Page 15

Dahlia

By the time I shuffled into the kitchen, Thea was already camped at the table, mug in hand, glaring into her coffee like it owed her money.

She didn’t say anything when I walked in—just raised an eyebrow, then took a long, scalding sip. I muttered a vague, sheepish “Good morning” and reached for the pancake mix.

“You’re on thin ice, Moore,” she grumbled into her cup. “And don’t think I won’t bring this up every time I want to win an argument.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbing the eggs and milk from the fridge. “You woke up and chose drama, that’s what happened.”

“You abandoned me,” she deadpanned. “In a bed that’s probably possessed. Do you know what it’s like to wake up hugging a pillow that smells like your shampoo and betrayal?”

“I’m making pancakes,” I said, setting the bowl on the counter like a peace treaty. “That’s my apology.”

“Better be the fluffy kind.”

Behind me, footsteps creaked across the floor, and I turned to see Kieran slinking in, barefoot and still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair was a chaotic mess, like the night had tried to wrestle him and mostly succeeded. He looked at Thea with barely veiled suspicion, then at me.

“She always like this in the morning?” he asked, voice still hoarse from sleep.

“Yes,” Thea and I said at the same time.

Kieran gave a long-suffering sigh and slid into the seat furthest from her, like she might throw her mug at him. Sunny followed close behind, leaping up into the chair next to him like they were war buddies and this was their morning debrief.

I cracked an egg into the bowl and glanced at him. “You ever made pancakes before?”

He tilted his head. “Is that the flat cake that looks like a poorly summoned griddle loaf?”

“That... might be the most dramatic way I’ve ever heard it described, but yes.”

“I helped make something similar once. Oats and honey, cooked over an open flame. It was part of an offering ritual.”

I stared at him.

He stared back.

“Okay, well,” I said, handing him the whisk, “today’s ritual involves not burning the kitchen down. You in?”

He looked at the whisk like it might bite him. “You trust me with this?”

“You made breakfast once. With fire. And garden carrots. And no supervision. I figure a mixing bowl and my watchful eye are an upgrade.”

He hesitated, then rolled his shoulders like a man about to face battle. “Alright. Teach me your dark, syrupy ways.”

I grinned.

We mixed the batter together, Kieran was surprisingly patient once he got the hang of it—his brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred, flicking flour off his wrist when it got too enthusiastic.

I showed him how to ladle the batter onto the skillet and flip it once the edges bubbled, and he got this incredibly focused look, like every pancake was a spell he had to cast perfectly.

“You’re enjoying this,” I teased, nudging him with my elbow.

His mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

Thea, from the table: “Great. Vampire Paul Bunyan over here.”

“Still not a vampire,” Kieran muttered.

I leaned in and whispered, “You do kind of have ‘brooding lumberjack’ energy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“It’s supposed to make you blush.”

It didn’t. Of course. He just went back to flipping pancakes with that annoying, regal calm of his. But I did catch the corner of his mouth twitching up, just a little.

We made a towering stack of golden pancakes, and I set the table while he carefully arranged the top with a single pat of butter like it was sacred. Thea perked up immediately.

“I’m still mad,” she said, grabbing her plate. “But I accept this peace offering.”

“Gracious of you,” Kieran deadpanned.

We ate in relative silence, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable, just soft. Familiar. The kind of silence that says, We’re figuring this out, but for now, pancakes.

After the plates were rinsed and stacked and Thea had declared herself “functionally human again,” the morning settled into a softer sort of rhythm. The sunlight had finally started to filter through the rain-smeared windows, painting everything in golden streaks.

Henry’s store wouldn’t be open for another hour.

Thea was nursing her third coffee on the couch, still buried in her laptop, muttering things like “encrypted archive” and “bastard probably had a secret journal.” Kieran had disappeared into the living room with Sunny following him like a strangely loyal bodyguard.

I stood in the kitchen, staring at the canister of loose-leaf tea with a frown. I was almost out of peppermint. Again.

“Of course,” I mumbled, digging through the jars. “No way I’m surviving the rest of today without it.”

I popped my head around the doorway. “Kieran?”

He looked up from the floor where he was sitting with Sunny stretched across his lap like a smug heating pad. “Hmm?”

“Could you do me a favor and grab some peppermint from the garden? I want to dry it. You know, before the rain comes back.”

He gave me a skeptical look. “For more tea?”

“Yes.”

He made a face like I’d just suggested we set the garden on fire. “That beverage tastes like boiled regret.”

“It’s soothing,” I said, hands on my hips. “And if you’re nice, I’ll make you something that doesn’t ‘taste like lies’ later.”

With a long-suffering sigh and a dramatic sweep of the cat off his lap, Kieran rose and headed for the back door. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, assume the peppermint plant has claimed me in vengeance.”

“Noted.”

I rinsed my favorite mug and set the kettle to boil again, trying to decide if I had enough honey left for the good stuff. A few minutes passed. The sound of the screen door creaked open, then shut again.

And then—nothing.

No footsteps. No sass. No annoyed muttering about “modern herb gardens.”

I glanced toward the door.

“Kieran?” I called.

No answer.

I dried my hands and walked toward the back, stepping out onto the porch, and found him standing completely still in the yard, about five feet from the edge of the herb patch. He was frowning, one hand outstretched like he’d just run into a wall.

“Kieran?” I repeated, concern blooming.

He turned slowly, brow furrowed. “It’s... smaller.”

“What?”

“The boundary,” he said quietly. “Of the locket. I could reach the far edge of the garden yesterday. Now... I can’t step past here.”

My stomach dropped a little. “Wait, it shrunk ?”

He nodded, jaw tense. “It’s like walking into glass. Just now, when I reached for the peppermint, I felt it. The same resistance. But closer.”

I stepped forward, heart thudding, stopping just short of the invisible line. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced. His hand flexed at his side like he wanted to punch the air. “It didn’t hurt this time. But it felt… wrong. Like something twisting.”

Thea’s voice drifted from the back door. “Did you say it shrunk?”

We both looked at her. She stood framed in the doorway, her expression already hardening into problem-solving mode. “That could mean the binding is weakening. Or changing. Or reacting to something.”

“Like what?” I asked.

She shrugged, but her jaw was tight. “You. Him. The Rite. The weather. Hell if I know. But we need to find that book in Henry’s shop, and fast.”

I reached for Kieran’s hand without thinking. His fingers laced into mine automatically, the motion so natural it made my chest ache.

“Come inside,” I said gently. “We’ll get the peppermint later.”

His eyes lingered on the invisible barrier for one more second before he nodded and followed me back toward the house—his steps slower, more deliberate, like he could feel the walls closing in.

Whatever was coming... it wasn’t waiting.

It was barely past nine, and we were all still in various stages of “morning disarray.” Thea had thrown on her combat boots with a ratty old hoodie over my plaid pajama pants, looking like an off-duty monster hunter.

Kieran, barefoot and brooding, wore the loose black drawstring pants and soft t-shirt I’d pulled from the bottom of my “ex-boyfriends or Halloween costume?” drawer.

And I… well, I still had on my oversized moon-and-stars nightshirt and fuzzy socks with a hole in the toe.

It would’ve been comical if it didn’t feel so serious.

“All right,” Thea said, stepping out onto the porch with a pen and notepad. “Let’s find the invisible wall like a bunch of weird, magical sleepwalkers.”

I held the locket at my chest, absently fingering the now-warm metal. “Kieran, just walk slowly that way—toward the garden. Stop the second you feel it.”

Kieran gave me a sidelong glance. “And what if I accidentally walk past it and burst into flames?”

“You won’t,” I said, trying to sound confident. “Probably.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded like “this is how curses get worse,” but he started walking.

We watched him move across the grass, barefoot and wary, like he was stepping through fog no one else could see. Sunny trailed after him a few feet before flopping down dramatically in a sunbeam, as if to say Good luck, loser .

“Okay,” Thea called out, flipping a page in her notebook. “You’re at about ten feet from Dahlia.”

He kept walking.

“Fifteen.”

Still going.

“Seventeen…”

And then it happened.

Kieran staggered mid-step, jerking back like he’d walked into an electric fence. His breath caught sharply, and he turned to look at me, eyes wide.

“That’s it,” he called. “Right here.”

I took a step forward, instinctively concerned, and he immediately took another step back—and flinched again.

“Oh shit,” I murmured. “So it’s not just distance. It’s from me , not the house.”

“Confirmed,” Thea said, scribbling furiously. “We’ve got a magical leash situation. Love that.”

“Can you mark the spot?” I asked. “Just so we know.”

Kieran bent to grab a rock and set it on the edge of the grass. “There. Beyond this, it’s like… pressure. Not pain, but like the air thickens. Like I’m trying to walk through glass syrup.”

I grimaced. “Gross.”

He turned, walked back toward me, and the second he crossed the line, his shoulders relaxed. The tension drained from him in visible relief.

“That felt wrong,” he muttered. “Smaller than before. It wasn’t this close yesterday.”

I reached for his hand again, and he took it without hesitation.

“We’ll figure it out,” I said, even though my stomach twisted.

Behind me, Thea made another note and then looked up. “We need to find that book. Whatever’s happening with the boundary... It’s tied to something. It’s changing. Reacting. Probably to you.”

“Awesome,” I muttered. “Me and my cursed jewelry are ruining everything again.”

Kieran squeezed my hand. “It’s not your fault, Flower.”

“Tell that to the invisible leash wrapped around your soul.”

He smirked. “Bit poetic, even for you.”

We stood there for a moment in the soft morning light—barefoot, pajama-clad, and deeply cursed—but somehow... together.

Thea flipped her notebook closed and sighed. “Okay. Let’s get dressed, caffeinated, and raid Henry’s shop.”

“Gods help Henry,” I muttered, already heading for the back door to get dressed. “He’s about to have the weirdest Sunday of his life.”