Page 20

Dahlia

Kieran was pacing.

He did that when he was thinking, long, slow strides across the living room like his thoughts needed distance. He kept glancing toward the door, toward the windows. Watching shadows that weren’t there.

I leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “You’re restless.”

“I’m thinking,” he muttered, not looking at me.

“About what?”

He stopped mid-stride and turned toward me, eyes shadowed. “Henry’s house.”

That caught Thea’s attention, too. She lowered her book.

I frowned. “Do you think—?”

“I don’t think there’s anything left to protect it,” Kieran said, voice tight. “If his shop’s wards failed… his house likely has nothing. Especially if Jane was the one who made them.”

Silence rolled over the room like a slow thunderclap.

Thea straightened. “You think Henry’s house is exposed.”

“I think,” Kieran said, “that if something were hunting him, it wouldn’t have had to try very hard. And after this morning, it might already be looking.”

I felt the chill roll down my spine. “Then we keep him here.”

Kieran nodded. “It’s the only place that’s shielded now. Yours was empty for long enough, so nothing bothered reinforcing it. But now it’s awake. Now it’s holding.”

“And you’re sure he’s not already in danger?” Thea asked.

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “No. I’m not sure at all.”

I didn’t wait for a vote. I grabbed my coat. “Then we go now, get the journals, whatever else he needs.”

Kieran was already reaching for his boots. “I’ll speak to him. He trusts you, but he’ll listen to me if I explain the magical dangers.”

“Good,” Thea said, tossing the heating pad aside. “Because I’ve got a bat in the trunk, and I swear to god, if anything even attempts to breathe on that man—”

“We won’t let it,” I said.

And I meant it.

Henry was family.

And from now on, family stayed where the magic still held.

Henry was still sitting in the kitchen, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line as he watched us fidget in front of him. His tea had gone cold on the table, untouched.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, voice low and steady. “You three want me to stay behind. In this house. While you run off into god-knows-what, facing down monsters and who-knows-how-many other curses?”

Kieran’s tone was calm, but firm. “It’s safer here, Henry. The wards are holding. You’re protected—”

Henry snorted, sharp and unimpressed. “I didn’t sit in a jungle in ‘68 with bullets singing past my ears just to spend my twilight years babysat like a china doll.”

The room went quiet.

“I’ve seen real hell, son,” he said, eyes narrowing at Kieran.

“Hell with guns and napalm and friends who didn’t make it back.

And I came home. Built a life. Loved a woman with fire in her blood and stars in her eyes.

If you think some shadow beast’s gonna scare me into hiding under a damn quilt, you’ve got another thing coming. ”

I took a step forward. “Henry… It’s not about fear. It’s about—”

“It’s about doing something useful,” he interrupted, gentler now. “If Jane’s journals can help, I want to be the one to get them. I know where she hid things. What she left unsaid.” his voice softened, grief catching in the edges. “She deserves that. Not strangers poking through her memories.”

Thea sighed. “He’s not going to budge.”

“No,” Henry said, standing up with a quiet groan. “I’m not. So if you’re storming my house for magical homework, I’m coming with you. End of discussion.”

Kieran glanced at me, clearly biting back his frustration, but I only nodded.

“Alright,” I said. “Just keep close.”

Henry smiled grimly, eyes flicking to the door like he was already halfway there. “Good. Now let’s go. And someone better remember the cookie tin.”

Henry’s street was quiet when we pulled up, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel natural. Overcast skies loomed low, casting everything in a pale gray wash that made the world feel like it was holding its breath. Even the birds seemed to have fallen silent.

The house looked unchanged from the outside—same creaky porch, same faded paint, and windchimes that clinked in the breeze. But the longer we sat there, the more it felt like something had shifted. Something invisible. Watching.

Thea was already unbuckling her seatbelt. She checked the gun at her hip, then the one strapped under her coat.

“I’m going to scout ahead,” she said, popping her door open. “Make sure nothing’s squatting in your kitchen or waiting to eat our faces.”

Henry grunted. “If someone is squatting, they’re gonna wish they picked a different house.”

Thea ignored him. She turned back toward us with her usual grim flair. “If you hear gunshots or screaming, pick Henry’s old ass up, throw him in the car, and tear ass back to the cottage. Don’t wait. Don’t check. Just run.”

I gave her a look. “You really know how to inspire confidence.”

She winked. “It’s a gift.”

Then she was gone—silent footsteps up the walk, her black jacket blending with the gray light. The wind kicked up, tossing leaves across the pavement. I watched her disappear around the back of the house, my stomach twisting.

Kieran stood beside the car, scanning the tree line, the roof, and the windows. “Something feels off.”

“It’s probably just nerves,” I said, though I didn’t believe it. Not really.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s too still.”

Henry crossed his arms. “Or maybe it’s just a Sunday and I want my books back.”

Kieran didn’t respond. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set. I stepped closer, drawn to the way his eyes never stopped moving—sharp, focused, coiled like a spring.

“You okay?” I asked, voice low.

He didn’t look at me. “Not until we know what’s inside that house.”

A beat passed. Then another. Still no sound from Thea.

I turned toward Henry, trying not to let my unease show. “When we go in, we grab the journals, anything else you need, and we’re out. Fast. No lingering.”

Henry nodded. “I know where everything is. Jane kept the attic tidy.”

We started up the walk—Kieran in front, Henry behind me. The porch creaked under our feet. I reached for the doorbell out of habit, then stopped.

The door swung open before I could touch it.

A man stood in the threshold. Tall. Broad. Older, though he wore the years like armor. His golden hair was silvered at the temples, but his posture was rigid, controlled. His coat was dark, tailored, sharp at the edges.

But it was his face that made me stop breathing.

Not because it was familiar.

Because it looked like Kieran’s.

Kieran went utterly still. Like someone had frozen the air around him.

“Silas,” he said, voice low and cold.