In June.
This isn’t random malfunction. This is targeted.
Mal arrives while I’m distributing hot chocolate to traumatized six-year-olds. He takes one look at my face and his expression goes grim.
“Show me.”
I leave Bianca with the children and lead him through the studio, cataloging each incident. The crashed software. The backwards music. The fogged mirrors. The destroyed costumes. The possessed printer. The frozen studio.
By the time I’m done, his jaw is set and his eyes have gone red around the edges.
“This is infernal interference,” he says quietly. “The signatures are subtle, but they’re there. Someone’s been laying minor curses throughout the building. Nothing individually powerful enough to trigger protective wards, but combined...”
“Combined they’re destroying my business.” I press my palms against my eyes, fighting the urge to scream. “The recital tomorrow. The showcase in three days. How am I supposed to run any of this when the building itself is attacking me?”
“You’re not the target.” Mal’s voice is hard. “I am. Azrael is trying to create enough chaos that we can’t complete the Dance of Accord. If the showcase falls apart, if the studio shuts down, if everything you’ve built collapses around you?—”
“Then I won’t be in any emotional state to offer genuine acceptance.” I finish the thought, stomach sinking. “He’s not trying to stop us directly. He’s trying to break me.”
“He’s trying to break us.” Mal takes my hands, his warmth a stark contrast to the lingering chill from the frozen studio. “And he’s underestimating both of us.”
“Is he, though?” I hate how small my voice sounds. “Because right now, I have eleven ruined costumes, a frozen practice space, terrified students, and a printer in the dumpster that’s probably still spitting out death threats. That’s not exactly a recipe for emotional stability.”
“So we fight back.”
“How? I can’t exactly file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau about demonic sabotage.”
Mal’s lips twitch despite the gravity of the situation. “No, but I can set counter-wards. Protections against infernal influence.I should have done it weeks ago, but I didn’t want to risk you noticing the magic before I’d explained everything.”
“Do it now.” I don’t hesitate. “Whatever you need. I’ll keep the students out of the way.”
He nods, already moving. “It’ll take a few hours. The building is large and the existing curses need to be dispelled before I can set new protections. Can you handle things until then?”
“I’ve been handling things my whole life.” I square my shoulders. “Go do your demon magic. I’ll manage the chaos.”
Famous last words.
The next two hours are a masterclass in crisis management. I reschedule three classes, soothe seven anxious parents, and personally hand-wash the eight questionable tutus until my fingers are raw. Bianca handles the administrative nightmare of the crashed scheduling system, somehow reconstructing two weeks of bookings from memory and scattered notes.
We’re making progress. Things are stabilizing.
Then the fire alarm goes off.
Not just the studio’s fire alarm—every fire alarm in the building, plus the smoke detectors, plus the emergency sprinklers. In seconds, the entire ground floor is drenched. Water pours from the ceiling like a monsoon, soaking costumes, flooding practice spaces, destroying equipment that took me years to afford.
I stand in the middle of it all, water streaming down my face, and watch my life’s work dissolve around me.
This is it, I think distantly. This is how it ends. Not with a dramatic confrontation, but with water damage and insurance claims and the slow death of everything I’ve built.
“Miss Izzie?”
I turn. Emma and Sophie and a dozen other tiny dancers are huddled in the doorway, staring at the destruction with wide eyes. Some of them are crying. Others just look confused, unable to process why the magical place where they learn to dance has suddenly turned into a waterpark.
“Is the recital canceled?” Emma’s voice trembles. “We practiced so hard.”
Something cracks open in my chest.
Not breaks—opens.
