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Ivan glanced toward Jude, jaw tightening. “I don’t want him to hate me.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” I said. “He could never hate you. What are you talking about?”

Ivan’s face crumpled, and he buried his head in his hands. “Because it’s my fault. It happens all the time. I saw it happen. That first day, when he showed up in the hospital with Grandpa. I knew. And it happened. He died.” He sucked in air like he couldn’t breathe. “And he’ll die again. You will too. The darkness is going to eat you, and it’s all my fault.”

I blinked, trying to decipher his words. The guilt. How could he even begin to think he had any control over what happened to us?

Jude was there in a heartbeat.

He crossed the bakery and dropped into the chair beside Ivan. His arms wrapped around his brother, pulling him close. The chill that followed raised goosebumps on my arms.

Ivan shivered. Then he pressed into the cold like it was the only warmth he had left.

Gwen gave me an affectionate smile and pushed the plate with the glowing pastry toward Jude. “Eat.” She waved at me. “Eat. You all need some food and warmth.”

Ivan reached for the tea, holding the warmth steaming from it like it was a lifeline.

I chose a pastry with my uninjured hand and carefully took a bite, trying to be the calm in this storm. Somehow I didn’t think telling Ivan that he wasn’t at fault would help. So instead I tried, “Why do you think it’s your fault?”

Jude stared at the glowing pastry. It looked like a normal croissant, flaky, golden, dusted with something that caught the light. But it hummed with energy. Like something meant for someone who couldn’t touch anything solid. He hesitated, but reached for it, both of us surprised when he could pick it up. He took a careful bite.

His eyes went wide, and his form brightened.

Ivan blinked, looking at him, eyes wide. “I feel you.”

Jude took another bite, one arm wrapped around his little brother, tightening his hold. “What is this?” he asked, gaze on the pastry as he chewed.

“Something you needed,” Gwen said simply. “Eat. We have time.”

She poured tea for me, for Ivan, for herself. A fourth cup sat steaming in front of the empty chair where Jude was starting to look less like a ghost and more like a man.

“I can hear you too,” Ivan whispered, his voice tight with something like awe.

Jude took another bite and some of the tension bled out of him. He ate half the pastry, and I longed to trade places with Ivan, wondering if I could feel him too. Gwen patted my hand as if she understood.

“It won’t last forever,” Gwen said, sounding apologetic.

“I’m sorry,” Ivan said, turning his face to bury it in Jude’s shoulder. “I’m cursed. It’s all my fault.”

Jude blinked at us, eyes scrunched, and I was just as confused as him. “I don’t think you’re cursed, Ivy. If anyone is cursed, I think it’s me.”

“I see things and they happen,” Ivan admitted in a hushed voice. “I thought if I found Lilith here, maybe I could negotiate with her. She’s like the goddess of death, right?”

“One of many,” Gwen agreed.

“Negotiate what, Ivan?” Jude asked.

I already knew. Didn’t need to ask.

“You for me? For us?” Jude’s voice went sharp. “Not a chance.”

“You don’t understand,” Ivan said, gripping his tea like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“You’re right,” I said. “We don’t understand. But we’re trying to. You see things and they happen, but you’re not choosing what you see. Correct?”

Ivan shook his head. “No.”

“Then how is it your fault?” Jude asked.