Out the door, I find the town already waking—but with an edge of madness. The grass is wet with dew, mixed with something oily and dark. The path into Walnut Falls smells like wet concrete, coffee, fear. As I walk, I taste grit on the air, metallic like Old Blood.
First I see bright lights—TV vans, satellite trucks—parked outside the old festival grounds. Reporters bobbing in cameras and tripods, microphones extended like inquisitorial claws.Some drones hum overhead, whirring like insects. Doomsday bloggers snap photos, live-streaming; crowd of conspiracy tourists follow them, whispering, pointing, recording.
The festival grounds—once full of candy floss and smiles—are a ruin. Tents sagged, lanterns burnt, banners shredded. The scent of smoke lingers; faint ash in every breath. I want to gag, but I swallow it down. Someone nearby coughs. A child cries, and it's broadcast live.
A reporter steps toward me—camera thrust, mic in hand. “Miss Wilkins,Olivia, what can you tell us about last night? Is Kursk safe? Was it true you tried the forbidden ritual?”
I clamp my jaw. “No comment.” My voice veneer calm, though I can feel my heart hammer like a war drum. The reporter frowns. “Can you confirm the shard was recovered?”
I don’t answer. I turn away. My boots crunch over broken glass. I want to find something—supplies, privacy—even a place to think without being a spectacle.
I duck down an alley toward Peggy Sue’s house; she insisted she had more medical herbs, more magical reagents in her workshop. Voices follow: microphones, recorders, “Olivia!” “Librarian!” “Witch!” People shouting. I duck behind cars, duck behind hedges. My ears ring with static from camera gear, the buzz of voices. I taste polyester from their clothes, cheap cologne, sweat.
Peggy Sue bursts through her front door at the end of the block—armed with a flyswatter in one hand, a tote bag of tinctures in the other. A reporter lunges for her. “Peggy, do you believe the town is cursed? Can you show us Kursk’s wound? Has the creature returned?”
Peggy Sue flicks the flyswatter.SWAP!She bats the reporter’s recorder. “Take a hike,” she says, voice low and fiery. “This ain’t your circus.”
The reporter, stunned, stumbles backward. Other reporters close in like vultures. Peggy Sue draws back inside, shaking out her hair. I slip into her kitchen. The windows rattle with distant thunder—wind? Or the tremors of unreality?
I press my forehead against cold glass. Outside the window a human chain of friends—townsfolk, festival survivors—stand. Some hold signs:“We saw him!”“Save Kursk,” “Monsters Among Us.” Others record, take photos. Flashing lights. Headlines are being written this very moment.
One reporter’s monitor flickers: live footage of the transformed house, of Calvin/monster, of the smoldering ruins of the festival grounds. Words scroll:smarthome corruption, terror in Walnut Falls, hero or abomination.
A kid across the street stares at me, feathered microphone held by an adult. He says, “Miss Olivia—do you believe Kursk is from this world now?” His voice trembles. I want to lie. I want to protect him. Instead I say, “He’s fighting to come back to us.”
The kid nods, uncertain. The camera moves on.
Peggy Sue offers me coffee. Strong, bitter, burnt. I sip it like poison that gives me strength. My hands shake. My mind pulls all the strings: the shard, the ritual, Kursk’s wound, Calvin’s transformation, how close the world is to ripping itself apart.
The sky is overcast now, clouds bruised purple and gray. The wind picks up. I can feel something tearing at the edges of reality—little flickers where physics warps, shadows moving in the wrong directions. Something subterranean shifting.
I put the coffee down. I touch the scar on my wrist—the one I made when I bound the Spear shard. It stings.
I check my pack: bandages, sage, warding salt, some iron filings Peggy Sue had. Enough for tonight. Maybe not more.
I glance out the window: TV cameras converge on Kursk’s cabin. Reporters yell questions. Fans, frightened friends, frightened enemies, all blending. I want to scream:leave him be!But the cameras keep rolling. The world is watching, wanting a story. Wanting a monster.
I close the blinds. The edges of wood scrape against each other like fingernails. I lean against the wall, breathing hard. I need to believe—that I can protect him, that I can lie, cheat, steal whatever magic, truth, whatever is needed—for even one more night. For all the nights that come.
The wind howls outside. The reporters shout. Reality cracks.
The coffee’s gone cold by the time I return. I find Kursk in the back room by the window, staring at the shattered shards of the Sky-Blade on the ground. Morning light slants through cracked glass, dust motes dancing like fever dreams. His face is pale. His eyes hollowed with exhaustion—or something worse.
I swallow, pressing my hands together. “Kursk,” I say soft, stepping in. My voice echoes, betraying how much fear is sitting just under my ribs.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He picks up one of the shards, finger gently brushing the dark veins tracing along its edges. I taste rust and ash in my mouth. My heart hammers because I know what’s coming.
“Olivia,” he says finally. His voice is low, thick with something like sorrow and resolve mashed together.
“What is it?” I ask. I want the truth. Damn it, Ineedthe truth.
He sets the shard down. “The Spear… it isn’t just mine or ours anymore. It’s part of it.” His eyes flick toward the shard and then back to me. “The Vorfaluka. It’s embedded deep in its essence now.”
“Part ofit?” I echo, voice tight. “You mean it’s corrupted? Usable?”
He nods slowly. “Yes—and no.” He presses his hand over his chest, where the last scar from the embedding throbs. “Killing the Vorfaluka with the Spear… may no longer be enough. It might tear the Veil permanently.”
I jerk back. “Tear the Veil?” My stomach muscles twist. “What are you saying?”
