Page 121 of Hunger & Harmony

Each step I take up the stairs constricts my lungs tighter. Standing in my childhood bedroom, taking in every familiar detail, twists the knife more and more.

My suitcases look wrong at the end of the bed. I swallow the lump in my throat as I look around, seeing each version of myself hiding earbuds under the pillow, stashing merch away in the closet, or humming quietly at the window.

Only to be here now. Is the prophecy the Court preaches truly twisted? I feel every bit of its doom and enmity right now.

I need to shake this off. Better yet, wash it off.

Scalding water is pummeling my back when I hear it.

My eyes snap open, and I whirl around. Wrong notes. No . . .Dissonant notes. I haven’t heard them since Sancte Noctis, and thought they were gone for good once Niko tasted me.

Yet they ricochet across the shower tiles, disjointed and piercing. They form into the shape of Archduchess Imara’s voice, the broken prophecy echoing, inescapable. My temples throb, and I race to finish my shower with gritted teeth.

There’s no relief once I yank on clean clothes and stumble out of the bathroom. A reprieve isn’t coming. Niko is hundreds of miles away, and he’s the only thing I can think of that would help. It’s not the bond destabilizing—it’s me.

My feet drag like concrete blocks back down the stairs. Dissonance lingers, like thick smog lurking in every corner of this house.

The distinct clink of plates joins my parents’ chatter in the kitchen. I hang out in the living room, falling into the spot next to Misty on the brown sofa. The TV is on, but I can barely hear it or my parents’ hushed conversation over the Dissonant notes.

We didn’t set a timeline for how long I’d have to stay away. Maybe I should text Selene. Or should I let the situation breathe? It hasn’t been a day.

Misty curls against my side, and I run my hand over her back. Shit. I need to hold on. Her rumbling purr helps me remain in the moment, and I force my shoulders to relax. The tinnitus eases ever so slightly.

“ . . . reports that the supernatural rock band Arteria will be at the airport this evening. Insiders note that they haven’t seen alleged ‘Dissonant Queen’ Cadence Monroe at the company building. Where is she? And where is the band headed without her? There’s speculation that the vampire monarch is returning to his throne in Sancte Noctis.”

My muscles coil tighter than before. Instead of turning it off, I give in to my festering curiosity. Even if the news anchors’ lighthearted amusement tastes sour in the back of my throat.

“A vampire king who’s also a rockstar? I’ll tell you what, Kelly, you’d have to be immortal to find the time!”

“That is true enough, Ben. Vampires made their historic debut when Niklaus Vane, Crown Prince at the time, was recorded and uploaded to MeTube. While his hypnotic performance shook up the human world, there hasn’t been another scandal of that level until now.”

“I’d say we have a fine relationship with our supernatural citizens. Aurea has adjusted, and whole industries and job markets have come up.”

“Indeed, Ben. There’s no denying they are as beneficial as mysterious. With the vampiric crown under direct attack, though, we advise our human viewers to exercise common sense.”

“Cities across the nation are enforcing curfews. Check your local news to stay informed. We hope to report better news in the coming days.”

“More at five on⁠—”

The screen goes black. My wide eyes snap towards my mom and the remote in her hand.

“Don’t watch that garbage, honey,” she says, tone straining to remain calm.

Garbage? Unlike the bullshit she’s spoon-fed me since childhood? I’m not brave enough to say that out loud. I wither on myself, silent and staring at my lap.

“You ready to eat, freckle-face?” my dad says from the squared archway between the living room and the kitchen.

Here comes the damn tears again. My nails dig into my palms, and I shrug weakly.

Maybe they treat me like a child because I act like one. How pitiful I’ve become without Niko standing beside me. I sniffle, holding my body rigid as my heart slams in my chest.

Dissonant notes pick up their grating tune. I wince, and my parents exchange a glance.

“What’s wrong?” my mom asks.

Do I hear a hint of hesitation in her voice? Or is that wishful thinking?

“I’m . . .”