“That’s acceptable,” Bob agrees.
I turn to Elias, taking his hands in mine, grounding myself in the reality of him. “Please,” I say, low and earnest. “Stay. Just until I get back.”
He searches my face, then nods. “I will. I promise.”
I kiss him then. It’s brief but fierce, a press of everything I’m feeling. When I pull back, his eyes are bright but steady.
“Go,” he tells me. “Find your ghost.”
I leave before I can second-guess myself. Bob follows but then splits off and heads in the opposite direction.
The weak point isn’t hard to find—not exactly. I follow the echo of the disturbance, the place where the wards feel thin, strained, like a stretched membrane that’s been plucked too hard. It’s near the outer edge of the festival grounds, where the land dips and the trees grow closer together.
I move carefully, senses stretched wide, every instinct tuned for threat. The absence of a scent trail is maddening. No footprint. No lingering echo of presence.
Just… wrongness.
I crouch near a patch of disturbed undergrowth, leaves crushed, branches bent. It could be wildlife. It could be nothing.
It could be deliberate misdirection.
I circle the area, widening my search, letting time stretch. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. Nothing. Frustration coils tight in my chest.
After forty-five minutes, I turn back.
The festival noise grows louder as I approach, relief beginning to edge in despite myself. The wards feel stable again. No new disturbances.
I reach the place where I left Elias, but he’s not there. Panic hits like a physical blow.
I’m across the space in seconds, scanning faces, searching for his scent, his presence. Bob, already back, is there, speaking animatedly with a cluster of cryptids. Christopher stands nearby, alert.
“Where is he?” I demand.
Bob looks up, startled. “He stepped away a minute ago. Got excited about seeing another human. He promised to stay inside.”
Every instinct snaps into place. “I’ll find him,” I say, already moving.
I follow the pull instinctively, the thread of Elias’s scent winding through the crowd, past stalls and lanterns and laughter. The farther I go, the quieter it gets. The music fades. The hum of conversation thins.
Then I hear his voice. It’s soft and careful. But it’s the tremble of fear that has my blood running cold. That and his “I—I don’t want any trouble.”
I break into a run until I finally see him.
He’s three feet away and still inside the wards. Standing face-to-face with a being that should not exist.
The Neuri Shade.
Time fractures.
My eyes lock onto Elias and then slide, horrified and disbelieving, to what stands in front of him. The world narrows to three feet of charged air, to the way the wards hum wrong around that small, deadly space, to the cold certainty that a patient, ancient intelligence has finally found what it came for.
The Neuri Shade stands upright, limbs too long for its frame, joints bending with a fluidity that makes my skin crawl. Its skin—or what passes for it—is pale and matte, absorbing the lantern light instead of reflecting it. Its eyes are the worst part. They do not glow. They do not shine.
They drink the light in.
Elias stands frozen, shoulders tight, hands half raised in a posture that speaks of instinctive placation rather than panic. He’s pale, but he’s not running. He’s talking—quietly, carefully—his voice shaking just enough to betray the fear he’s trying to control.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he says again. “I’m not… I’m not alone.”
