Between the layers of drawings and instructions, a dozen notes appeared as though hidden previously by magic. Different inks, and scripts, some flowing, some rushed and messy like mine, filled the margin with hints, and comments.
Corrections, theories, warnings, centuries of knowledge layered over one another. It was as if the truth had been hidden from the copy I’d been given, and now, here in this forbidden archive, the real text revealed itself to me. Thousands of patterns and weaves unfolded, each page alight with knowledge spanning realms. Words shimmered and translated before my eyes, concepts clicking into place in a way they never had when I was alive. For the first time since I’d died, I didn’t feel like a ghost. I felt like it all made sense. Like my mortal brain could never have fathomed all of this and still remained sane.
The book flung itself open to one page, a sketch of the weave I’d created in my final moments scrawled across the wide spread paper. The design I’d woven from my soul to shield Angel, Ivan, and the team. It was messy, frantic, but undeniably strong, a chaotic network of interlocking threads, woven with fragments of memory, love, and desperation. It looked less like a spell and more like chainmail forged from who I had been, trauma and all.
The design had no notes. No title. No instructions. It was simply a snapshot of sacrifice. The more I stared at it, the more I understood its structure, its flaws, its brilliance, its terrifying vulnerability. And the more I longed to annotate it, to give it a name.Chaos in motion. The Last Shield. Jude’s Folly.And warn others away, while correcting a thousand little mistakes.
My fingers tingled with the urge to pick up a pen.
I looked up to find one, hoping for the ability to write since this book seemed to recharge my energy with its presence, but the archive was gone, and I was no longer standing in the dark hidden room.
I was sitting in the worn leather chair in my borrowed afterlife studio, the glowing journal resting solidly in my lap. The door was closed. Any sign of the hellhounds had vanished, and the only light came from the soft silver glow of the book’s edges.
I stared down at it, then around the room, disoriented. One moment I was in the library, the next here. Had the book brought me back? The journal felt warm in my hands. Alive. Waiting. It was the only thing in this afterlife that felt real so far.
As I stared at the sketch of my final weave, the chaotic, loving tangle of protection I’d thrown over everyone I loved, something shifted in my palm. A weight, cool and solid, resolved against my skin. A pen rested in my grasp. Simple, elegant, its tip shimmering with a faint silver light that mirrored the journal’s glow.
I bent over the open page, and began to write.
I scribbled out the details, the how, the why, and the limitations. Not a spell. A sacrifice. Threads pulled from memory, affection, and love. Angel’s laugh, Ivan’s trust, the team’s resilience. Woven to shield and protect.
I paused, the pen hovering. Then I added in smaller print:
It wasn’t enough to save me. But it was enough to save them.
The words settled onto the page as if they’d always been there. After a long moment of studying the lines, I added to the corner:
Angel, I love you.
I closed the journal, holding it against my chest. The warmth of it seeped into me, a poor substitute for the heat of Angel’sskin, the weight of his body beside mine in bed, the low rumble of his voice in the dark.
I missed him. Not with the frantic, clawing panic of our separation, but with a deeper, steadier ache. The kind that settles into your bones and reminds you that you’re only half a soul without the other. Maybe writing it down was a step. Maybe words in a book could cross realms. Maybe love was its own kind of thread—one even death couldn’t fully sever. It was the only hope I had left to cling to.
55
ANGEL
I foundmyself in the storage vaults of Xavier’s collections, digging through boxes in the low light. I’d started looking for a manual for the haunted printer, something, anything that could explain how it connected to Jude, but that search quickly spiraled into something more frantic. I was looking for a miracle. A thread. A way to bring him back.
The sun rose. I only knew because the guards changed near the elevators. No one stopped me. Keanan and Sylas had appeared briefly, shadows in the doorway, then vanished. Xavier knew I was here. He just didn’t care. Or maybe he knew my search was futile.
Luca appeared, looking tired and hesitant. He held out a mug of coffee.
“Is it drugged?” I asked, taking it. I sniffed, it smelled sweet, like the kind Jude used to drink.
Luca raised a brow. “Do you want it to be? I can ask Xavier. I’m sure he can source something that would put even a dragon to sleep.”
I glared.
“You could use some rest,” he tried again, softer. “Food first, maybe. Then sleep.” His eyes skimmed over me, and I realizedwhat he saw; still half-dressed, blood-stained clothes, hair a mess. I looked like I’d barely survived an explosion. Because I had.
“What would you do,” I said, voice low, “if you lost Skye?”
He flinched.
Good.
I turned back to the shelves. There had to be something. A book. An amulet. A spell that didn’t end inand the soul departs forever. “Is there anything on necromancy in here?”
