I take the token out every night.
It’s about the size of a quarter and heavy for its size, its edges etched with symbols I don’t recognize but somehow feel. When I hold it, my skin prickles, like static before a storm. Sometimes the shadows in my apartment stretch the wrong way when it’s in my hand. Sometimes the air smells faintly of iron and night-blooming flowers.
But nothing happens.
“I don’t know how to use you,” I whisper one night, turning it over in my palm. “If you’re supposed to be a door…you’re not a very helpful one.”
Mr. Mittens flicks his tail and pointedly turns his back on me—helpful as always.
Days pass and my nights get worse. By the fourth morning in a row of waking up with tears on my face, I finally admit the truth to myself.
I don’t just miss Lucian—I’m afraid for him.
And worse—I know, deep down, that if something happens to him because I was too afraid to act, I’ll never forgive myself.
So I do the one thing I swore I wouldn’t—I call Book Club and ask for help.
They come over that evening, wine bottles and worried expressions in tow, and I don’t even try to pretend I’m fine.
“I miss him,” I say bluntly, fingers twisting together in my lap. “And I think he’s in danger.”
The room goes quiet.
“You’re talking about the vampire,” Sophia says carefully.
“The Vampire Don,” I correct automatically. Then I sigh. “Lucian.”
Hanna watches me closely. She looks fully herself again—warm, solid, alive—and the contrast makes my chest ache.
“He let you go,” Yelena says gently. “Are you sure this isn’t just…after-effects of being held prisoner. Some kind of lingering Stockholm effect?”
“I know the difference between being brainwashed and falling in love,” I say. “And this feels like the latter. I know it sounds crazy, but I care for him and I know something’s wrong. If there’s any way I can save him, I have to do it. I have to find a way to get back to him—to get back to the Shadow Realm.”
Naomi has been quiet, brow furrowed, fingers tapping absently against her knee.
“There might be something,” she says slowly.
Every head snaps toward her.
“The Tampa Museum just received a private donation—a collection of occult texts,” she continues. “Mostly ceremonial stuff. Folklore and ritual theory. It’s all nonsense to most people, but…” She hesitates, then shrugs. “After what you told us, I’m not so sure anymore.”
My pulse starts to race.
“Do you think there’s something in the collection that could help?.”
“I was looking through them—helping the curators—and one of the books references cross-realm sympathetic anchors,” she says. “Objects that can act as bridges when there’s an emotional or magical bond.”
My hand tightens around the token in my pocket.
“I can’t take the book home,” she adds quickly. “But I can photograph a few relevant pages. There’s a spell—more like a guide—for activating artifacts tied to another realm.”
“When?” I ask, barely breathing. “When can you do it?”
“Tomorrow night,” she says. “I’ll bring everything I can, but I might need some help gathering the necessary ingredients for the spell.”
“Just let us know what we need to bring,” Yelena says.
“Yes—text it to all of us,” Sophia says eagerly. “I’m sure working together we can get everything we need.”
