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That was about a week ago. Now the place is finally starting to breathe. We’ve hauled out decades of junk: cracked marble altar pieces, moldy hymnals, rusted bed springs from the old dorms, and enough broken furniture to fill three dumpsters. A family of mice had made a home in a sagging armchair in the corner, and we’d spent twenty minutes chasing them out while Denny cursed like a sailor.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my arm and survey the room. Sunlight filters through the high, grimy windows, catching on floating dust motes. The air still smells like mildew and old paper, but it’s better than it was. Patrick and Jude are over by the far wall, sorting through a pile of rusted tools and what looks like old ritual paraphernalia—candlesticks, tarnished censers, things that probably haven’t seen use since before any of us were born.

“Think this is cursed?” Patrick calls out, holding up a heavy iron cross with one corner bent at a weird angle.

“After the last month, I’d believe anything on this property is cursed,” Jude replies dryly. “Just toss it.”

Slade comes back in, brushing dirt off his hands. “The dumpster’s almost full again. We’re gonna need another run soon.” He glances around, nodding approvingly. “This place is bigger than it looks once you clear the shit out. What are you planning to do with it anyway, Hunter?”

I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. “Just making it useful again.”

Making myself useful.

I feel out of control: with the frat, with Forsyth, and most of all with Arianette. Working with my hands and being productive steadies me. At least I’m accomplishing something. It doesn’t hurt that when I’m out here, I can also avoid Arianette.

Every time I’m near her lately, the air gets too thick. I want to fix what I broke–make her feel better like Damon does. Like today, he took her over to West End to meet up with Sy for another hypnosis session. I can’t even get within ten feet of her without breaking into a sweat.

Carson kicks at a pile of debris. “Found another box of old ledgers keeping track of the tithing. These dates go back to the fucking sixties.”

Denny leans on the broomstick. “I guess that’s probably when BRN took over the property.”

“Yeah, it was around then.” And it looks like whoever was in charge at the time tossed anything they didn’t have use for out here.

Jace hauls in an empty bin. “Gloria texted me this morning. She said an entire load of Scratch got confiscated on the riverfront last night.”

I shake my head, but nothing surprises me from North Side. I grab one end of a heavy, water-damaged cabinet with Slade. “You’d think they’d just fully disband and get on with their lives.”

“Or mass O.D. or something,” Jude mutters. “Although that’s too much fucking work for us.”

We heave the cabinet toward the door, the wood groaning in protest. My shoulders burn, but it feels good. Real. Unlike the mess inside my head.

Arianette’s face flashes through my mind again—those wide eyes, the way her voice gets soft when she’s uncertain, the fire that still burns in her even after everything she’s endured. I want to be close to her without all the complications. But every time I get near, guilt and want twist together until I can’t breathe. So I stay away, covered in dust and grime, focusing on anything but my own destruction.

“Careful with that corner,” Slade grunts as we maneuver the cabinet through the doorway. “Shit’s heavier than it looks.”

Once it’s outside, we drop it with a thud. The afternoon light is starting to fade, painting the trees in deep golds and shadows. The woods around the House of Night always feel watchful, like they remember every secret buried here.

“You ever going to tell us what this is for?” Slade asks as we walk back inside.

“When it’s time,” I say, “maybe.”

I grab a broom and start sweeping up years of dirt and debris, the rhythmic scrape filling the silence. The outbuilding is starting to look like something again–open, solid, full of potential. Once it’s ready, I’ll stop hiding here and be able to give her something useful rather than just more pain.

The red “ON AIR” light glows softly in the dimly lit studio. I lean into the microphone, voice low and steady.

“If you know anything about the Guardian–any detail, no matter how small–call in. The lines are open. This city has bled enough. It’s time we drag the bastard into the light.”

I lean back in the worn leather chair, exhaling slowly. My muscles ache in that satisfying way after a full day of hard labor in the outbuilding. We finally got the place completely cleaned out. Dust, mold, broken relics—all of it hauled away. I’ll start the real work on it tomorrow. For the first time in weeks, something feels like it’s moving forward.

I tap the ash off my second cigarette and take one last drag, the smoke curling up toward the vent. Another routine sliding back into place. Maybe things really can stabilize. Maybe we can all catch our breath.

The phone lights up.

I hit the button. “You’re on Royal Noir.”

A gravelly male voice comes through. “Is it true that Timothy Maddox has been the Baron King all along?”

I don’t even hesitate. “It’s true.”