Hope blooms in my chest—sharp and bright and for the first time since I came home, I feel like I’m not just waiting for something terrible to happen. I might actually be able to do something to stop it.
“Thank you.” I look around the circle of my friends faces. “Y’all are the best.”
“We’ll do anything we can to help you, Jules,” Tasha says simply.
“But are you really sure you want to go back?” Mari asks.
I nod my head firmly.
“Yes—he saved me several times and he was good to Hanna. I have to at least try to save him.”
“We might never see each other again if you do this,” Hanna whispers. “You know how hard it is to get back from there.”
“I know,” I say. I take a deep breath. “And I’m sorry about that. I just…I can’t help myself.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Lucia says softly. “Of course you have to go, Jules.”
“That’s if this spell works.” Naomi sounds worried.
“It’ll work,” I say, hoping I’m right.
“All right then, darlings,” Yelena says. “We’re on for tomorrow night and Naomi will tell everyone what to bring.”
We have a group hug and I feel all the love of my friends pouring into me and I know—I know—I’m doing the right thing.
If I can get it done.
That night, I dream of Lucian again—but this time, he turns when I call his name.
“Hold on,” I whisper into the dark when I wake. “Hold on—I’m coming.”
71
Jules
Yelena’s backyard looks nothing like it usually does.
Normally it’s all manicured hedges and discreet landscape lighting and the faint scent of expensive candles drifting out from the open French doors. Tonight, it feels… different. Charged. Like the air itself is holding its breath.
The pentagram drawn in flour takes up most of the lawn, stark white against the dark grass. Naomi insisted it had to be exactly measured—angles precise and points sharp. She paced it off twice, muttering to herself, before finally nodding in satisfaction.
Everyone has brought something from the list she texted all of us.
Yelena sets a heavy silver chalice at the northern point of the pentagram. It looks old—ornate, engraved with symbols I don’t recognize.
“Family heirloom,” she says quietly. “For intention.”
Tasha places a thick beeswax candle beside it, already lit. It smells faintly of honey and smoke.
“For protection,” she says.
Lucia kneels and puts down a cracked hand mirror, the glass fractured but still reflective.
“For truth,” she says dryly. “Even when it’s ugly.”
Mari lays out a length of red silk ribbon embroidered with tiny metallic moons.
“For crossing to the other side,” she whispers, almost reverently.
