"Doesn't make it right."
"No." Her dark eyes hold mine. "It doesn't."
We sit there for a while. Brittany on her bed, me on the floor, the notes spread between us like evidence at a crime scene. The morning light is getting stronger through the window, turning the room gold, and somewhere outside a bird is singing like nothing is wrong.
"Brittany?"
"What."
"You're the first person who knows and didn't run."
She doesn't say anything for a moment. Then she stands, picks up her coffee from the desk, takes a sip, and makes a face. "It's cold."
"Brittany."
"Don't make it weird." She heads for the door. "I'm getting a fresh one. If you want something, text me. And clean up this mess—if anyone sees these notes, you're dead. Like, actually dead, not the regular Nyxhaven kind of social death."
The door clicks shut behind her.
I sit on the floor with the echo of three different magics pulsing inside me and a spider hiding under the bed and a roommate who knows my secret and went to get coffee about it, and I think:okay. One person. That's one more than I had an hour ago.
Then I start gathering the notes, because she's right. If anyone sees these—if Callum sees these, if his mother finds out I know—
I shove everything into my bag. The books go under my mattress. The photocopies go into a folder that I labelMagical History 201: Study Notesin case anyone goes through my things.
When Brittany comes back with two coffees—one black, one with so much cream and sugar it's barely coffee, which she hands to me without comment—the floor is clean and my face is washed and the only evidence of my breakdown is the puffiness around my eyes.
"There's something else," I say, wrapping my hands around the warm cup.
"Of course there is."
"Concordia Hall. The old Grimoire Girls headquarters. It's still on campus—condemned, boarded up, but it's there. I saw it on the old maps." I take a sip. The coffee is sweet and perfect and I don't question how she knew how I take it. "If there are answers anywhere, they're in that building."
"You want to break into a condemned building."
"I want to know what happened to the women who were like me."
Brittany looks at me for a long moment. Takes a drink of her black coffee.
"Not tonight," she says finally. "You look like roadkill and you haven't slept. Get some rest. We'll figure it out."
We'll.Notyou'll.
I don't point it out. I've learned by now that drawing attention to Brittany's moments of kindness makes them stop.
I crawl into bed with my shoes still on. The shadows, the lightning, the blood magic—they settle inside me like three cats finding their spots, each one distinct, each one taking up space in a way that feels permanent.
I fall asleep with the wordgrimoiresitting in my chest like a second heartbeat.
The last thing I think before the exhaustion drags me under is:Callum already knows. His mother already knows. They've been watching me absorb their magic and they haven't stopped me.
They're not trying to prevent it.
They're counting on it.
The question isn't what I am. The question is what they're waiting for me to become.
Chapter 12: Everly
