“You said yes, didn’t you?” she says, laughing.
“I didn’tsayyes,” I grumble. “I just stopped saying no.”
Olivia leans her head on my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. “God help Walnut Falls.”
“Nah,” I say, wrapping one arm around her. “They got the Green Brigade now.”
She snorts, and I swear I feel the echo of laughter long buried in her ribs, like the world is finally light enough to joke about again.
I love the sound of rain tapping against our roof—not sharp, but gentle, like prayer. The cabin smells of lavender and wet wood, clean sheets, Olivia’s hair smelling of lemongrass and moonlight. I stretch, letting the ache in my back spread like a map I can trace.
She’s lying beside me, warm. I turn, watching her ribs rise and fall. A half-smile graces her lips—soft, peaceful. I slide my arm around her waist. Her skin is cool, damp under my fingers. Her breath smells like jasmine and comfort. It feels like grace.
CHAPTER 23
OLIVIA
It starts with a dream.
At first it’s harmless—nonsense like anybody else’s subconscious stew. But then the colors get wrong. Too sharp, too deep. The black in those dreams isn’t black—it’s that sick, slithering shade from the Veil, the one that eats light and leaves whispers in its wake.
I see the cave, sealed tight, but in the dream it breathes. Rocks pulse like lungs. Roots twist into mouths. A voice calls, not loud, not urgent, justthere.I wake slick with sweat, tongue coppery, ears ringing like I’d been standing too close to Burnout’s amp stack.
The first time, I laugh it off. Stress. Trauma. The body has memory, and mine is loud.
But then it happens again.
Objects start moving in the library. Not flying off shelves or anything dramatic—no, this is subtler, scarier. I set a book down on the counter, turn to grab another, and when I face back, it’s six inches to the left. Pens roll the wrong direction. The lamp hums too low, like it’s trying to harmonize with a frequency no one else hears.
Peggy Sue teases me about being scatterbrained, and I force a smile. But my skin prickles every time I walk past the old shelf where I stacked the orc texts. Something about those bindings feels… hungry.
Kursk notices first.
We’re sitting at the kitchen table one night, him sharpening a blade he swears he doesn’tneedanymore but “can’t let go of the habit.” I’m writing out the week’s event schedule for the library, my hand cramped from notes. He leans over, squints, then frowns.
“What’s that?” he says, voice low.
“What’s what?” I mutter, not looking up.
“Your arm.”
I glance down. My skin glows faintly in the lantern light—thin lines, curling symbols, faint like old scars. But they move. Shift. Runes etched where no ink has touched, burning just under the skin.
I jerk my arm back, heart stuttering. “I—no, that’s just?—”
“Don’t lie,” he growls. Not angry at me—angry at whatever this is. His tusks catch the light, jaw tight. “That’s Veil-mark.”
The room feels colder. My stomach flips.
I shove my sleeve down. “It’s nothing. It’ll fade. Just leftover magic. It happens.”
His eyes bore into mine. “This is not like broken glass or spilled ink, Olivia. This is not something you dismiss.”
I want to yell at him, to tell him I don’t need protection. Instead, I grab my mug and down the rest of my tea like it’ll wash the fear away. It doesn’t.
That night, the dreams get worse.
I fall asleep curled against him, his arm heavy across my waist. But the moment I drift, I’m back in the cave. The air is wet, sour, thick with rot. I hear water drip but it sounds likeheartbeats. The Vorfaluka’s shadow stretches across the walls—longer than it should be, taller than any beast could stand.
