomile with one fingertip. “You scorched your sheets,” he murmured. “That scare you?”

“Less than it should.” She threaded hair off her face. “I’m more rattled by wanting—” She bit her tongue.

“Wanting what?” he pressed, voice velvet-rough.

“Everything to stop feeling so…good when you’re here.” The confession slipped out, embarrassing and honest. Instantly the violet band glowed bright gold.

Nicholas’s exhale was shaky. “Same.” He moved a step closer. Heat rippled through the tether, erasing the memory of chill stone floors in Hazel’s cottage. “Look, I don’t know if this is fate or a cosmic prank. But fighting it is wrecking us.”

“You don’t even know me much,” she whispered.

“Then let me.” His hand hovered near hers—close enough to feel warmth, not quite touching. “We can figure out the spell and each other.”

A dozen misgivings clamored for attention. His playboy history, her fear of losing control, but the ache when they were apart still throbbed in memory. Standing here, the pain dimmed to a hum; sparks danced instead.

“Slow,” she echoed. “Starting with you not dropping bye at random hours.”

A grin tugged his mouth. “Still bossy. I like it.”

Nicholas tilted his head. “You smell like smoke and cinnamon.”

“Blame dream-arson.” She let out a sigh and stretched, afraid of how intimate this was suddenly becoming. “I need to try and get some things done if I’m awake.”

“At four a.m.?” he chuckled.

“Magic never sleeps, Whitmore. Now, if you don’t mind.”

He gave her that smug smile that made her want to slap and kiss him all at once. She hated that, but he didn’t complain and went for the door to let himself out.

“Hey,” she called before he disappeared into the oncoming dawn. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Nicholas gave her one of his prize-wining smirks and simply nodded before leaving her standing there wondering how the hell she was going to fix this before she ended up hurt. Or worse… falling for him.