For the first time in years, I feel like the dead can rest—and the living can live.
CHAPTER 27
OLIVIA
The library has never been louder.
Kids are sprinting between the shelves like little berserkers, clutching foam spears wrapped in duct tape and stickers. One boy swings his “weapon” at a cardboard cutout of the Vorfaluka I painted last week, toppling it into a pile of beanbags. The crash earns a cheer that rattles the glass in the front doors.
I should be horrified. But instead, I’m grinning like an idiot.
“Slow down, you wild things!” I call, though I don’t mean it. The floorboards shake under their stampede. The air smells like crayons, spilled juice boxes, and the faint sharpness of printer ink. It’s chaos. Beautiful chaos.
I never thought I’d see this day—the first-everOccult Literacy Day,Walnut Falls’ weirdest attempt at a festival yet. My brainchild, though I’ll deny it if it flops. The idea was simple: if the Veil left scars on this town, let’s turn them into stories, into games, into learning instead of fear. And so here we are: history disguised as playtime.
At the corner table, Peggy Sue is already half-drunk, swirling something that glows faintly purple in a mason jar. “Try this,” she tells me, shoving it forward with a wicked grin.
I sniff. Strong. Sweet. Wrong. “What did you do?”
She lifts her chin proudly. “I call itThe Two-Faced Bastard.Rum, blackberry syrup, a dash of bitters, and just enough chili oil to make you question your life choices.”
I take a sip. My eyes water immediately. “Peggy Sue—this is war.”
She cackles, smacking the table. “Exactly!”
Before I can reply, Mayor Durning totters up in his usual too-tight suit, sweat beading on his bald head. He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses, trying to look official over the din of foam-spear battles and children howling like banshees.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, holding up a shiny plaque, “I am proud to present this award of community excellence to Miss Olivia, for her vision, dedication, and, uh… bravery in creating Occult Literacy Day.”
The crowd of parents claps. Kids ignore him completely, locked in a brutal duel with cardboard demons.
I blink at the plaque as he presses it into my hands. Gold lettering, cheap wood. My name engraved at the bottom. My stomach flips.
“Thank you, Mayor,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “Though really, the whole town made this possible. Well… the wholeweirdtown.”
Laughter ripples through the adults.
As the mayor shuffles off, I glance over to the far side of the room. Kursk leans against a shelf, arms crossed, tusks glinting in the fluorescent lights. He looks equal parts unimpressed and amused as a pair of seven-year-olds charge past him yelling, “FOR HONOR!” One bounces right off his leg and keeps going without noticing.
I slip behind the stacks, heart hammering from the attention, and he follows, quiet as always. In the narrow aisle betweenmythology and gardening, I sag against the shelves, plaque still clutched in my hand.
“Well,” I mutter, “that was surreal.”
Kursk tilts his head, watching me. “You looked proud.”
“I felt… seen,” I admit. “And also like I was accepting a trophy for babysitting a horde of sugar-high gremlins.”
He rumbles low, that half-growl, half-laugh I’ve come to crave. “Better than fighting demons.”
“Barely.” I grin, shaking my head. “But yeah. Better.”
For a moment, we just stand there, hidden from the noise. I can hear Peggy Sue’s laughter echoing, the crash of another cardboard monster going down, the faint slosh of Burnout’s guitar as he’s apparently decided to provide a soundtrack. The library smells of old paper and new beginnings.
I look up at him, at the man who isn’t supposed to be here, who should have been swallowed by war and Veil and grief. He looks back at me, steady, unshaken, and I feel laughter bubble up in my chest.
“What?” he asks, brow furrowed.
I hold up the plaque. “Community excellence.”
