“I don’t know exactly. The contract doesn’t specify. The previous invitations have covered friendship, partnership, intimacy, vulnerability, family, understanding...” He trails off. “The seventh has always been the most difficult to define. That’s part of why it’s never worked.”
I chew my lower lip, thinking. “What if it’s not about adding something new? What if it’s about committing to everything we’ve already built?”
“What do you mean?”
“The other invitations were about letting you into different parts of my life. My studio. My bed. My family. My past.” I pace as I talk, the movement helping my brain work. “But they were all individual moments. Separate invitations for separate aspects of trust. The seventh invitation might need to be... comprehensive. A single invitation that encompasses all of them at once.”
Mal’s eyes widen slightly. “You think the final invitation is about choosing the whole package. Not just accepting individual truths, but committing to the entire reality of what we are together.”
“Maybe.” I stop pacing. “I need to think about it more. But first—food. My blood sugar is dropping and I’m about to get very cranky.”
A surprised laugh escapes him. “You just listened to three centuries of demonic atrocities and you’re worried about blood sugar?”
“Survival mechanisms.” I dig my phone out of my dance bag. “Thai or Chinese?”
“I...” He shakes his head, that disbelieving smile still on his face. “Thai. I always want Thai.”
“I know.” I pull up the delivery app. “Extra spicy for you, mild for me, extra spring rolls because you always steal mine.”
“You remember my order.”
“Of course I remember your order.” I look up from the phone, meeting his crimson eyes. “I remember everything about you, Mal. The good parts and the bad parts and all the complicated parts in between. That’s what it means to really know someone.”
His expression shifts. The smile fades into something more vulnerable, more raw.
“Izzie.” His voice is rough. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Probably not.” I return to the phone, typing in our order. “But I don’t deserve you either, so I guess we’re even. Now help me figure out where we’re eating this, because I refuse to sit on the studio floor for another three hours.”
We end up at my cottage, curled on opposite ends of the couch with takeout containers scattered on the coffee table. The food helps. It’s hard to maintain existential dread while eating excellent pad Thai.
Between bites, we strategize.
“The Dance of Accord,” Mal says, chopsticks pausing midway to his mouth. “We were supposed to perform it at the showcase. What if that’s significant? What if the dance itself is connected to the final invitation?”
I consider this. “You said the dance measures trust and synchronization and emotional connection. That it responds to genuine feelings, not performance.”
“Right. It’s an ancient infernal ritual. The magic is built into the choreography itself.”
“So if I gave the seventh invitation right before the dance—or during it—the magic might recognize the combination as complete acceptance. Body and mind and heart all aligned.”
Mal sets down his food, eyes bright with something that might be hope. “It could work. The contract requires genuine acceptance, and the Dance of Accord would prove the acceptance is real. The two magics reinforcing each other...”
“Is there a risk?” I have to ask. “If the invitation isn’t genuine enough, if the dance doesn’t recognize the connection as real—what happens?”
His expression darkens. “I don’t know. No one has ever gotten this close before. The dance has always broken down before completion, or the invitation was given without full knowledge, or something interfered. We’re in uncharted territory.”
“Great.” I stab at my pad Thai. “No pressure or anything.”
“You don’t have to do this.” His voice is quiet. “I know I’ve said that before, but I need you to really understand. The contract is my problem. My burden. You shouldn’t have to risk yourself to solve it.”
“That’s not how partnership works.” I set down my own food, turning to face him fully. “You’ve been carrying this alone for three hundred years. That ends now. We face this together, or we don’t face it at all.”
Something breaks in his expression. Not a bad break—more like a wall finally crumbling after bearing weight for too long.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he whispers.
“You showed up. You stayed. You were honest when it mattered most.” I reach across the couch cushions and take his hand. “And you make me laugh, even when everything is falling apart. That counts for a lot.”
