Page 39

Kieran

It started with Dahlia’s phone buzzing on the table.

We’d been sitting in companionable silence—her cross-legged on the library rug with three open books and a notebook in her lap, me on the sofa flipping through translated rites with increasingly murderous expressions.

The library smelled like old paper, candle wax, and her.

It was almost enough to fool me into thinking we were safe.

Until the phone buzzed again.

She reached for it absently, barely glancing at the screen. But the second she saw the name, her body went still.

“Thea.”

My back straightened. “Answer it.”

She did—no hesitation—but her voice was already tense. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

A pause. Too long.

Then she stood. “Wait—slow down. You said Henry—what happened?”

The chill that moved through me was immediate.

I rose and crossed the room. She was pacing now, hand tightening on the phone like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“He’s what ?” she whispered, her voice breaking. “No, no, he was fine—”

Her eyes met mine, wide and panicked.

I took the phone from her gently and put it on speaker.

Thea’s voice came through, low and grim. “He’s unconscious. I found him at the bookstore. No injuries. No blood. Just collapsed behind the front desk like someone hit a switch.”

“Is he alive?” I asked, voice flat.

“Yes. But unresponsive. They’ve run every test they can—neurological, cardiac, you name it. Nothing. No explanation. It doesn’t read like a medical event.”

“It’s magical,” I said. “You can be sure.”

“I can’t prove it yet,” Thea replied. “But yeah. Something hit him. I just don’t know what.”

I glanced at Dahlia. She looked like someone had cut the floor out from under her.

“I’m coming,” she said quickly. “We both are.”

“Be careful,” Thea warned. “Whatever did this—if it can hide this cleanly, it might still be watching.”

I hung up without saying goodbye.

Dahlia ran a shaking hand through her hair. “Gods, he just wanted to go back. He said he just wanted to clean the place up. He should’ve stayed at the house—”

“Stop,” I said firmly, stepping in. “This isn’t your fault.”

“I don’t care,” she whispered. “I just want to fix it.”

I reached for her hand. “Then we will.”

And I meant it.

We moved quickly, gathering supplies. I was already cataloguing what we’d need—spell components for divination, for cursebreaking, for anything that might peel back the magic that was layered over Henry like a shroud. But something was wrong. Not just with Henry. With the air here.

It had gone heavy.

Tight.

The moment Dahlia opened the door to the kitchen, I knew.

She stopped short.

I saw her body go rigid, her breath catching like she’d walked into ice.

I was beside her in an instant, my magic already flaring.

“…Kieran?”

Her voice was careful. Small. The kind she used when something was wrong and she didn’t want to panic me, which, of course, did exactly that.

She was staring at the far end of the island counter.

There, resting atop the clean marble surface like it had always been there, sat a tightly rolled piece of parchment, bound in black thread. A small glass dish sat beside it.

Inside the dish was something round. Clouded.

My entire body went still.

I moved fast—faster than thought.

My shadows burst outward, spiraling from my spine like smoke given teeth. They covered the room in seconds, racing across the counters, the floor, the walls. Reaching. Searching. Every dark corner, every cabinet, every space big enough to hide something human or worse.

Nothing.

No movement. No echo. No presence.

But I still didn’t trust it.

“Don’t touch it,” I snapped, stepping between her and the counter.

Dahlia didn’t argue. She didn’t have to.

Because a heartbeat later, she whispered, “Kieran… look in the bowl.”

I did.

And my stomach turned to ice.

It was an eye.

A real one. Pale and wet and unmistakably human, floating in a dish like it had been placed there with care. There was no blood—just that unnerving stillness, like it had been preserved.

But what made my pulse roar wasn’t the sight.

It was the color.

A pale gray iris rimmed faintly with green.

I knew that eye.

“Silas,” I breathed.

Dahlia made a choking sound behind me. I reached out and caught her wrist without looking, grounding us both.

Then I unrolled the parchment with shaking fingers.

A note. Written in deep red ink that shimmered like fresh blood and smelled faintly of crushed poppy and salt.

Kieran,

How sweet. You’ve built yourselves a little life—books and soup and borrowed time. But time is a luxury you can’t afford.

Henry was a warning. Silas is a promise.

So here’s the question, love—

Which do you choose? Your brother… or her family?

Bring me the girl and the locket. Or watch them both rot.

If you delay, I’ll keep sending you parts that matter.

Let’s not pretend this ends any other way.

— C.

My shadows snarled.

They wanted blood.

So did I.