Page 26

SYLVIE

T he clarity candle's flame had finally gone out, but its message still burned bright in Sylvie's mind.

After hours of watching its unwavering light, the truth had settled into her bones like an old friend.

She loved Nicholas. Not because of some spell gone wrong or because magic dictated it, but because her heart had chosen him despite her every attempt to deny it.

Sylvie pulled her car onto the winding road that led through Echo Woods, her fingers tapping nervously against the steering wheel. "This is crazy," she muttered to herself, watching the morning sunlight filter through the ancient trees. "Absolutely bat-crap crazy."

Her phone buzzed from the cup holder, nearly causing her to swerve. Nicholas's name flashed across the screen. Sylvie pulled over, her heart hammering as she answered.

"Sylvie," his voice sounded strained, almost desperate. "I need you to come to Briar Hollow Inn."

She blinked, thrown off by the coincidence. "I was actually on my way to find you."

"You were?" Hope flickered in his voice before urgency took over again. "Listen, I've brought the relic here. Mayble thinks we can contain it, but we need?—"

"Your flame," a smooth, velvet-rich female voice cut in from the background. "We need a witch's flame fed by genuine emotion, and according to tiger boy here, yours is the strongest in town and you're the one connected to him."

"Who was that?" Sylvie asked, though she had a good guess.

"Mayble Marlowe," Nicholas confirmed. "Look, I know I'm the last person you want to see right now, but this isn't about us. This thing is dangerous, and it's getting worse."

Sylvie chewed her lower lip, tasting traces of the peppermint lip balm she'd nervously applied and reapplied all morning. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

Briar Hollow Inn loomed at the edge of town, a Victorian monstrosity with too many spires and not enough paint.

Locals had avoided it except on Halloween, when the hauntings were considered festive rather than terrifying.

Sylvie had always found something oddly comforting about the place, like the ghosts were just old friends having perpetual dinner parties.

But now it was a hit, given the recent expulsion of the more dangerous ghost.

She parked beside Nicholas's mud-splattered truck and took a steadying breath. Her reflection in the rearview mirror showed eyes bright with determination and cheeks flushed with anticipation. "You've got this," she whispered, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear.

The inn's front door creaked open before she reached it. A tall woman with skin the color of moonlight and hair that seemed to absorb all light stood in the doorway. Her lips, painted the precise shade of freshly spilled blood, curved into a knowing smile.

"About time you showed up," Mayble Marlowe said, her voice like crushed velvet. "I was about to send the specters to fetch you."

"I came as fast as I could," Sylvie replied, stepping inside.

"Not fast enough for him." Mayble nodded toward the grand staircase, where Nicholas paced like a caged animal, his shoulders tight with tension. "He's been wearing a path in the two-hundred-year-old carpet."

Nicholas froze mid-step when he saw her, his amber eyes widening. For a moment, he looked like he might rush down to her, but instead, he gripped the banister so hard Sylvie heard the wood crack.

"You came," he said simply, his voice rough.

"I said I would." Sylvie climbed the stairs, stopping two steps below him. Even with the height advantage, she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. "Where is it?"

"In the séance room." His eyes never left her face, as if searching for something. "Mayble thinks a containment box will hold it, but it needs to be sealed with powerful magic."

"My flame."

"Yes." Nicholas's hand moved reflexively toward her before dropping back to his side. "I wouldn't have asked if there was any other way."

"I know." Sylvie hesitated, then added quietly, "Nicholas, before we do this, I need to tell you?—"

"Room first, heart-to-hearts later." Mayble glided past them toward a door at the end of the hallway. "That thing is getting more aggressive by the minute, and I just reupholstered in there."

The séance room was circular, ringed with windows that cast prismatic light across black velvet wallpaper. In the center, on a round table, sat an ornate wooden box beside the cloth-wrapped relic.

"Charming little abomination," Mayble said, gesturing toward it. "Been trying to convince me I'm already dead for the past hour." She handed Sylvie an ivory candle. "Light this, focus your intent on containment and protection, then let the wax seal the box once we place it inside."

Sylvie took the candle, her fingers brushing against Nicholas's as he stepped closer.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "For everything."

Sylvie looked up into his face—the face she'd spent weeks trying to avoid and nights dreaming about. The clarity candle's message echoed in her mind: Love is a choice, not a trap.

"I came here to find you," she admitted, her voice steadier than she felt. "Before you called. I made a candle of clarity and... Nicholas, I need to tell you something important."

His eyebrows lifted, hope and fear battling in his expression. "What?"

Mayble cleared her throat dramatically. "As touching as this is, and trust me, I'm all for romance, I have a signed first edition of Wuthering Heights —that relic is actively trying to drain every magical entity in this building.

So perhaps declarations of undying affection could wait until after we contain the soul-sucking artifact? "

Sylvie nodded, focusing on the task at hand. "Let's do this first. On my terms."

She placed the candle on the table and extended her palm. Nicholas, understanding without words, placed his hand beneath hers, their skin barely touching.

Sylvie closed her eyes, summoning her magic.

Instead of pushing away the feelings Nicholas stirred in her, she embraced them.

The frustration, the attraction, the tenderness, and the hunger.

The flame that erupted from her palm blazed blue-white, so intense it cast their shadows against the ceiling.

"Now," Mayble directed, lifting the lid of the box.

Nicholas unwrapped the relic, revealing its pulsing black heart. As they moved to place it in the box, a tendril of darkness lashed out, wrapping around Nicholas's wrist.

"Nicholas!" Sylvie grabbed his arm, her flame surging protectively.

"It's fighting back," he grimbled, Veins of black crawled up his arm, his tiger eyes flickering gold with pain.

Without thinking, Sylvie pressed her flaming hand against his chest, directly over his heart. "Not him," she commanded, feeling her magic respond to the fierce protectiveness surging through her. "You can't have him."

The darkness recoiled from her flame, retreating back into the relic. Nicholas gasped as the black veins receded, his free hand covering hers against his chest.

"Now!" Mayble shouted.

Together, they dropped the relic into the box. Sylvie directed her flame around it, watching as the wax from her candle flowed like water, sealing the container with symbols that glowed blue before settling into the wood.

Mayble slammed the lid shut, and a wave of energy rippled through the room, sending all three of them staggering backward. The spectral fish that had been swimming through the air fell like rain, then dissipated into mist.

"Well," Mayble said, straightening her black lace collar, "that was more dramatic than my usual Tuesday."