Page 16

Kieran

The drive to the bookstore was quiet, although not peaceful.

You could feel the tension like electricity throughout Thea’s SUV—crackling just under the surface of every breath.

Dahlia sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, one hand absently toying with the locket at her throat.

Thea drove like she was hunting something, eyes flicking from the road to the rearview mirror, her jaw tight.

Brookside on a Sunday morning was the definition of stillness.

A few early risers milled about near the fountain in the town square, clutching coffee cups and chatting in that slow, syrupy rhythm small towns seemed to breed.

The streets were otherwise empty, save for the sharp clicks of our footsteps on the pavement.

We had to park down the street. Thea’s behemoth of a vehicle didn’t stand a chance at fitting in the narrow space in front of Whitaker’s. So we walked, boots on old cobblestone, my senses pulling tight the closer we got.

That’s when I saw the door.

Ajar. Barely. Just enough to show a crack of shadow where sunlight should’ve been blocked.

Dahlia noticed at the same time I did. Her breath hitched.

“Henry never leaves the door open,” she said, her pace quickening.

I caught up with her easily, falling into step. My hand hovered near the small of her back without touching—ready, just in case. Thea pulled ahead, lifting the hem of her jacket just enough to reveal a firearm tucked into a holster at her hip.

She didn’t hesitate. “Stay behind me.”

I let her take point. I didn’t like it—being behind—but even I could admit she moved like someone trained, someone who expected violence and knew what to do when it came.

The moment we stepped inside, I knew something was wrong.

It smelled like... disruption. Like the sharp edge of torn paper, of something broken in the air itself. It looked like a tempest had torn through it.

Books everywhere. Shelves half-toppled. Pages drifting like brittle leaves across the floor. A rocking chair was overturned, one of its arms cracked.

Dahlia’s voice cracked. “Henry?”

Silence answered.

She moved like she might crumble if she stopped, eyes scanning every corner. I knelt beside the counter and picked up a torn page. It wasn’t just mess. It was something else.

“There were wards here,” I said. “Subtle. Old. Not much—but enough to hold peace in a place like this. They’re shattered.”

Thea moved through the stacks like a soldier through trenches, gun low and steady. “Do you feel anything else?”

“Not anymore,” I muttered. “But something came through here. Something that wasn’t meant to be here.”

“Henry wouldn’t leave without telling me,” Dahlia said, more to herself than us. “He never leaves without locking up. Never.”

I followed her gaze to the far end of the shop. That’s when I saw the book.

It was familiar—dark green leather spine, gold-edged pages fluttering in some unnatural breeze. Dahlia moved toward it like it was calling her.

She bent to pick it up, and that’s when the door behind us slammed shut with a thunderclap.

Light dimmed. The temperature dropped. And every ward in my bones screamed in warning.

Dahlia froze, the book clutched to her chest. Thea turned with her gun raised, scanning the shop like a predator waiting for something to pounce.

And I stood there, between them, the edges of the world warping just slightly—like something was watching.

Waiting.

“This wasn’t random,” I said softly. “It’s a message.”

Dahlia’s fingers tightened around the book.

Thea moved silently toward the back of the shop, where the storeroom door hung slightly ajar. Her gun stayed low but ready, her eyes scanning every corner like she was waiting for something to jump out.

“I’m going to check the back,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Dahlia nodded, her hand gripping the green leather book like a lifeline. I didn’t like the distance Thea was putting between us, but I could feel the magic in the room shift—the way the air went thick, like it was holding its breath.

“Thea,” I said, “don’t go alone—”

Too late.

She disappeared into the shadowy corridor beyond the storage door. For a moment, the shop held its silence like a threat.

Then came the scream.

Sharp. Guttural. Cut short by a crash.

I bolted. Dahlia cried out my name, but I didn’t stop.

I hit the storeroom door just as gunfire exploded—three sharp, deafening cracks. The shadows inside twisted unnaturally, curling like smoke and claws, and then I saw it.

A beast.

Blacker than black—like something carved from shadow itself, all jagged fur and burning red eyes. Its mouth was a snarling void, its claws tearing gouges in the wooden floor as it lunged for Thea, who was pinned behind an overturned table, gun smoking in her hand.

The creature turned toward me.

And charged.

“Flower, move!” I shouted, my voice thick with magic. Shadows enveloped Dahlia, obscuring her and shielding her from the beast.

I raised my hands too late—its weight slammed into me like a falling wall, knocking me hard to the ground. Claws raked across my side, hot pain blooming through my ribs. I roared and rolled, kicking up at the thing’s belly. It snarled, snapping at my face with jaws too large, too sharp.

I flung a blast of raw magic into its side—light and pressure that cracked the air—but it only staggered. Not enough.

Another claw swiped down, slicing my arm open. Blood sprayed across the floor.

And then—

It ignited.

Blue-black flame burst from the blood like it had been waiting. It crawled across the wood in wild, unnatural shapes, living flame that didn’t burn like fire, but like intent. The creature recoiled, letting out a shriek that rattled the air.

I stared at the flame, stunned. My heart pounding.

Bloodfire.

I hadn’t summoned it.

It had answered.

The beast lunged again, but I was ready now. I dragged my bleeding hand across the floor, painting a jagged rune into the wood, and willed the flame into it.

The circle erupted—light and shadow and screaming heat—and the creature howled, jerking back as if the very air had turned hostile.

It stumbled, snarling, half-consuming itself in the writhing flame. Then it collapsed into shadow—just a pile of soot and smoke on the ruined wood floor.

The room fell silent.

My breath came in short, ragged pulls. My shirt stuck wet and warm to my ribs. I pressed my hand to the gash, staggering slightly.

“Holy shit ,” Thea whispered, eyes wide from behind the table. “You just— lit it on fire .”

“With my blood,” I muttered, still staring at the glowing residue etched into the floor.

Bloodfire. I’d never used it. I thought my magic was gone. But maybe it hadn’t left—maybe it had just waited for me to need it again.

But the real question wasn’t how I had it.

It was why that thing had come at all.

Dahlia rushed in a second later, skidding to a halt. “Kieran!” She took one look at me and blanched. “You’re bleeding!”

“Yes,” I said, still slightly dazed. “But I won.”

She looked at the floor, at the ashes, at the deep gouges in the wood, and then back to me.

Then she grabbed the arm on my uninjured side and muttered, “I swear to every saint and spirit, if you die on me after all this…”

“Not planning on it,” I said, and winced as she helped lower me into a chair. Dahlia was on me before I could fully catch my breath.

She dropped to her knees beside the chair I’d collapsed into, her hands moving over my side—gentle, frantic, furious.

I wanted to tell her not to worry. That I’d had worse. That blood was just the body’s way of being dramatic.

But I couldn’t get the words out.

Not with her hands trembling as they touched my skin. Not with her voice cracking like the wound was hers.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I managed. Weakly.

“Don’t do that,” she snapped, glaring up at me through glassy eyes. “Don’t downplay it. Don’t pretend I didn’t just watch something try to rip you in half.”

Her hands hovered now, afraid of causing pain. I could still feel her touch, ghosting down my ribs.

“I thought—” she started, then stopped. Swallowed. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

The words hit harder than the beast’s claws.

I should’ve said something. Anything. But I couldn’t think past the sudden tightness in my chest. The way her voice broke.

She wasn’t just upset. She was scared.

Of losing me .

My breath caught as she leaned in, her forehead pressing against mine like she needed proof I was still there. Still breathing.

“Thank the gods,” she whispered. “You’re not dead.”

I didn’t know how to hold that kind of softness. Not after everything. Not after two hundred years of silence and loss and shadows that had no names.

But I knew how to hold her hand.

So I did.

Her fingers were warm and shaking, and when I laced mine through them, it felt like something inside me gave way.

“You’d have missed me,” I said, because humor was safer than truth.

She let out a watery laugh. “I was worried about the floorboards.”

Gods. She was trying to make me feel better.

And it worked.

I laughed—short, surprised—and it hurt like hell. But I didn’t stop. Because she was still here. Still looking at me like I was more than a curse, more than a relic that fell out of a locket.

And I— I was in trouble.

Because I didn’t just care that she was safe.

I cared that she cared that I was.