Page 18

Kieran

Thea’s SUV rumbled down the wet road, its tires slicing through shallow puddles like it couldn’t get us home fast enough.

I leaned my head against Dahlia’s shoulder, the ache in my ribs sharpening every time we hit a bump. The wound wasn’t life-threatening—I’d had worse—but it burned. Not just from pain, but from everything that had come with it.

Shadow beasts. Ancient tomes. The look on Dahlia’s face when she thought Henry might be dead.

I closed my eyes. I could still feel the creature’s teeth too close, the stink of sulfur, the flicker of flame in my blood when it finally answered me. That part scared me more than the beast itself. I hadn’t used bloodfire before. I wasn’t even sure I could again.

But it had come. Like it had always been there.

And Dahlia saw it.

When we finally reached the cottage, everything was quiet—the kind of quiet that felt earned. Thea helped Henry inside. He grumbled that he was fine, but we ignored him. He was pale beneath his flannel, his hands trembling no matter how tightly he crossed his arms.

As Henry lowered himself gingerly onto the couch, a blur of fur darted out from beneath the coffee table.

“What the hell was that?” I muttered, already bracing like it might be demonic.

“Oleander,” Dahlia said, scooping up the rabbit as he lunged for Henry’s shoelaces. “He lives here too.”

Henry chuckled. “Well, aren’t you a little tuft of mischief.”

Dahlia held Oleander out toward Henry, and he licked Henry’s hand, then turned and stared at me like he knew exactly who had almost turned him into stew yesterday. She gingerly returned him to his hutch.

I narrowed my eyes. “He remembers.”

“He holds grudges,” Dahlia said sweetly. “You should sleep with one eye open.”

Dahlia hovered near me like she wanted to help, but didn’t know how. I was trying to stand straight, to not sway like a drunk in a storm. I didn’t want her to see me as weak—or worse—a burden.

“Sit down before you fall down,” she ordered, guiding me to the couch with a hand on my elbow. “And don’t argue. You’re bleeding through your shirt again.”

I blinked at the dark stain blooming on the fabric. So I was. Huh.

She disappeared down the hall and returned a few minutes later with a small basket of dried herbs, gauze, a ceramic bowl, and a kettle hissing gently in her hands.

“What’s all this, Flower?” I asked.

She didn’t look up as she arranged everything on the coffee table with quiet focus. “You’re going to teach me how to heal you.”

“You’ve never done this before.”

“Nope. But you have. So you’re going to talk me through it.”

A flicker of warmth stirred in my chest. Gods, she was relentless.

I nodded slowly. “Alright. Get some mugwort. Calendula too. That’s the orange one—no, not that one. The curlier one.”

She followed my instructions like her life depended on it. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her eyes were sharp. She steeped the herbs in hot water, whispering the focus word I gave her—one of the old ones. Not Latin. Older.

Her palm pressed gently to my skin as I lifted my shirt, and I hissed when her fingers brushed the bruised, torn flesh.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s fine. Just… breathe. Let the energy settle into your hands.”

“I don’t feel anything.”

“You will.”

A minute passed. Then another.

And then I felt it. A low thrum, a flicker of warmth like the first rumble of a storm on the horizon. Dahlia’s hand hovered just above the wound, the way we used to train apprentices. Not touching—just willing.

She whispered the word again.

And the pain dulled.

Not gone. But softer. Less jagged. Like the magic was stitching something in me that had unraveled far more than just flesh.

When I opened my eyes, she was staring at me with wide, stunned eyes.

“Did I do it?” she asked.

“You did.”

A smile bloomed across her face—genuine, not smug. Like something inside her had just opened and let the light in.

“Alright,” she said, bolting upright. “Your turn to rest. Thea’s next.”

From the other room, Thea groaned. “I don’t need healing. I need tequila.”

“You’ve got a cut across your forehead and probably a dislocated shoulder,” Dahlia called back. “Shut up and take the herbs like a good patient.”

“I hate this,” Thea muttered, trudging into the room like someone being marched to the gallows.

But when Dahlia placed her hands over her friend’s injuries—repeating the process with more confidence this time—the tension in Thea’s shoulders began to ease.

I watched from the couch, my own body still aching, but my chest somehow lighter.

She was learning.

She was powerful.

And gods help anyone who tried to take her from me.

Thea flexed her freshly-mended shoulder with a grunt, the pain clearly fading. “That’s… damn impressive,” she muttered, wincing like admitting that physically hurt her.

“Thanks,” Dahlia said, still kneeling beside her. Her hands dropped to her lap, trembling—not from magical burnout, just nerves. Doubt. She didn’t need to worry. She’d done it.

I could still feel the echo of her spell in my bones, warm and steady like sunlight after fog.

Thea pushed herself up and flopped onto the couch without ceremony, muttering something about aspirin and snacks. I let her have her comforts.

Dahlia rose unsteadily. I caught her elbow as she wobbled, steadying her.

She looked up at me, flushed and breathless. “So… what’s next, Professor?”

I should’ve told her to rest.

But she was looking at me like I had all the answers.

“Next,” I said, gently releasing her arm, “we ward the house.”

“Wards? Like magical burglar alarms?”

“Essentially. Think of it as carving ‘piss off’ into the bones of the place. Keeps out anything that means harm.”

She perked up. “Can we write that exactly? ‘Piss off’ in glowing runes on the windows?”

I huffed a soft laugh. “Subtle, Flower. Very subtle.”

She followed me to the front room, where the floorboards still creaked with old magic. The cottage had seen things. It wasn’t dead—not quite—but it was sleeping. And with what was out there now, it needed to wake up.

I dropped to one knee near the hearth and pressed my palm to the stone. Any old wards had long since faded, crumbled like ash.

“I’ll guide you,” I said. “But you’ll need to cast it.”

She frowned. “Why?”

I hesitated. “Wards that powerful need to come from someone who lives here. Someone the house recognizes.”

She blinked. “But you’ve been staying here. Doesn’t that count?”

“No,” I said quietly. “Not really.”

She didn’t press. She should have. But instead, she just nodded and knelt beside me.

I steadied my breath and began tracing the sigil in the air between us, glowing runes hanging like smoke. “Repeat after me. Focus on your breath. The house. Your intent. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be yours.”

She followed with surprising precision. Her fingers carved the runes I whispered—old syllables with bite. Magic hummed beneath her skin, rising like it had been waiting for her voice.

The final symbol flared bright, then sank into the stones. The air shifted—thicker, warmer. Safe.

Dahlia let out a shaky breath. “Did it work?”

The wind rattled the windows, then stilled. The hearth flared briefly without flame. And beyond, I felt the ripple spread like a tide brushing the edge of the boundary.

I gave a small, honest smile. “It worked.”

She beamed at me, her face flushed with triumph.

And I—gods help me—I wanted to kiss her. Not out of lust. Something deeper. The kind of wanting that lives in the marrow.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I stood and stepped back.

“You’re protected now,” I said. “You and everyone inside. As long as the wards hold, nothing with ill will can cross.”

“And what about you?” she asked. Her voice was soft, but sharp. Too perceptive.

I forced a crooked smile. “I’m just the relic that came with the locket.”

She frowned—but didn’t argue.

That was worse.

Later, after the wards settled and the fire crackled to life on its own, I sat by the window and watched Dahlia make tea with hands that still shook faintly from magic.

She belonged here.

I didn’t.

And the longer I stayed, the more I feared the house would know it too.