“You would,” Rhea mutters, rolling her eyes.
Piper sinks onto the couch, Newt crawling instantly into her lap,traitor, eyes softening with equal parts hope and exhaustion. “So we’ll contact her?”
Rhea nods firmly. “I’ll handle it. But I need everything you two know.” She points between Draven and me. “Including the part where Piper accidentally summoned the ghost of a five-hundred-year-old Bellamy matriarch in front of the fucking Prince of Hell.”
Piper buries her face in her hands. “Please stop reminding me—”
“No,” Rhea says sweetly. “I want you to suffer.”
Draven grins. “Ilikeher.”
Rhea shoots back, “Idon’tlike you.”
Their eyes lock. A spark—sharp, violent, magnetic—crackles between them. Piper’s head snaps up. “Uhm.”
I agree. “Fuck no.”
Newt meows dramatically. Rhea tosses her hair. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll call my contact tonight.”
Draven adds smoothly, “I’ll escort you home.”
“I’d rather chew glass,” Rhea replies. But she still grabs her purse.
Piper blinks. “Wait—are you two—?”
“NO,” they say in unison. Then immediately glare at each other again.
Piper whispers, “Oh gods. This is going to be…feral.”
I watch them walk toward the door—Rhea storming ahead, Draven gliding behind her like a patient predator—and sigh. Piper leans into my shoulder, soft and sleepy, her magic curled like embers around us both. “You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “Just… overwhelmed.”
She meets my gaze. I feel the bond tremble again, desperate and hungry.Soon. But not tonight. “Get some sleep, Piper,” I murmur.
She nods, rising, Newt trotting after her with a final disdainful flick of his tail in my direction.
And as the door shuts behind her, I’m left staring into the quiet—ring burning in my pocket, curse stirring, and the knowledge that Veda Bellamy’s shadow is only beginning to wake.
Chapter 19
Piper
Morning settles over my shop like warm fog—gold filtering through frost-dusted windows, cinnamon incense curling upward in sleepy spirals, and my enchanted kettle rattling impatiently on the back counter because it hatesbeing ignored.
The moment I open the shop door, a gust of cold air slides around my ankles, nibbling at the hem of my black velvet skirt. My crescent moon earrings jingle softly, catching the light. My hair—clipped back on one side with a silver star pin—spills over my shoulder in a glossy cascade that smells faintly of lavender oil.
The amethyst pendant at my throat thrums once. A quiet warning, signaling the curse is awake.
“Great,” I mutter. “Good morning to you too.”
Inside, everything looks exactly as I left it—shelves lined with amber bottles and herb bundles, jars of glitter that absolutely do something, a candle wall flickering like a rainbow of tiny spirits, spellbooks stacked neatly beside agate bookends, and potted evergreens decorated with enchanted ornaments that occasionally blink.
Underneath all of it, I feel the pulse of my magic the way some people feel the weather changing—low, insistent, tugging at the edges of my ribs.
I shrug out of my coat, hang it on the antler hook by the door, and go about flipping open blinds. The sunlight catches dust motes and makes them glow.
My magic stirs—hearth magic, warding magic, the kind of power meant for protection and binding and keeping the world stitched together in invisible seams. Unfortunately, it also likes to flare under stress… react to attraction… misfire around Christmas decorations… and occasionally summon demons into my living room.
