It’s the second week of December, and the whole town is drowning in garland and fake snow. The festive season is swelling like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me down with it, curse and all. So naturally, I decide that the best way to distract myself is…decorating.
Or pretending to.
I haul open my apartment closet—more like battle it—because the door sticks, thehinges squeak, and the top shelf is exactly where things go to die.
“Looking for something?” Slade asks from the kitchen, voice warm and amused like he knows I’m losing my grip.
“No.” Yes. “I’m looking for my Christmas wreath.”
A pause. He leans around the corner. “Your what?”
“My wreath.”
He stares at me like I just said I collect the fingernails of ex-boyfriends. “Is this… important?”
“Yes,” I snap, staring at him incredulously while reaching for the top shelf. “It goes on the front door.”
Slade folds his arms, leaning against the doorframe like a sin carved into oak. “And this helps you…how?”
For the love of all things divine… “It’s December,” I say through gritted teeth. “I want normal. Iwant something festive. I want a life that isn’t being taken over by a demon who—”
“Who what?” he cuts in, voice low. “Who cares what happens to you?”
I freeze. The worst part is that he’s right. And that it hurts to admit it. “Go bother someone else,” I mutter, turning back to the shelf.
He doesn’t move.
I grab the box labeled XMAS STORAGE—a disaster waiting to topple—and yank it down. It slides too fast, knocking loose a few things that were shoved beside it.
One smaller box tumbles out and hits the floor with a soft thud, and I frown. It’s unfamiliar. Wrapped in old linen, tied with a fraying red ribbon. No label.Definitelynot mine.
“What’s that?” Slade asks immediately, all humor gone.
“I… don’t know.”
I lift it slowly, turning it over in my hands. It’s heavier than it looks. Warm, almost. When I pullthe ribbon, the fabric unfurls like it hasn’t been touched in centuries. Inside is—a small brass bell. Plain. Tarnished. Worn smooth with age. Nothing special. Nothing obviously magical. Something I’ve never seen before.
But the moment I touch it—the air shifts. Not violently. Not like the curse’s usual theatrical displays. Just a soft tightening. A pull—as if the room inhales around me.
Slade takes a step nearer, face sharpening with recognition. “Piper,” he says quietly. “Don’t ring it.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I snap, then softer. “What is it?”
Rhea would kill to be here. She’d dig through ancestral records and pull out fifteen theories before Slade even finished one sentence. He doesn’t answer right away. That alone terrifies me. “What?” I demand.
“It’s not the bell itself,” he says slowly. “It’s… who it belonged to.”
I look down at the small, innocuous thing in my palm.
“Slade.” My voice trembles. “Whose was it?”
He meets my eyes—green burning, jaw tight. “Veda Bellamy’s.”
The world seems to tilt. “No,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he murmurs. “I didn’t think any of her objects survived. She destroyed everything that could incriminate her. This… shouldn’t exist.”
My fingers tighten around the bell. A faint warmth pulses under my skin. Not a spark. Not a glow. Just a soft, steady heartbeat.
