Page 4

Kieran

For the first time in what felt like centuries, I could breathe.

Not the memory of breath, not the echo of life in some cursed liminal space—but actual breath, sharp and clean, burning through lungs I hadn’t used in far too long. I hit the floor hard, the impact jarring, but the pain was glorious . Real. Grounding.

I was out.

I sucked in another breath, feeling my fingers curl against the cold tile. My vision was blurred, the light too bright after years locked in darkness. The last thing I remembered was that damned locket and a betrayal I couldn’t claw my way out of.

Then her scent hit me—lavender and honey and something ancient —and my gaze snapped to the figure crumpled on the floor.

A woman. Still. Unmoving.

My heart stuttered. Was she dead? Had my release harmed her?

I forced myself to my feet, still unsteady, my body aching like it had been pieced back together with heat and magic and raw desperation.

My fingers brushed through my beard—I hadn’t had one before, I was sure of it.

My reflection, wherever it had gone, used to be clean-shaven.

This version of me was rougher. Sharper. Cursed longer.

I knelt beside her carefully, not wanting to startle her if she woke.

Her hair was a wild halo around her head, dark and curling like vines left untamed, her expression slack with unconsciousness, but her energy…

gods, it buzzed . I could feel it. Magic ran through her veins, old and potent, though untrained.

She was sprawled on the kitchen floor—unmoving, save for the soft, steady rise and fall of her chest. Unconscious, but very much alive.

My senses were slow to catch up with the moment, but even then, even dazed and half-feral from the confines of that cursed locket, I knew she was something rare.

A streak of ink or charcoal smudged one hand, and her sweater had slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the soft curve of her collarbone. There was a warmth to her skin, even under the pale cast of the overhead light, like she'd been steeped in sunlight hours before.

She looked soft. Disarming. Fragile, in the way lightning bugs look fragile just before they vanish into the dark.

Something in her called to something in me, and it wasn’t just gratitude.

She had freed me.

A warm mug sat nearby, still steaming. I picked it up absently, holding it like it might explain who she was. Why her. Why now .

A whisper of memory stirred—the locket humming with something fierce, resisting her, then giving in with a final click. She must’ve opened it.

And now here I was. Alive. Free . Kneeling on her kitchen floor, staring at a stranger who felt anything but.

I reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Who are you, Flower?” I murmured. “And what the hells have you just gotten yourself into?”

Her fingers twitch. Then a groan, soft and annoyed, like she’s waking up from a nap she didn’t mean to take.

I shift my weight, crouched awkwardly on her kitchen floor, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I’m here . Breathing. Whole. The air smells like burnt honey and scorched tea leaves, and everything feels… too sharp. Too loud.

She jolts upright with a gasp, scrambling backward until her spine hits the cabinets with a dull thud .

She reaches for a large green bag and pulls out some blocky black thing, and points it directly at me.

Her wild eyes land on me—bearded, disheveled, looming—and immediately she goes into panic mode.

“What the fuck ?!” she shouts. “Who the hell are you?!”

I raise my hands slowly. “Calm down.”

“ Calm down?! You just— appeared ! Out of my necklace! What the actual fuck is happening?!”

I grit my teeth, jaw clenched. My voice is low, gravelly, and more irritated than comforting. “Trust me, I wasn’t aiming for a dramatic entrance.”

She pulls at the necklace, still stuck firmly around her neck. “So you’re just some random cursed dude who lives in jewelry now?”

“I didn’t exactly sign up for it,” I snap. “That thing’s been my prison for longer than you’ve been alive.”

She blinks. “You’re cursed?”

“Obviously.” I push a hand through my tangled hair and exhale sharply. “Gods, I forgot how loud the world is.”

She looks like she’s two seconds away from chucking her tea mug at me. “Okay, Kurt Russell in a horror movie , back up. What were you doing in that necklace in the first place?”

“It’s Kieran,” I mutter. “And how about we don’t dive into the traumatic backstory ten seconds after I claw my way back into existence?”

“Fine, Kieran, I’m Dahlia,” she says, standing and placing her weapon on the counter, arms crossed tight over her chest. “You look like a medieval lumberjack with a temper.”

I glare. “You look like someone who poked a bear and is now surprised it growled, Flower.”

“Yeah, well, that bear was hiding in my fucking jewelry , so excuse me for being a little startled.”

I run a hand down my face. Everything aches—bones, skin, soul. “Look, I didn’t ask for this. But you opened the locket, which means something’s changed. Something bad . And if I’m out, that means the thing that put me in there might not be far behind.”

Her eyes flicker to mine. For the first time, I see the fear behind the sarcasm. She’s scared. Smart girl.

I sigh through my nose. “I’m not here to hurt you. I don’t even want to be here. But now that I am…” I glance at the locket. “We’ve got a problem. And like it or not, it looks like we’re in it together.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re not staying here.”

“Where else would I go?” I growl. “You dragged me out of magical purgatory in your fucking kitchen. Congratulations, sweetheart. You broke the lock. Now you get the monster.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. I can see her fighting herself on whether to force me out.

Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged.

“Fine,” she mutters eventually. “But if you touch my tea again, I will kill you.”

I eye the mug again like it’s insulted me in a past life.

Dahlia’s standing across from me, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. She’s clearly waiting for me to admit defeat.

Yeah. Not happening.

“You know what? Fine,” I mutter.

She narrows her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Proving a point.”

I lift the damn thing and take a long, defiant sip, while staring directly into her eyes.

Immediately, I regret every choice that led me to this moment.

It’s like regret and sadness had a baby and steeped it in suffering. I cough, because I have to—because whatever this is doesn’t deserve to be called tea—and lower the mug, scowling.

“Fucking hell,” I rasp. “It tastes like someone boiled despair and added a hint of disappointment.”

Dahlia snorts. “You didn’t have to drink it.”

“Oh, I did,” I say, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. “Because now I can say, with absolute certainty, that this is the worst thing I’ve consumed since the Black Plague.”

She raises an eyebrow. “It’s not that bad.”

“I would rather chew bark. Not even fresh bark—old, sun-bleached, cursed-forest bark with termites and centuries of sorrow soaked in.”

She tries to keep a straight face, but a laugh escapes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I was tortured for decades,” I say solemnly, still staring at the mug like it’s my sworn enemy. “But this tea? This tea is what finally broke me.”

Now she’s full-on laughing. I can’t help it—I glare at the cup and set it down like it’s radioactive. “If I die again tonight, blame the tea.”

She wipes a tear from her eye, shaking her head. “I will. And I’ll remember that you drank it on purpose just to win an argument.”

I grumble under my breath. “I’m surrounded by witches and chaos and now apparently herbal war crimes.”

“And yet,” she says with a smirk, “you’re still standing.”

“Barely.”

She rolls her eyes. “Alright, tough guy. Why don’t you go rinse your mouth out or get yourself some water? The sink’s right there.”

I glance toward the counter, spotting the shiny silver contraption she gestures to.

“That?” I ask, squinting. “That’s the sink?”

“Yes. That’s the sink.”

“It looks like something that would strangle you in your sleep.”

“It’s a faucet.”

I walk over to it cautiously, eyeing the handles like they might bite. “There are no pumps. No well. No enchanted vessel. Just... knobs?”

“Turn one,” she says, amused now. “It’s not going to hex you.”

I hesitate. I don’t like objects I can’t predict, especially ones that hum with unnatural stillness. Magic has rhythm. This thing is just waiting .

I wrap my hand around one of the handles and twist.

The faucet sputters violently, then shoots out a stream of water so sudden and aggressive that I stumble back like it just roared at me. “Gods’ teeth!”

Dahlia snorts behind me. “It’s plumbing .”

I narrow my eyes at the faucet, deeply offended. “In my day, water didn’t hiss like a demon being exorcised.”

“Yeah, well, in your day, they also thought mercury cured headaches.”

“I’m beginning to miss it.”

I glare at the water, slowly inching closer again. Tentatively, I cup my hands beneath the stream and slurp. Cold. Clean. Infinitely better than her plant death brew.

I turn back toward her, wiping my beard with a scowl. “I liked it better when water came from the earth. Not... metal snakes.”

She grins. “You’ll get used to it.”

I snort. “Doubtful. But it is less offensive than your tea.”

She just laughs, and I pretend I don’t like the sound of it.

I dry my hands on a rag that’s way too soft to be trusted.

The whole house smells strange—like lavender, rosemary, and a hint of something warm and sugary—but not unpleasant.

Just... unfamiliar. It makes me itch under my skin.

Everything in here is small and oddly cozy, like the cottage itself is trying to make me feel something.

I don’t like it.

I step into the adjoining room—more plants, more soft colors, more little sparkling things hanging from shelves and corners. Crystals. She has crystals everywhere. I eye them warily. Some of them are humming with faint magic. Most are just shiny rocks pretending to be important.

And then I see him.

A flash of orange fur darts behind a bookshelf, then peeks out at me with large, untrusting eyes. A cat. Small. Fuzzy. Judgy.

He watches me with the wary suspicion of a creature who’s seen too much. I stare back.

“I don’t trust you either,” I mutter.

He slinks forward anyway, tail twitching. I stay still, letting him sniff the air around me like I’m something he’s deciding to either claw or befriend. To my surprise, he brushes against my leg once, then again, purring like a tiny infernal machine.

“Well,” I mutter, crouching down, “aren’t you indecisive. Hissing one minute, cuddling the next.”

I reach out a hand. He doesn’t bite it. Instead, he rubs his head into my fingers like we’ve been comrades for years.

“Coward,” I murmur, begrudgingly scratching behind his ears. “You were my enemy five minutes ago.”

“Sunny likes you,” Dahlia says from behind me, sounding both surprised and amused.

“Sunny? That’s its name?” I glance at the creature. “He seems more like a Brimstone.”

She snorts. “I’ll let him know you disapprove.”

I straighten, joints creaking in ways I don’t remember them doing before. She eyes me critically.

“You stink,” she says flatly. “Like firewood, blood, and... tomb.”

“Charming,” I say, arching a brow. “Care to insult my beard while you’re at it?”

“It’s a great beard,” she replies, holding up her hands. “But everything else needs serious help. Go shower. Please.”

“I don’t know how your demon ‘plumbing’ works, remember?”

“I’ll show you how the shower works,” she says, already heading toward the hallway. “I’ll even find you something clean to wear.”

I follow her, Sunny trailing behind like a tiny orange sentinel.

“And while you’re in there,” she calls over her shoulder, “I’ll make us something to eat.”

“Something that doesn’t taste like regret and moss?”

She spins, walking backward now, grinning. “I make a mean grilled cheese.”

I sigh dramatically. “If that’s a euphemism for more cursed tea, I swear I’ll do my best to vanish back into the damn necklace.”

She just laughs again. Bright, unbothered, and annoyingly... warm.