Page 22

Dahlia

Silas was still groggy when we got back to the cottage. Thea tossed him over her shoulder like a sack of laundry, and fireman carried him inside without ceremony.

She plunked him into one of the kitchen chairs, then tied his ankles to the legs and looped another length of nylon rope around his chest and the chair back. With casual efficiency, she double-knotted it for good measure.

“There,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Not going anywhere.”

Henry wandered in behind her with an impressed whistle. “You sure you weren’t deployed? We could’ve used someone like you in ’Nam. Your knots are better than half the grunts we had.”

Thea shrugged. “Girl Scouts.”

He chuckled. “I believe it.”

I set the trunk of Jane’s journals down on the table with a grunt and opened the heavy book we’d recovered— The Hollow Veil .

Kieran stood just behind me, his presence a steady hum in the room, watching silently with shadows flickering faintly at the edges of his sleeves.

Henry excused himself to start another pot of coffee.

Thea sat dutifully in a backward-facing chair.

We flipped through the brittle pages together. Rites. Symbols. Orders long since fallen. The ink on many pages had faded to near-invisibility, but some remained legible.

And then we reached a section where the edges were blackened. Burned.

The parchment crumbled at the corners, scorched away with precise intensity—magic fire, not accidental. The surrounding text blurred and frayed, as if the page had resisted erasure but lost the fight.

Kieran exhaled sharply. “These were the pages on the Rite.”

“The one that trapped you?” I asked quietly.

He nodded. “It’s gone. Someone burned it.”

I opened one of Jane’s journals, heart racing. The handwriting inside was careful, looping—her voice in ink. Protective, precise.

There, just a few entries in, we found it.

I’ve read it again. The Rite of Soul Preservation.

Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I know what it promises. What it demands.

The balance of want and suffering, anchored by sacrifice.

One willing. The rest must be unwilling.

The one at the center always gets what they want—but the cost ripples like a stone dropped in fate.

I couldn’t let it stay intact in the book.

I burned the pages with runes laced through the fire.

I won’t be responsible for someone finding it and thinking they’re clever enough to survive it. Not again.

My stomach turned. “She knew.”

“She recognized it,” Kieran said, voice low. “And she destroyed it.”

“She must’ve seen something—maybe another coven that used it, or some kind of residue left behind.” I looked over at him. “She knew how dangerous it was.”

He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “The rules match. One willing. The rest… weren’t.”

“Who was at the center of the circle?”

I could see Kieran’s heart drop to his feet.

“Calliope was in the center.”

The scarf muffled Silas’ groan before he even focused his eyes.

Silas stirred in the chair, head lolling, jaw working at the fabric Thea had shoved between his teeth. His wrists flexed against the ropes, but the knots didn’t budge.

Kieran didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. He just stood across the room, arms folded, shadows curling lazily around his boots like smoke sensing a spark.

“Should we un-gag him?” I asked.

“Depends,” Thea said flatly. “You want lies with your tea?”

“Let’s hear what he has to say,” Kieran murmured, though his voice sounded like it’d been dragged over broken glass.

I reached forward carefully and untied the scarf. Silas coughed, jaw clenching, before he looked up and locked eyes with his brother.

He didn’t speak right away. Just breathed—slow, steady. Like he was gathering something brittle and dangerous in his throat.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like that,” he rasped.

Kieran’s face didn’t change. “Didn’t mean for what?”

“For you ,” Silas said, “to be trapped.”

Silence.

Then Kieran took one step forward. Just one. The shadows pulsed.

“Explain.”

Silas looked at all of us, but settled back on Kieran.

“Calliope was going to use you. She was always going to use you. She didn’t love you, Kieran.

She loved your power. She planned the Rite from the beginning.

She needed a willing soul, one strong enough to anchor the magic. That was going to be you.”

Kieran’s voice was low. “I was willing.”

“I know,” Silas said, voice cracking. “And that’s why I had to stop it. I tried to rewrite the outer runes—quietly, subtly—so the spell would break mid-casting. I thought if I rerouted the core tether, it would consume her instead. I wanted her to pay the price.”

My stomach twisted.

“And me?” Kieran asked, barely above a whisper. “You just gambled with me?”

“No,” Silas said fiercely. “I tried to rewrite it so you’d survive. I thought I had it right. I thought you’d be cut free, your soul untouched. But…” He looked down at his hands, at the burned, magicless skin. “Something went wrong. It bound you instead. Sealed you into the locket.”

Kieran’s expression shattered—just for a second. “You tampered with the Rite and left me trapped for two hundred years?”

“I tried to save you, I damn sure didn’t mean to bind you to that locket,” Silas shot back. “And I did kill her. That part worked.”

“You don’t get credit for killing someone you helped bring to power,” Kieran growled. “You betrayed both of us.”

“I chose you,” Silas said, his voice rough now. “And I failed.”

“If you chose me, why did you walk away? Why did you fucking leave me?!”

“Because I am a coward ! I thought if I interfered more, we all would have died!”

He slumped back in the chair, bound and worn. No magic. Just a man with too much history and a handful of regrets that couldn’t be undone.

I looked at Kieran. He hadn’t lowered his shadows. His hands were fists at his sides.

“You could’ve told me,” he said hoarsely. “You could’ve stopped me before it started.”

“I didn’t know how,” Silas whispered. “You were in love. You would’ve fought me.”

“You should’ve let me.”

Kieran turned away then, shoulders tight with a rage that had no clear edge—only the bruised weight of everything lost. The door to the guest room slammed close so hard, several things fell off the fireplace mantle.

By the time four o’clock rolled around, the house had fallen into a restless hush.

Thea was outside splitting firewood like it owed her money, and Henry had passed out in the armchair, snoring softly with Sunny curled on his chest like a purring paperweight.

Silas stayed silent in the kitchen, still tied to the chair, though Thea had moved the gag to let him drink some water.

“I don’t believe in cruel and unusual punishment.

I’m not a monster. ” Henry had turned the TV on for him. He hadn’t said a word since.

I couldn’t sit still anymore.

The tension in my bones needed somewhere to go, so I dragged myself into the kitchen and started pulling out pans like they might answer for something. Cooking had always calmed me. Measuring, chopping, seasoning—it was like casting spells with butter and heat.

I didn’t even care that it was early. Everyone had been running on adrenaline and trauma, and we needed something grounding. Something warm. Something with cheese.

Lasagna felt like the only right answer.

I diced onions, smashed garlic, and browned meat in the pan until it sizzled just right. The smell of oregano and basil drifted through the house, weaving through the tired silence like a peace offering.

The sound of a door creaked behind me.

I didn’t turn. I just stirred the sauce and said softly, “There’s no shame in slamming doors. But you better not slam my cabinet drawers.”

A quiet pause.

Then, “I wasn’t aiming for the door. I was trying to collapse the wall with sheer disappointment.”

I looked over my shoulder.

Kieran stood in the doorway, barefoot, shirt wrinkled from sleep—or rage—and his hair a glorious mess. The bruised anger in his eyes had faded into something else. Something heavier. Quieter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough.

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said, turning back to the stove.

“I do,” he said, stepping closer. “I lost my temper. Again. And I didn’t mean to scare you.”

I glanced up at him, letting the silence stretch a beat longer before I offered, “You didn’t scare me. But you did make the salt container jump.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—maybe guilt, maybe humor. “I’ll apologize to the salt.”

I handed him a wooden spoon. “Apologize by learning to make béchamel.”

He blinked. “That sounds like a spell.”

“It’s butter, flour, and milk. Which, honestly, might be more powerful than half the spells in your blood.”

He moved closer, cautious but curious. “You’ll teach me?”

“If you behave.” I gestured to the stovetop. “Grab that whisk. You’re on sauce duty.”

What followed was clumsy, chaotic, and weirdly tender.

He measured by instinct, which drove me nuts, and stirred like the pot called him an unforgivable name.

But he listened. Asked questions. Watched my hands.

And when the roux finally thickened into a perfect, creamy béchamel, he looked stupidly proud.

We layered noodles, spread meat sauce, and cheese like a well-oiled machine, and Kieran grated parmesan with far more enthusiasm than necessary.

Then I tossed him a loaf of bread. “Slice that. We’re making garlic bread.”

He caught it easily. “This is bread, it’s already cooked?”

I handed him a bowl of softened butter, garlic, parsley, and salt. “This is the magic.”

The kitchen filled with laughter and warmth, with the clatter of pans and the low hum of a man trying very hard to slice bread evenly.