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The cottage door clicked shut behind them, and Navira stood on the porch for a long moment, letting the cool evening air settle against her skin. Grams had given her a look before they left—not a warning, not a blessing, just a look that said she knew more than she was saying and expected Navira to figure it out. Reyen stood beside her, hands in his pockets, waiting.

"That went better than I expected," he said.

Navira exhaled. "She called you a vampire to your face and then offered you tea. I think that's her version of approval."

"I'll take it."

They drove back to the Voss Estate in comfortable silence, the journal heavy in her bag, the weight of everything they'd shared still settling between them. When they pulled up, the house was alive with light and movement. Nami's voice drifted through an open window, followed by Sierra's laughter.

"They're getting ready," Reyen said, cutting the engine. "Nami said something about costumes."

Navira looked at him. "You're not wearing a costume?"

He grinned, that familiar crooked thing. "I have a costume. I just haven't put it on yet."

She raised an eyebrow. "Should I be worried?"

"Extremely."

Inside, the house smelled like perfume and hairspray. Nami's voice floated down the stairs: "Is that them? Tell them to hurry up!"

Navira climbed the stairs, Reyen pealing off toward his own room with a wink that made her stomach flip in a way she was still getting used to. She found Nami and Sierra in the guest room she'd slept in that first night, the bed covered in fabric and accessories.

Nami was already in her costume—a pink corset with ornate gold detailing, a rich burgundy velvet skirt, and a flowing asymmetrical lace overskirt. Sheer red sleeves caught the light, and black fishnet tights disappeared into pointed black ankle boots. Her hair was half-up, half-down, and she looked like she'd stepped out of a Halloween movie.

"You're here!" Nami said, spinning to face her. "I was starting to think Grams had locked you in a cupboard."

Sierra, half-dressed in a lime green lace-up corset with purple trim, turned from the mirror. "She didn't, did she? I've heard stories about that woman."

"She made tea," Navira said. "And called Reyen a vampire to his face."

Sierra's eyebrows shot up. "And he just—"

"Took it." Navira shrugged. "Apparently honesty is the way to Grams' heart."

Nami laughed, holding up a bundle of fabric. "Your costume. Try it on."

Navira took the bundle—deep brown lace-up corset-style bodice with cream lacing down the front, a shimmering red skirt layered with a plaid overskirt. Off-the-shoulder burnt orange puff sleeves. Brown utility pouches at the hips. Black fishnet tights. Black lace-up ankle boots. It was Mary Sanderson, but elevated—earthy, elegant, unmistakably her.

"You made this," Navira said, running her fingers over the stitching.

"I had help," Nami said. "But yes. Try it."

Navira changed behind the screen, the fabric cool against her skin, the corset snug but not constricting. When she stepped out, Nami and Sierra both went quiet.

"Holy shit," Sierra said.

Nami smiled, soft and satisfied. "I knew that color would work."

Navira looked at herself in the mirror. Her dark hair hung loose, falling in soft waves down her back, and the costume made her look like she belonged in a witchy coven—powerful and grounded. She didn't feel like a woman running from her past. She felt like someone stepping into something new.

"Ready?" Nami asked.

Navira nodded. "Ready."

Downstairs, the boys had assembled in the foyer, and the sight of them made her stop mid-step. They were all in pirate costumes—loose white shirts tied at the throat, most of them left untied, revealing collarbones and chest hair. Brown pants. Black boots. They looked like they'd stepped off a ship and into a Halloween party.

Reyen was at the center of the group, his shirt hanging open, dark hair tousled, a silver hoop glinting in one ear. When he saw her, his expression shifted—a flicker of something raw and unguarded before the smirk settled back into place.

"Well," he said, his voice low. "If you're going to a party, I'm glad I'm the one taking you."

Heat crept up her neck. "You're not so bad yourself."

Kiaan, standing beside him in a similar getup, looked between them and sighed. "Are we going to do this all night? Because if so, I need a drink."

"Shut up, Kiaan," Reyen said, but his eyes never left Navira.

The bar was already packed when they arrived. Warm amber light spilled through the windows, and the sound of laughter and clinking glasses carried into the street. Navira spotted a table near the back that someone had reserved—a cluster of chairs and a few empty glasses already waiting.

Kiaan, Adrian, Cole, Roman, Antonio, Grace, and Lily were already there, scattered around the table or leaning against the bar. Grace looked radiant in a simple black dress, her blond hair falling in waves. Lily, in a deep blue velvet number, was laughing at something Cole had said.

Nash was at the bar, and when he saw Navira, he waved her over. She excused herself and wove through the crowd, leaving Nami and Sierra to greet the others.

"You made it," Nash said, sliding a glass toward her. "Bourbon, neat. Figured you'd need it after a day with Grams."

"You know me too well." She took a sip, the whiskey warming her chest. "Where's Grace?"

Nash's face did something complicated—pride and nerves and something softer. "She's over there. We came together."

Navira side-eyed him. "Together together?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. About that."

She waited.

He leaned in, lowering his voice. "We slept together."

The bourbon nearly went down the wrong pipe. Navira coughed, slammed her hand onto his shoulder, and said, louder than she meant, "Am I going to be expecting a niece or nephew soon?"

Nash's face went red, but he laughed—a real laugh, full of joy. "Look, I wouldn't say a hundred percent no, but I also wouldn't say a hundred percent yes."

Navira scrunched her face. "Yuck, Nash."

"You asked!"

"I was joking!" She took another sip, shaking her head. "I can't believe you."

"Believe it." He grinned, and for a moment, he looked younger, lighter, like the weight he'd been carrying had shifted. "She's... she's amazing, Nav. I don't know what I'm doing, but I don't want to stop."

Her chest tightened with affection. "Then don't. Just—be careful. With her heart."

"I will." He squeezed her shoulder. "Promise."

A commotion near the door drew their attention. Nami and Sierra had arrived, with Nic and Reyen behind them. The bar seemed to tilt toward them—Nami in her pink corset and flowing skirt, Sierra in green and purple, both of them commanding the room without trying. And then there was Reyen, his shirt open, his jaw sharp, his eyes finding Navira across the crowd like he'd been looking for her all night.

Nash snorted. "He's staring."

"I noticed."

"You're staring back."

"Shut up, Nash."

She felt his hand on her lower back before she saw him. Reyen moved like that—quiet when he wanted to be, a predator's grace hidden under charm. He slid beside her at the bar, close enough that she could smell his cologne, woodsmoke and something clean.

"Miss me?" he murmured.

"It's been ten seconds."

"Longest ten seconds of my night."

Nash rolled his eyes and slid off his stool. "I'm going to go find Grace. Try not to be disgusting in public."

"No promises," Reyen said, and Nash shook his head as he walked away.

Kiaan's voice cut through the noise. "Reyen! Pool table. Now. You owe me a rematch."

Reyen's hand lingered on her back. "Duty calls."

"Go." She nudged him. "I'll be fine."

He studied her for a moment, something unreadable in his dark eyes. "You sure?"

"Positive."

He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "I'll keep an eye on him. Go have fun."

Then he was gone, weaving through the crowd toward the pool table where Kiaan, Adrian, Nic, and Nash were already racking the balls. Navira watched him go, the spot on her back still warm where his hand had been.

She turned back to the bar, picked up her bourbon, and let herself breathe.

Across the room, Sierra caught her eye and raised a glass in a silent toast. Navira smiled, lifted her own, and drank.

For one night, she let herself be normal. A witch in a costume, surrounded by friends, dancing on the edge of something she couldn't name. The threat of Medora was still there, a shadow at the edge of every thought, but for now—for this one night—she was allowed to be happy.

And somewhere in the crowd, Reyen glanced up from the pool table and found her again. He smiled, crooked and real, and she knew he meant it when he said he'd keep an eye on him.

But as the night wore on and the laughter grew louder, Navira couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching from the shadows. Not Medora—not yet. But something else, waiting.

She pushed the thought away and ordered another drink.

The bourbon burned warm in her chest, grounding her. She let the noise of the bar wash over her—clinking glasses, laughter, the crack of pool cues—and let herself believe, just for a moment, that tonight could be simple.

Then someone slid onto the stool beside her.

Navira didn't look at first. Just felt the presence settle into her peripheral vision—a flash of black corset, red cards catching the light, a blonde wig that seemed almost theatrical. The woman reached for Navira's bourbon with a confidence that felt deliberate, lifted it, and drank.

Slow. Savouring.

Navira's hand went still on the bar.

She looked at the woman's face. The makeup was heavy—dark contour, dramatic eyeliner, false lashes that changed the shape of her eyes. A stranger's face, carefully constructed. But the way she held the glass. The way she smiled before she spoke.

Navira's spine went cold.

She looked down at the bar, forcing her expression into something neutral. Her voice came out low, steady, though her pulse had already started climbing.

"What do you want, Medora?"

Medora tilted her head, the blonde wig shifting. She took another sip of the bourbon before setting it down, her manicured nails tapping once against the glass. "Straight to business. I always liked that about you."

"I'm not in the mood for games."

"Aren't you?" Medora's voice was honey and broken glass. She turned slightly on the stool, crossing her legs, her red skirt catching the bar light. From the back, she could have been anyone. "Fine. I'll make it simple. I need a bag of your blood."

Navira's head snapped toward her. "No."

Medora's smile didn't waver. Patient. Waiting.

"What do you need it for?"

"That's for me to find out," Medora said, "and for you to… dot, dot, dot."

Navira held her gaze. The bourbon sat between them, untouched now. "I said no."

Something flickered in Medora's hazel eyes—amusement, perhaps. Or anticipation. She let out a soft breath, almost a laugh, and picked up the glass again. "Fine." She took a final sip, then slid it back across the bar to Navira. "It just makes it more fun for me."

Navira's blood went cold.

Medora stood, smoothing her red skirt. She moved around Navira's stool, close enough that her perfume—jasmine and something metallic—wrapped around them both. Her hand brushed the hair from Navira's neck, a gesture almost tender.

Navira froze.

Medora leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of Navira's ear, and in a voice that dripped with silk and venom, she whispered: "I'll be tasting something a little bit similar to you tonight."

Navira turned.

Medora was gone.

Just the empty stool, the half-empty glass, the ghost of her perfume.

Navira's heart slammed against her ribs. She looked toward the pool table—Reyen leaning over his shot, Kiaan laughing at something, Adrian racking the next game. Her eyes swept the group.

No Nash.

She scanned the bar. The table where Grace had been sitting.

Empty.

Navira's breath caught. She slid off the stool and pushed through the crowd, her costume rustling, boots thudding against the worn floorboards. She reached the pool table just as Reyen straightened from his shot.

"Where's Nash?"

The way she said it made him stop. His eyes sharpened, the easy grin fading. "What?"

"Nash. He's not here. Grace isn't here." Her voice was climbing. She felt it like a fever. "Reyen—"

He looked at her face. Something dark passed through his eyes. He didn't ask. He moved.

She was already running.

She reached the door just as it swung open, and Nash walked through, a paper coffee cup in his hand, his pirate costume slightly rumpled. He blinked at her, startled by her momentum.

"Where did you go?" Navira's voice came out higher than she meant. She wrapped her arms around him before he could answer, the coffee cup pressing awkwardly against her shoulder blade.

Nash went still for a beat, then his free arm came around her. "For some air. Are you okay?"

She pulled back, her hands still gripping his shoulders, studying his face. His brown eyes looked confused but clear. Unhurt. Alive. Navira took a deep breath and let it out slow, the knot in her chest loosening by a single thread. "I'm okay. I just thought I lost you."

A small relieved laugh escaped her, shaky and thin. She pressed a hand to her forehead, feeling the heat of the bar still clinging to her skin.

Nash's brow furrowed. "Lost me? Nav, I was gone for five minutes." He held up the cup. "There's a vendor outside selling spiced cider. Grace wanted one." He tilted his head. "What happened?"

Navira opened her mouth. Closed it. The words Medora was here, she touched me, she's going to taste something like me tonight sat on her tongue, heavy and sharp, but the bar was still full of noise, still full of people who didn't know what lurked in the dark between streetlights. She couldn't say it here.

"I'll explain later." She squeezed his arm. "Just—stay close tonight. Please."

Something shifted in Nash's expression—the protective brother surfacing. He didn't push. Just nodded. "Always." He handed her the coffee cup. "Here. You look like you need this more than Grace."

She took it, the warmth seeping into her palms. "Where is Grace?"

"Bathroom. I was heading back to the table." He gestured over his shoulder. "Coming?"

Navira glanced toward the pool table. Reyen had straightened from his shot, his dark eyes fixed on her from across the room, his body still coiled with that predator's readiness. He hadn't moved since she'd run. He was waiting, watching, reading the shape of her panic from twenty feet away.

"In a minute," she said. "Go. I'll find you."

Nash studied her for a moment longer, then nodded and wove through the crowd toward the table where Grace was already emerging from the back hall, blond hair smooth, a puzzled look on her face. Nash handed her a cup—there must have been a second one—and she smiled, her hand brushing his arm.

Navira watched them, the easy intimacy of it, the way Grace leaned into his space like she belonged there. It should have made her happy. It did, somewhere beneath the adrenaline still humming in her veins.

But Medora's voice still echoed in her ear. I'll be tasting something a little bit similar to you tonight.

"Navira."

Reyen's voice, low and close. She hadn't heard him approach. He stood at her elbow, his shirt still open, his chest bare beneath the white linen, and his face was stripped of all charm. Just sharp edges and dark eyes and something dangerous waiting to be pointed.

"You're pale," he said. "What happened?"

She looked at the coffee cup in her hands. The lid was still on, a thin stream of steam curling from the sip hole. She didn't drink.

"Medora was here."

Reyen's jaw tightened. A muscle ticked near his temple. His voice dropped, barely audible over the bar noise. "Where?"

"Gone." Navira shook her head. "She sat next to me. Drank my bourbon. Asked for a bag of my blood, and when I said no, she said she'd be tasting something similar to me tonight."

Reyen went still. The kind of stillness that wasn't calm—it was the air before a storm, the moment a predator chose which throat to tear.

"She touched your neck," he said. It wasn't a question.

Navira's hand lifted to the spot where Medora's fingers had brushed her hair aside. She hadn't realized he'd seen. "How—"

"I was watching you." His voice was flat. "I saw a blonde woman lean in. I didn't know it was her."

"She was in costume. A wig. Heavy makeup." Navira's voice steadied, the terror hardening into something colder. "She knew where I'd be. She knew I'd be alone at the bar."

Reyen's hand found her wrist, his thumb pressing against her pulse. Not restraining—grounding. "You're not alone now."

She looked up at him. The bar light caught the silver hoop in his ear, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his pupils had expanded, swallowing the dark brown of his irises until his eyes looked almost black. Hunger. Or rage. Maybe both.

"She's still out there," Navira said. "And she said 'tonight.' Not 'someday.' Tonight."

Reyen glanced toward the windows. The street beyond was dim, the occasional glow of a porch light, the rustle of leaves in the autumn wind. The bar was full of people who had no idea a vampire was hunting their town.

"I need to tell Nic," he said. "And Kiaan. And your brother."

"Nash doesn't know about—" She stopped. Swallowed. "He still thinks vampires are a Halloween costume."

"He's a warlock. He's going to figure it out eventually."

Navira's head snapped up. "You knew?"

Reyen's mouth twitched, almost sheepish. "I can smell magic. He reeks of it. So do you. So does half the town." He tilted his head. "You really think a small-town apothecary and a coven of witches have kept their secret all these years without vampires noticing?"

She stared at him. Somewhere, distantly, a glass shattered and laughter followed. The jukebox switched to something slower, a country song about heartbreak and whiskey.

"He's not ready," she said quietly. "Not tonight."

Reyen's thumb still pressed against her pulse. He held her gaze for a long moment, then gave a single nod. "Then we keep it light. But I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere."

He almost smiled. Almost. "Good."

He let go of her wrist and slid his hand to the small of her back, the same place it had been before Medora interrupted. This time, the touch felt different—possessive, protective, a silent assertion that she was his to guard.

They walked back to the group together, Navira's coffee cup warming her hands, Reyen a solid presence at her side. Kiaan looked up from the pool table as they approached, his dark eyes flicking between them, reading the tension in Reyen's shoulders.

"Everything good?" Kiaan asked, his voice casual, but his hand paused mid-chalk.

"Fine," Reyen said. Too quick. Too flat.

Kiaan's eyebrow lifted, but he didn't push. He racked his cue. "Your turn. I'm about to wipe the floor with you."

Reyen's hand lingered on Navira's back. "Don't go far," he murmured, then stepped past her to grab a cue stick from the wall rack.

Navira found a seat at the edge of the booth near the pool table, where she could see the room. The front door. The windows. The shadowed corners. Sierra slid in beside her, her green corset glittering under the bar lights.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," Sierra said, her voice low, meant only for Navira.

"Something like that."

Sierra followed her gaze to the door, then back. "Want me to check the perimeter?"

Navira blinked. "You can do that?"

"I'm a witch, babe. I can do a lot of things." Sierra's grin was sharp, but her eyes were serious. "I've got a protection charm in my pouch. I can cast it around the bar if you want. It won't keep a vampire out, but it'll let me know if one crosses it."

Navira's throat tightened. "Yes. Please."

Sierra slid out of the booth, her skirt swishing. She disappeared toward the back hallway, where the bathrooms were, and Navira watched her go, a thread of hope winding through the fear.

At the pool table, Reyen lined up his shot. The crack of the cue ball echoed, and a striped ball dropped into the corner pocket. Kiaan groaned. Adrian laughed, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Roman was at the bar, charming Lily with a story that made her toss her head back. Antonio stood near the door, arms folded, scanning the room like he was born to guard it.

For a moment, the night felt almost normal again.

Then Sierra returned, sliding back into the booth. "Done. There's a circle around the whole building. If anything supernatural crosses it, I'll feel a tug." She held up a small silver bell on a chain. "And this will ring."

Navira stared at the bell. "That's—"

"Witchcraft, baby. Now drink your coffee and tell me what really happened."

Navira took a sip. The spiced cider was sweet, cinnamon and clove, warm all the way down. She set the cup on the table and told Sierra everything—Medora at the bar, the request for blood, the whisper, the threat.

Sierra listened without interrupting, her face unreadable. When Navira finished, she let out a slow breath.

"She's playing with you," Sierra said. "She wants you scared. She wants you to react."

"I know."

"So don't." Sierra leaned forward, her voice dropping. "She's a vampire. You're a witch. A powerful one, even if you don't know it yet. And you're surrounded by people who will burn this town down before they let her touch you."

Navira looked across the room to where Reyen was taking another shot, his shirt hanging open, his focus absolute. As if he felt her gaze, he glanced up, and for a second, the game disappeared. Just him and her and the thread pulling between them.

"I know," she said again, softer this time.

Nami appeared, sliding a fresh drink onto the table—something pink and garnished with a lime. "You two look serious. Should I leave?"

"No," Navira said. "Stay. Please."

Nami settled into the booth, her burgundy skirt pooling around her. "Nic told me something's up. Want to fill me in?"

Navira repeated the story, and Nami's amber eyes darkened. When she finished, Nami reached across the table and took her hand.

"Medora's been a vampire for six centuries. She's patient. But she's also prideful." Nami's thumb traced a slow circle on Navira's knuckles. "You denied her. That will sting more than she'll admit. She'll want to prove she can still get what she wants."

"So what do I do?" Navira asked.

Nami smiled, slow and calculating. "You make her wait. You make her wonder. You live your life, surrounded by people who love you, and you don't give her the reaction she's hunting for."

Sierra nodded. "Starve her of what she wants. She wants fear. She wants control. Don't give her either."

Navira let their words settle. The cider was cooling in her hands, but the warmth stayed in her chest. She looked at the pool table—Reyen had just sunk the eight ball, and Kiaan was cursing, and Adrian was laughing, and Nash was watching Grace with a softness that made her heart ache.

These were her people. Her family, chosen and blood.

She wouldn't let Medora take that from her.

"Okay," she said, and the word came out steady. "Okay."

The night went on. Another round of drinks. A game of darts that turned into a tournament. Sierra and Adrian on the same team, their dynamic tense and complicated. Kiaan watching them with a careful neutrality that only Navira seemed to notice. Cole took a dozen blurry photos on his phone, and Lily stole his phone to delete the most unflattering ones. Grace laughed at something Nash whispered, and Navira caught her brother's hand brushing Grace's under the table.

At some point, Reyen pulled her onto the small dance floor near the jukebox, a slow song playing, his hand on her waist, hers on his chest. They swayed more than danced, his chin resting against her hair.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low, barely audible over the music.

"For what?"

"That she found you. That I wasn't there."

Navira pulled back enough to look at him. His eyes were dark, shadowed with a guilt he didn't need to carry.

"You can't be everywhere," she said. "And I handled it."

"I know you did." His hand tightened on her waist. "But I should have been—"

"Reyen." She touched his jaw, felt the slight roughness of stubble, the warmth of his skin. "I'm fine. We're fine. She didn't win."

He held her gaze, something passing between them—acknowledgment, gratitude, a promise neither spoke aloud.

"You're remarkable," he said, and the words landed like a confession.

She didn't know how to answer that, so she leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek, soft and brief. His breath caught. His hand on her waist tightened.

The song ended too soon.

They walked back to the table hand in hand, and if anyone noticed the way their fingers stayed tangled, no one mentioned it.

A few hours later, the bar had thinned to a handful of stragglers. The jukebox cycled through something melancholic, and the bartender was drying glasses with the slow precision of someone ready to close. Navira sat at the edge of the booth, her spiced cider long cold, her eyes tracing the same patterns across the room she'd been scanning all night. Reyen's hand rested on her knee beneath the table, warm and steady, a quiet anchor she kept returning to.

Nash's phone buzzed against the wood. Once. Twice. A third time in rapid succession.

He picked it up, his brow furrowing as he looked at the screen. The easy smile he'd been wearing all night—the one Grace had put there—faded in increments. His thumb scrolled through missed calls, and something in his posture shifted. Straightened. Went still.

Navira caught his eye across the table. What is it?

He didn't answer. He was already standing, his chair scraping against the worn floorboards. He looked at her—just looked—and in that silence, a lifetime of sibling shorthand passed between them. Something is wrong. I have to go. I don't know what yet.

She was on her feet before she knew she'd moved.

"Nash—"

He was at the door, his hand on the frame, and he glanced back. His brown eyes met hers, and he didn't say a word. He didn't need to. The urgency in his gaze was a rope pulling her forward.

Navira's breath caught. Her hand pressed flat against her stomach, the sudden drop of dread coiling tight in her chest. She heard Grace murmur something from the table—"What happened to him?"—but her voice came from very far away.

"Excuse me."

She didn't look at anyone. She was already moving, her boots thudding against the floorboards, the cold air hitting her face as she shoved through the door.

The street was dark, the porch lights of the town casting small pools of yellow. Nash was halfway to his car, his phone pressed to his ear.

"Grams. Slow down. I can't—" He listened, his jaw tightening. "Okay. Okay. I'm coming. Navira's with me."

He ended the call and looked at her. In the dim light, his face was all sharp angles and shadows, the easy warmth of the night drained away.

"What happened?" Navira's voice came out higher than she meant. She gripped his arm, felt the tension coiled in his muscles. "Is she okay?"

"She's fine. She's scared." He opened the driver's side door. "Get in."

She didn't hesitate.

The engine turned over, and Nash pulled away from the curb fast enough that the tires skidded on the loose gravel. The town blurred past the window—the closed shops, the dark windows of the houses, the streetlights counting down the distance to the edge of town.

"Where are we going?" Navira asked, her hands gripping the edge of the seat.

"She said to meet her at the Voss Estate."

Navira's blood went cold.

"What? Why?"

"She didn't say. She just said—" Nash's hands tightened on the wheel. "She said 'Voss Estate now' and hung up. I've never heard her sound like that."

Navira's mind raced. Medora. The threat at the bar. I'll be tasting something a little bit similar to you tonight. She'd thought it meant someone at the party. One of her friends. Maybe Nash. But Grams?

She pulled out her phone and called Reyen.

He picked up on the first ring. "Navira. Where are you?"

"Something's wrong. Grams called Nash. She told us to meet her at the Voss Estate." She heard the shift in his breathing, the stillness of a predator going quiet. "We're on our way."

"I'll be there." A pause. "Drive safe."

He hung up. No jokes. No charm. Just the flat urgency of a man preparing for a fight.

The road to the Voss Estate was a tunnel of dark trees and shifting shadows. The headlights carved a narrow path through the blackness, and Navira watched the tree line, half-expecting Medora to step out from between the trunks. The silence in the car was thick, broken only by the hum of the engine and the rustle of leaves against the undercarriage.

"Nav." Nash's voice was low, careful. "What aren't you telling me?"

She looked at him. His profile was sharp in the green glow of the dashboard lights. He was her brother. Her protector. The one who'd always been there.

"Medora was at the bar tonight," she said. "She's the one who looks like me. The vampire Reyen used to love. She threatened me. Said she'd be tasting something similar to me tonight."

Nash's hands tightened on the wheel. "And you didn't think to tell me?"

"I didn't want to scare you."

"I'm your brother. You don't get to decide what scares me."

She had no answer for that.

The Voss Estate appeared through the trees, a hulking silhouette against the star-scattered sky. Every window was lit, casting warm light across the gravel drive. Grams' old truck was parked at an angle near the gate, the driver's door still open, the interior light on.

The headlights swept across the gravel, catching the dark smear on the front door before Navira's brain had time to process what she was seeing. Blood. Still wet, running in thin rivulets down the painted wood, pooling at the threshold where the porch light cast a yellow glow.

"Nav—" Nash started, but she was already moving, the seatbelt snapping back as she shoved the door open before the car had fully stopped, her boots hitting the gravel at a run. The cold air hit her face, sharp and metallic. She didn't feel it.

The door swung open under her hand, unlatched, and she stepped into the foyer. The trail of blood led left, through the parlor, past the overturned chair, past the shattered vase that crunched beneath her boots. The house was silent. Too silent, the kind of silence that rang in her ears.

She followed the smears through the archway into the sitting room, her breath catching in her throat like shattered glass. And then she saw her.

Grams lay on the hardwood floor, her silver hair splayed across the polished wood, her pale blue eyes half-lidded and unfocused. A pool of blood spread beneath her, black in the dim light, seeping into the gaps between the floorboards. The bite mark on her neck was raw and ragged, twin punctures that still wept slow, dark beads. Another mark on her wrist, torn and bloodied, as if someone had held her down to drink.

Navira's knees hit the floor hard, the pain registering somewhere distant, irrelevant. Her hands found Grams' face—cold, so cold—and lifted it gently, cradling her grandmother's head in her lap. "Grams. Grams, I'm here. I'm here."

Grams' eyelids fluttered. A thin, rattling breath escaped her lips. "Navi…" The word was barely a sigh, a thread of sound that could have been the wind.

"Don't talk. Don't move. We're going to—" Navira looked up as Nash dropped to his knees beside her, his face white, his hands shaking as he pressed them to the wound on Grams' wrist. "Nash. Call Nic. Call Reyen."

He was already pulling out his phone, his fingers slick with blood, but before he could dial, a sound came from above. A creak. Floorboards, shifting weight. Slow. Deliberate.

Navira's head snapped up. The ceiling above them, the staircase visible through the archway. Someone was up there. Still here.

"Stay with her," she said, already rising, her voice low and hard. "Don't let her bleed out."

"Nav, what are you—"

She didn't answer. Her eyes scanned the room, landing on a broom propped against the wall near the fireplace. She crossed to it in three strides, grabbed it, and brought it down across her knee. The wooden handle cracked, splintered, and she was left holding two jagged halves, each ending in a sharp, broken point. Not a stake. Close enough.

She moved toward the stairs, the makeshift weapon in her right hand, the other gripping the banister. The steps groaned under her weight, each one a confession that she was coming. The upstairs hallway stretched before her, lined with closed doors, the faint glow of a nightlight at the far end casting long shadows.

She passed the first door. Second. Third. Her heart pounded so hard she could feel it in her throat, in the hollow behind her ears. The house was silent again, but the silence was wrong—waiting, coiled, breathing.

The fourth door swung open before she reached it.

The vampire moved like a crack of lightning, too fast to track, his hand closing around her throat and slamming her against the wall. Her head cracked against the plaster, stars exploding across her vision. Before she could scream, he wrenched her head to the side, and his fangs sank into the curve of her neck.

The pain was white and blinding, a tearing burn that radiated down her shoulder and up into her skull. She felt the pull, the greedy suction of his mouth, the wet sound of her own blood being drawn out of her. Her hand clenched around the broken broom handle. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. But her body remembered what to do.

She drove the sharpened point into his side.

The vampire snarled, a guttural, animal sound, and released her. The wound was just below his ribs—not deep enough, not through the heart, but enough to make him stagger. She didn't wait. She ran, her hand pressed to the bleeding wound on her neck, stumbling down the hall toward the first open door. She threw herself inside, slammed the door, fumbled for a lock that wasn't there.

The door exploded inward, torn off its hinges, and the vampire filled the frame, his eyes black, veins webbing beneath his skin. He lunged.

Navira swung the second piece of the broom handle, catching him across the face, but it barely slowed him. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked, forcing her head back, exposing her throat again. She twisted, driving the stake into his stomach with all the strength she had left. The wood sank deep, but not deep enough. He grunted, his grip loosening for half a second. She tore free and bolted past him, into the hallway, toward the stairs.

She was nearly there. The top of the stairs. She could see the foyer below, could see Nash's silhouette bent over Grams. She opened her mouth to call out—

His hand closed around her ankle.

She hit the floor hard, her chin smacking the wood, her teeth slicing into her tongue. He dragged her back, flipped her onto her stomach, and buried his fangs into the other side of her neck, deeper this time, ravenous. She felt the blood pouring down her collarbone, soaking into her costume, warm and thick and endless.

She screamed. A raw, broken sound that tore through the house.

The vampire went still.

His head lifted. His dark eyes flicked toward the window—the sound of tires on gravel, an engine cutting off. He looked down at her, a flicker of something almost amused crossing his face, and then he was gone. A blur of motion, the slam of a back door, and silence.

Navira tried to push herself up. Her arms shook, buckled. The world tilted sideways, the hallway spinning into a smear of light and shadow. She got one knee under her, tried to stand, and her foot slipped in her own blood. She tumbled forward, down the first few stairs, her shoulder hitting the wall, her head cracking against the corner of the banister.

Pain. White, then black, then a distant ringing. She was at the bottom. She didn't know how she got there. The floor was cold against her cheek. She could see the front door, hear voices, running footsteps.

She tried to lift her head. Her lips moved, forming a single word, barely a whisper, the name she needed most in the world. "Nash…"

The door burst open and Reyen vaulted through, his dark eyes sweeping the room, landing on Grams first—blood-soaked, motionless, Nash pressing his jacket to her wrist. His face went pale. "Where's Navira?"

Nash looked up, his eyes wild. "She went upstairs—"

Nic was already at Grams' side, kneeling, biting into his own wrist with deliberate precision. He pressed the bleeding wound to her lips. "Drink. Come on, Maren. Drink."

Reyen moved past them, his gaze tracking the blood trail, the overturned furniture, the splintered broom handle on the stairs. And then he saw her.

Navira lay crumpled at the foot of the staircase, her body twisted, her costume soaked in red, her dark hair tangled and wet. Her eyes were open but unfocused, fixed on some point in the middle distance. Blood pulsed from the wounds on her neck in slow, rhythmic beats.

Reyen dropped to his knees beside her, his hands hovering over her body, afraid to touch, afraid of how much damage there might be. "Navira. Navira, look at me."

Her eyes drifted toward him, slow and heavy, like she was swimming up through deep water. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

He bit into his own wrist without hesitation, the sharp scent of his blood filling the air between them. He pressed the wound to her mouth, red welling against her lips. "Drink." His voice cracked. "Please. Drink."

She turned her head away.

The motion was small, almost imperceptible, but deliberate. Her hand came up, weak and trembling, and pushed his arm aside. A single word, hoarse and barely audible: "No."

"Navira—"

"No." Her eyes found his, and in them he saw something he hadn't expected. Not fear. Not confusion. Certainty. "Not from you."

His hand stayed where it was, still bleeding, still offered. He didn't lower it. He didn't move. He just looked at her, his jaw tight, his dark eyes glistening in the dim light of the foyer.

"You're dying," he said, his voice low and raw. "You'll bleed out in minutes."

She didn't answer. Her eyes fluttered, the focus slipping. Her hand fell back to the floor.

Reyen looked up, toward Nic, toward Nash, toward anyone who could tell him what to do. His chest heaved. His composure, the careful distance he'd carried for centuries, cracked open like a wound.

"Please," he whispered, his forehead dropping to hers. "Please, Navira. Let me save you."

But her eyes had already closed.

Her fingers moved before her mind caught up. Slow, trembling, the muscles in her arm screaming with the effort of lifting against gravity and blood loss. She found his wrist—warm, wet where he'd bitten himself, the wound still welling red—and guided it back toward her mouth. Her hand shook so badly she nearly missed. His breath caught, a sharp, shuddering sound.

She drank.

The first swallow burned. Not the heat of whiskey or the sting of antiseptic—something deeper, older, like lightning threading through her veins. Her throat worked, pulling against instinct, against the part of her that still wanted to turn away. The second swallow came easier. The third spread warmth through her chest, pushing back the cold that had been spreading from her wounds, filling the hollow spaces where her pulse had been fading.

She felt him above her—his hand cradling the back of her head, his other arm braced against the floor, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He didn't speak. Didn't rush. Just held his wrist to her lips and let her take what she needed.

Two seconds. Maybe three. Then her hand dropped. Her mouth parted from his skin, and she let her head fall back against the floor, her vision swimming in and out of focus. The ceiling blurred above her, the chandelier a smear of amber light. She could feel the blood still seeping from her neck, but slower now, the flow changing, the edges of the wounds beginning to knit in a way that felt wrong and right at the same time.

"Navira." His voice was wrecked. She'd never heard it like that before. "Stay with me."

She tried to answer. Her lips moved, but the sound came out as a breath, formless and thin. Her hand found his arm, gripping the fabric of his sleeve, and she held on. That was all she could do. Hold on.

He moved then—a shift of weight, his arms sliding beneath her, one under her knees, the other cradling her back. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, and the world tilted, the foyer spinning past in a blur of blood-streaked wood and overturned furniture. She felt the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the steady thrum of his heartbeat—faster than a human's, stronger, a rhythm she'd never noticed before.

The front door swung open.

Nami's voice cut through the haze, sharp and horrified. "Oh, gods—"

Sierra's gasp followed, higher, breaking at the end. "The house. The blood. What—"

Navira's eyes drifted toward the sound. Two silhouettes in the doorway, backlit by the porch light. Nami in her pink corset and burgundy skirt, her hand pressed to her mouth, her amber eyes wide and wet. Sierra beside her, still in her green costume, her face pale, her hands already moving, reaching for something in her pouch.

Reyen didn't stop. He carried Navira past them, through the foyer, toward the sitting room where Grams still lay. Navira heard Nic's voice, low and steady, murmuring something she couldn't make out. She heard Nash say her name, his voice cracking. She tried to lift her head, tried to see him, but her neck wouldn't obey.

"She drank," Reyen said. His voice was flat, mechanical, like he was reporting a fact rather than living through it. "She drank my blood."

Nami appeared at his side, her hand touching Navira's face, brushing the hair from her forehead. "She's still conscious. That's good. That's—" She stopped, her throat working. "The wounds are closing."

Sierra moved past them, dropping to her knees beside Grams. Her hands hovered over the bite marks, her brow furrowing. "She's dying."

"She's not going to die." Nic's voice was hard, certain. He held Grams' hand, his other arm still bleeding where he'd bitten himself. "I gave her enough. She just needs time to turn."

Navira's heart lurched. Turn. The word echoed through her skull, heavy and wrong. Grams was turning. Into a vampire. Because Nic had forced his blood down her throat to save her life.

She tried to speak. Tried to say no, she wouldn't want this, Grams would never want this. But her voice wouldn't come. Her throat felt raw, scorched, like she'd swallowed fire.

Reyen lowered her onto the velvet chaise in the sitting room, his hands gentle, almost reverent. He knelt beside her, his dark eyes searching her face, his jaw tight. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."

She blinked at him. The ceiling had stopped spinning, but the edges of her vision still flickered, dark and light chasing each other. Her hand found his, her fingers curling around his, and she held on.

Nami appeared with a wet cloth, pressing it to Navira's neck. The coolness was a shock, a relief. "The bleeding's stopped," she said, her voice steadier now, though her hands still trembled. "The wounds are closing. Faster than they should." She looked at Reyen. "How much did she drink?"

"Not enough to turn her." His voice was rough. "Just enough to keep her alive."

Nami nodded, pressing the cloth harder. "Good. That's good."

Sierra stood, her hands stained red, her face a mask of controlled fury. "Who did this?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and demanding. Navira's eyes drifted toward the hallway, toward the stairs where the vampire had dragged her. She tried to form the words. A man. Dark hair. Black eyes. Fast.

"Doesn't matter who," Reyen said, his voice dropping into something cold and quiet. "It was Medora's doing. She sent him."

Sierra's jaw tightened. "Then we find her. Tonight."

"We will." Nic rose from Grams' side, his shirt stained with her blood, his face unreadable. "But first we need to secure the house. Make sure no one else is here. And get everyone somewhere safe."

Nash appeared in the doorway, his face white, his hands still slick with Grams' blood. He looked at Navira, his eyes scanning her neck, her costume, the blood soaking into the velvet beneath her. "Is she—"

"She's alive," Nami said. "She's going to be fine."

Nash crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees beside the chaise. He took Navira's free hand, squeezing it, his thumb pressing against her palm. "You're an idiot. You know that?" His voice cracked. "Going up there alone. With a broom handle."

Navira's lips twitched, almost a smile. She tried to say it worked, but what came out was a breath, thin and shaky.

Nash let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "It worked. Yeah. You're still an idiot."

Reyen's hand tightened around hers. He looked at Nash, something passing between them—acknowledgment, maybe, or a promise. I'm not going anywhere.

Sierra moved to the window, peering through the curtains at the dark yard beyond. "I can set a perimeter ward. It won't keep out another vampire, but it'll warn us if one crosses it."

"Do it," Nic said. He was at Grams' side again, checking her pulse, his fingers pressed to her throat. "Her heartbeat's steady. She's stabilizing."

Navira's chest ached. Grams. Turning. She didn't know what that meant—how long it would take, whether Grams would be the same person, whether she'd wake up hungry and strange. She pushed the thought away, buried it somewhere she couldn't reach. Later. She'd deal with it later.

Nami lifted the cloth from Navira's neck, examined the wounds, and let out a slow breath. "They've closed. There'll be scars, but—"

"I don't care about scars." The words came out rough, scraped, but steady. Navira's voice. She blinked, surprised to hear it. "I care about Grams. And about finding the vampire who did this."

Reyen looked at her, something shifting in his expression—relief, maybe, or awe. "You should rest."

"I should hunt." She pushed herself up, ignoring the protest in her muscles, the dull ache in her neck. Her vision swam for a moment, then steadied. The blood in her veins felt different now—warmer, quicker, like a current running beneath her skin. She looked at her hands. The cuts on her palms from the broken broom handle were gone. "What did you do to me?"

"Saved your life." Reyen's voice was quiet. "That's all."

She looked at him—his dark eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand still held hers like he was afraid to let go. "Thank you."

Something flickered across his face. Pain. Relief. Something softer he tried to hide and failed. "Don't thank me. Just—don't do that again."

"I can't promise that."

His mouth twisted, almost a smile. "I know."

Reyen's hand stayed wrapped around hers, warm and steady, even as the house settled into a rhythm of quiet damage control. Nic had carried Grams to one of the guest rooms downstairs, his voice low and measured as he explained to Nash what would happen next—the transition, the hunger, the choices she would have to make. Nash had listened in silence, his jaw tight, his hands still stained red.

Navira sat on the chaise for what felt like hours, watching people move around her. Nami disappeared and returned with a basin of warm water and clean cloths. Sierra traced a perimeter ward around the property, her movements precise, her lips moving in a language Navira didn't recognize. Kiaan arrived with Adrian, their faces shifting from confusion to violence when they saw the blood.

But eventually the movement slowed. The questions stopped. And the house fell into a waiting kind of quiet.

Navira stood. Her legs held. The blood in her veins felt different—faster, brighter, like she'd been running without moving. She ignored it. There was work to do.

The foyer looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood had pooled in the grooves between the floorboards, smeared across the wall where the vampire had slammed her, tracked through the parlor and into the sitting room. The overturned chair. The shattered vase. The broken broom handle lying in pieces on the stairs, the jagged ends still dark with blood.

She picked up the pieces first. Carried them to the kitchen. Dropped them in the trash. Then she found a mop in the hall closet, a bucket under the sink, and filled it with hot water and bleach until the smell burned her sinuses.

She started at the top of the stairs.

The first pass turned the water pink. The second pass turned it red. The third, she stopped looking at the bucket and just kept moving, the mop sliding across the wood in long, mechanical strokes. Her arms ached. Her neck throbbed where the wounds had closed, the skin tight and tender. She didn't stop.

Reyen appeared in the hallway after a while. He didn't say anything. Just watched her from the doorway, his dark eyes tracking the rhythm of her work. She felt his gaze like a touch, but she didn't look up. If she looked up, she'd have to think about what happened. About the vampire's fangs in her neck. About the taste of Reyen's blood on her tongue. About Grams, lying in the guest room, turning into something she'd never wanted to be.

So she kept mopping.

"You don't have to do this," Reyen said finally, his voice quiet.

"I know." She pushed the mop into a corner, watched the dirty water bead against the baseboard. "I want to."

He moved closer. She heard his footsteps, soft and deliberate, and then his hand settled on her shoulder, light, like he was asking permission. She didn't shrug it off. She didn't lean into it. She just stood there, gripping the mop handle, staring at the clean streak she'd left on the wood.

"You should rest," he said.

"I should finish this."

His hand tightened, just slightly. "It can wait."

"It can't." Her voice came out harder than she meant. She turned to look at him, and whatever he saw in her face made his hand drop. "If I stop, I'm going to think about it. And if I think about it, I'm going to fall apart. So let me clean."

He held her gaze for a long moment. Then he nodded, stepped back, and picked up the bucket. "Then I'll help."

They worked in silence. He scrubbed the walls while she mopped the floors, the two of them moving through the house like a quiet current. The sun began to rise, pale grey light filtering through the windows, catching the last traces of blood on her hands. She washed them in the kitchen sink, watched the water run pink, then clear.

Nami found her there an hour later, leaning against the counter with a cold cup of coffee in her hands. She didn't ask how Navira was. She just slid onto the stool beside her and rested her head on Navira's shoulder.

"She's still unconscious," Nami said after a long silence. "Nic says it could take a day. Maybe two."

Navira nodded. Her throat was too tight for words.

"She'll be okay," Nami added, softer. "The transition is hard, but she's strong."

Navira set down the coffee. "She didn't ask for this."

"I know."

"None of us asked for it." Navira's voice cracked. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, feeling the heat building behind them. "But Nic made a choice for her. He saved her life, and I understand why, but—" She stopped, her breath hitching. "She's going to wake up a vampire. And I don't know if she's going to forgive me for that."

Nami's hand found hers, warm and steady. "She's going to wake up alive. That's what matters. And she's going to have you, and Nash, and all of us to help her figure out what comes next."

Navira let out a shaky breath. She wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe that when Grams opened her eyes, she'd see her granddaughter and smile, the way she always did. But the image of Grams lying on the floor, blood pooling beneath her, kept flashing behind her eyes, and she couldn't shake the feeling that nothing would ever be the same.

She pulled her hand away and stood. "I'm going to check on her."

Nami didn't stop her.

The guest room was dim, the curtains drawn against the morning light. Grams lay in the center of the bed, her silver hair fanned across the pillow, her face slack and pale. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was too slow, too shallow. Nic sat in a chair beside her, his elbows on his knees, his dark eyes fixed on her face. He looked up when Navira entered, something unreadable passing through his expression.

"She's stable," he said before she could ask. "The blood is working. Her body is fighting, but it's accepting the change."

Navira crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. She took Grams' hand—cool, the skin papery thin, the veins dark against the pale surface. "How long until she wakes?"

"Hard to say. A few hours. Maybe a day." Nic leaned back, rubbing his face with both hands. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what she would have chosen."

Navira didn't answer. She kept her eyes on Grams' face, watching for any sign of movement, any flicker of the woman she knew.

"She's stubborn," she said finally, her voice quiet. "She always has been. If anyone can survive this and still be herself, it's her."

Nic said nothing. He just sat there, keeping his vigil, and Navira stayed beside him, holding her grandmother's hand, waiting for her to come back.

The hours passed in a haze. Sierra came and went, refreshing the perimeter ward. Nash appeared in the doorway, his face drawn, and sat with her for a while without speaking. At some point, Reyen brought her a glass of water and a plate of toast that she didn't touch. She lost track of time, of the light shifting outside the window, of the sounds of the house settling around her.

And then, just as the afternoon light began to slant through the curtains, Grams' fingers moved.

Navira felt it—a twitch, a flex, the faintest pressure against her palm. Her breath caught. She leaned forward, her heart hammering. "Grams?"

Grams' eyelids fluttered. Once. Twice. Then they opened.

Her pale blue eyes were different. Brighter. Sharper. The irises was rimmed with something that caught the light, a faint amber glow that hadn't been there before. She blinked, slow and deliberate, and her gaze found Navira's face.

"Navi." Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it was there. It was her.

"I'm here." Navira's throat closed. She gripped Grams' hand tighter, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. "I'm right here."

Grams' eyes drifted around the room, taking in the dim light, the drawn curtains, the unfamiliar ceiling. Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her features. "Where—"

"The Voss Estate," Navira said. "You were attacked. Nic saved your life. You're—" She hesitated, the word catching in her throat. "You're turning. Into a vampire."

Grams was quiet for a long moment. Her fingers tightened around Navira's, weak but deliberate. Then she let out a breath, long and slow, and closed her eyes again.

"I know," she said.

Navira blinked. "You know?"

Grams' lips curved, the faintest ghost of a smile. "I've lived a long time, girl. I know what's in these woods. I know what the Voss brothers are. I knew the risks the night I came here." Her eyes opened again, and the smile faded into something softer, sadder. "I just didn't expect it to happen like this."

Navira's chest ached. She brought Grams' hand to her cheek, pressing it there, holding on like she could anchor her grandmother to this world through touch alone. "I'm so sorry. I should have been there sooner. I should have—"

"Stop." Grams' voice, even hoarse and thinned by transition, carried the same steel it always had. "You can't carry the weight of every bad thing that happens, Navira. You'll break."

"I almost lost you."

"But you didn't." Grams' thumb traced a weak arc across Navira's cheekbone. "I'm still here. And I have a choice to make."

Navira's hand stilled. "What do you mean?"

Grams looked past her, toward the window, toward the pale autumn light catching the dust motes in the air. Her face was calm, serene in a way that made Navira's stomach drop.

"I've been a witch for seventy-two years," Grams said, her voice gaining strength with every word. "I've brewed potions for every ailment in this town. I've tended the earth, spoken to the spirits, and I've lived a full life. A good one." She turned her gaze back to Navira, and her eyes were clear. Certain. "I'm not going to complete the transition."

The words hung in the air like a held breath.

Navira's heart stopped. "What?"

"I don't want to be a vampire, Navira." Grams said it gently, like she was explaining something simple and inevitable. "I want to be with the spirits. With our ancestors. I've had my time."

"No." Navira shook her head, her grip tightening on Grams' hand. "No, you can't—you can't just give up. You fought. You survived. The transition—Nic said it would work. You'll wake up and you'll be the same person. You just have to—"

"Navi." Grams' voice cut through her spiral, soft but unyielding. "I know you're scared. I know you don't want to lose me. But this is my choice. My body. My soul." She lifted her free hand, trembling with the effort, and touched Navira's cheek. "I've been given a rare gift. I can choose my end. Most people never get that."

Navira's tears spilled over, hot and silent, running down her face and onto Grams' fingers. "I can't do this without you."

"You can." Grams' eyes were bright, fierce, the same look she'd given Navira a thousand times—before her first spell, before her first broken heart, before every threshold she'd ever crossed. "You're a Moretti. You're a witch. And you're stronger than you know."

Navira shook her head, a sob tearing through her chest. "Please. Please don't leave me."

Grams smiled, and in that smile was seventy years of love, of sacrifice, of quiet wisdom passed down through generations. "I'll never leave you, girl. I'll be in the wind. In the roots of the trees. In the first snow of winter." Her thumb brushed away a tear. "And when you need me most, I'll be there."

Navira broke. She dropped her forehead to Grams' hand and wept—great, heaving sobs that shook her shoulders and stole her breath. She felt Grams' fingers stroke her hair, slow and soothing, the same way she'd done when Navira was a child, scared of the dark, convinced something lived under her bed.

"It's okay," Grams murmured. "It's okay to let me go."

Navira didn't know how long she stayed like that. Minutes. An hour. Time had stopped meaning anything. But eventually, the sobs quieted, and she lifted her head, her face wet, her eyes red.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, her voice raw.

Grams considered for a moment. Then she smiled—that familiar, mischievous smile that meant she was about to say something unexpected. "Fetch me my grimoire. The one I keep under the floorboard in my bedroom."

Navira blinked. "Your grimoire?"

"There are things I need to write down. Instructions. Spells I never got around to teaching you." Grams' eyes held hers, steady and clear. "The transition will take a few more hours yet. I have time."

Navira wanted to argue. Wanted to beg again. But she saw the peace in her grandmother's face, the quiet certainty of someone who had made her peace with the world, and she knew—deep in her bones, in the blood that now carried Reyen's gift—that this was not her choice to take.

She nodded. "I'll get it."

She stood, her legs unsteady, and walked to the door. At the threshold, she paused and looked back. Grams was still watching her, her silver hair spread across the pillow, her pale blue eyes holding a light that seemed to come from somewhere beyond the room.

"I love you, Grams."

"I love you too, Navira."

Navira stepped into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind her. And she stood there, in the dim light of the Voss Estate, her hands trembling, her heart shattered, and somehow still beating.

Navira stood in the hallway, the door closed behind her, the silence of the house pressing in from all sides. Her hands were empty. Her grandmother was dying by choice on the other side of that door. She needed to move. If she stood here any longer, the weight of it would pin her to the floor and she wouldn't get back up.

She found Reyen in the kitchen, his back against the counter, a glass of something dark in his hand. He looked up when she entered, his dark eyes scanning her face, reading the shape of her grief before she could speak.

"I need to go to Grams' cottage," she said. Her voice came out flat, functional. "She asked for her grimoire. It's under a floorboard in her bedroom."

Reyen set down the glass. "I'll drive you."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm driving you." He was already moving, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door. "You're not going alone. Not tonight."

She didn't argue. She didn't have the energy.

The drive was silent, the headlights cutting through the dark road, the trees blurring past. Navira watched the world slide by without really seeing it, her mind caught in a loop of Grams' voice, Grams' hand on her cheek, Grams' certainty. I've had my time. The words kept repeating, each time landing differently—like a stone dropped into water, the ripples spreading wider, deeper, until she could feel them in her chest.

The cottage appeared through the trees, dark and quiet. No light in the windows. No smoke from the chimney. It looked abandoned, like a photograph of a place that had already been left behind. Navira's throat tightened.

Reyen parked behind Grams' truck. The driver's door was still open, the interior light dead. She must have left in a hurry, driven straight to the Voss Estate after the attack. The keys were still in the ignition.

Navira got out. The cold air hit her, sharp and clean, carrying the smell of damp earth and fallen leaves. She walked to the front door, her boots crunching on the gravel, and pulled out her key. The lock turned with a familiar click, and she pushed the door open.

The cottage smelled the same. Lavender and old wood, the faint trace of dried herbs hanging from the kitchen ceiling. The kettle was cold on the stove. A half-drunk cup of tea sat on the counter, the surface filmed over with a thin skin. Grams had left in the middle of making it. She'd known something was wrong and she'd left everything behind.

Navira walked through the dark living room, past the armchair where Grams always sat, past the bookshelf stacked with worn paperbacks and dried flowers. She didn't turn on any lights. She knew this house by heart, knew which floorboards creaked and which held steady.

Grams' bedroom was at the end of the hall. The door was open. The bed was made, the quilt tucked tight, the pillows plumped. A pair of reading glasses rested on the nightstand beside a candle that had burned down to a nub. Navira crossed to the far corner of the room, where a loose floorboard sat beneath the edge of the rug. She knelt, pushed the rug aside, and fit her fingers into the seam.

The board lifted with a soft groan. Beneath it lay a leather-bound book, dark and worn, its edges softened by decades of handling. The cover was unmarked, but Navira knew it by weight, by smell, by the way the leather had darkened where Grams' hands had held it a thousand times. She lifted it out, careful, reverent, and sat back on her heels.

The grimoire was heavier than she remembered. She ran her palm over the cover, feeling the faint ridges where the leather had cracked. She wanted to open it. Wanted to read the first page, see her grandmother's handwriting, the recipes and incantations she'd spent a lifetime perfecting. But that wasn't why she was here.

She stood, tucked the grimoire under her arm, and replaced the floorboard. The rug went back over it. The room looked untouched, like no one had been there at all.

Reyen was waiting in the doorway, his shoulder against the frame, his arms crossed. He didn't ask if she was okay. He just watched her, his dark eyes soft in the dim light from the hallway.

"Got it?" he asked.

She nodded. Her voice wouldn't come.

He reached out and took the grimoire from her, his fingers brushing hers. "I'll carry it."

She let him. The weight of it had been too much, and not because of the pages.

The drive back was longer. The road felt different in the dark, the trees closing in, the headlights carving a narrow path through the black. Navira leaned her head against the window, watching the stars blur past, her breath fogging the glass. Reyen drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the grimoire in her lap, a quiet anchor she didn't know she needed.

When they pulled up to the Voss Estate, the house was still lit, warm light spilling from every window. Sierra's car was still there, and Kiaan's. Nash's truck. Nic's sedan. They were all still here, waiting, holding the edges of the night together.

Navira took the grimoire from Reyen and walked inside without waiting.

The sitting room was quiet. Nic sat in the same chair, his eyes closed, his breathing even. He opened them when she entered, his gaze dropping to the book in her hands. He didn't say anything. He just nodded, a small gesture of acknowledgment, and looked back at Grams.

Grams was still awake. Her eyes tracked Navira as she crossed the room, a faint smile touching her lips. "You found it."

"Under the floorboard. Just like you said." Navira sat on the edge of the bed, the grimoire balanced on her knees. "It's heavy."

"It's a lifetime." Grams reached for it, her fingers curling around the worn leather. "Help me sit up."

Navira slid an arm behind her shoulders, lifting gently, propping the pillows behind her back. Grams settled against them, her breath shallow but steady. She opened the grimoire in her lap, her fingers tracing the first page with a tenderness that made Navira's chest ache.

"There's a spell in here," Grams said, her voice soft, almost musing. "I never finished writing it. I always thought I'd have more time."

Navira swallowed. "What kind of spell?"

Grams looked up, her pale blue eyes meeting Navira's. "One that will help you, when the time comes." She reached for a pen on the nightstand—a cheap ballpoint, the kind she kept in the kitchen drawer for grocery lists—and uncapped it. "Hand me some paper. There's a notebook in the desk drawer."

Navira found it—a spiral-bound notebook, half-filled with herb notes and potion measurements. She tore out a clean page and handed it to Grams, who laid it flat on the grimoire's open page.

Grams began to write.

The pen scratched across the paper, slow and deliberate. Her handwriting was shakier than it used to be, the letters less certain, but the shape of them was still familiar. Navira watched her grandmother's hand move, watched the words form, and felt time stretching thin around them.

"This spell," Grams said without looking up, "requires blood sacrifice. Your blood. It binds the magic to you, makes it part of your bones." She paused, the pen hovering. "It's not a small thing. But it will protect you from what's coming."

Navira's throat tightened. "What's coming?"

Grams looked at her then, her eyes holding something ancient and knowing. "Medora. And whatever she's bringing with her." She set down the pen and pressed the paper into Navira's hand. "Keep this. Learn it. Use it when you have no other choice."

Navira folded the paper carefully, tucking it into the pocket of her costume. It felt heavier than it should have.

Grams leaned back against the pillows, her eyes drifting closed. "I'm tired, Navi. I think I'll rest now."

Navira's heart lurched. "Grams—"

"Not yet." Grams' eyes opened, a flicker of her old fire in them. "I still have a few hours. I can feel it. But I'd like to spend them quietly." She reached out and took Navira's hand, her grip weak but warm. "Stay with me?"

Navira nodded, not trusting her voice. She pulled the armchair closer to the bed, the one Nic had been sitting in, and settled into it, her hand still wrapped around Grams'. The grimoire lay open on the bed, its pages catching the lamplight, full of secrets that would never be finished.

The house hummed around them, distant and muffled. Footsteps overhead. The murmur of voices in the kitchen. The creak of floorboards as someone moved through the foyer. Navira heard them all, but they felt far away, like sounds from another world.

Grams' breathing slowed. Her chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was steady, then softer, then almost imperceptible. Her hand went slack in Navira's.

Navira didn't move. She sat there, holding her grandmother's hand, watching the rise and fall of her chest, counting each breath like a gift she was afraid to let go of. The minutes stretched into an hour. The lamplight flickered. The candle guttered and went out.

And then, just before dawn, Grams' breathing stopped.

It wasn't dramatic. There was no gasp, no shudder, no final word. Her chest simply rose one last time and didn't fall again. The silence that followed was absolute, a void where her heartbeat had been.

Navira waited. Three seconds. Five. Ten.

Grams' eyes remained closed, her face peaceful, her hand still warm in Navira's grip. She looked like she was sleeping. Like she would wake up any moment and say something sharp and loving, something that would make Navira laugh despite everything.

But she didn't wake.

Navira sat there, her hand wrapped around her grandmother's, the dawn light creeping through the curtains, and she didn't cry. She couldn't. The grief was too deep for tears, a hollow space that had opened in her chest and swallowed everything else.

She let go of Grams' hand. Gently. Reverently. She pressed a kiss to her grandmother's forehead, the skin cool and still, and she whispered the only words she had left.

"Thank you."

She stood. The grimoire was still open on the bed, the unfinished spell waiting. She closed it, the leather cover soft and worn beneath her fingers, and tucked it under her arm. The folded paper in her pocket pressed against her hip, a promise she hadn't made yet.

She walked to the door. Paused. Looked back.

Grams lay in the bed, silver hair spread across the pillow, her hands folded over her chest, her face at peace. She looked like she had simply decided it was time to go, and the world had agreed.

Navira stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

She felt the gaze before she heard the steps. Warm. Heavy. Waiting.

She didn't turn. Couldn't. Her hand was still on the doorknob, her forehead pressed against the wood, the grain imprinting against her skin like a map of everything she'd just lost. The hallway stretched behind her, long and dim, and somewhere in that silence, she knew he was standing there. Giving her space. Ready to catch her if she fell.

She pushed off the door. Her palm left a damp print on the wood. She didn't look back at the room. If she looked back, she'd see Grams' face, peaceful and still, and she'd break all over again.

The hallway swayed. She set her hand against the wall, felt the floral wallpaper cool and textured beneath her fingers, and walked. One step. Another. The stairs appeared at the end of the hall, the banister curving down into the foyer where the lights were still on, where voices murmured, where the rest of the world was waiting.

She reached the top of the stairs. Her hand found the railing. The wood was smooth, worn by decades of hands just like hers—gripping, steadying, holding on. She took the first step down. Her boots landed soft on the carpet runner. The second step. The third.

Halfway down, her vision blurred. She blinked, hard, and felt the tears slip free, tracking silent paths down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away. She couldn't spare the energy.

The bottom of the stairs. Foyer tiles under her feet. The grandfather clock ticking in the corner, steady and indifferent. She made it three steps into the open space before her legs buckled.

She went down hard, her knees cracking against the floor, the impact jarring up through her spine. Her hands shot out, catching the bottom stair, the railing, anything to keep her upright. She missed. Her palms hit the floor, and she hunched forward, her forehead nearly touching the cold wood, and the sob tore out of her.

It wasn't a sound she recognized. It was raw and animal, a wound given voice, dragged up from somewhere deeper than her chest. Her fingers curled against the floorboards, scraping, gripping, as if she could hold onto the world by her nails alone. Her shoulders shook. Her breath came in jagged, broken gasps that whistled through her teeth.

Her hands slid off the railing. They landed in her lap, limp and useless, and she sat there on her knees in the middle of the foyer, her body folding in on itself, the grief finally, fully, consuming her.

Footsteps. Fast. Pounding down the stairs.

Nash was a blur of white linen and brown pants as he tore past her, his boots loud on the floor, his voice cracking as he called out for Grams. She heard the guest room door slam open, heard his strangled breath, heard the silence that followed—the terrible, confirming silence—and then his grief joined hers, a low, broken sound from the room she'd just closed.

She couldn't go to him. She couldn't move. She stayed on the floor, her hands in her lap, her tears falling onto her costume, staining the red skirt darker where they landed.

"Navira. Navira!"

The voice was distant at first, then closer. Arms wrapped around her from both sides, pulling her up, holding her together. Nami's pink corset pressed against her cheek, the fabric soft and warm, the gold details cool against her skin. Nami's hand cradled the back of her head, her fingers threading through Navira's hair, her voice a low, steady murmur.

"I'm here. We're here. Let it out."

Sierra's arm locked around Navira's waist, her green costume rumpled from the night's chaos, her grip fierce and unyielding. "We've got you." Her voice was thick, rough with her own unshed tears. "We've got you, Nav."

Navira sobbed into Nami's shoulder, her hands gripping the back of Nami's corset, the fabric bunching under her fingers. She felt Sierra's forehead press against her temple, felt the slight tremble in Sierra's arms, the way she was holding on just as tightly as Navira was. They stayed like that, the three of them crumpled together on the foyer floor, a tangle of costumes and tears and grief too big for any of them to carry alone.

Somewhere behind her, she heard Kiaan's voice, low and quiet. "I'll check on Nash."

Footsteps. The creak of the guest room door. Muffled voices.

Navira didn't look up. She couldn't. She buried her face deeper into Nami's shoulder and let herself be held.

The tears came in waves. Each time she thought she was empty, another swell rose up and pulled her under. Nami held her through all of it, rocking slightly, her hand never stopping its slow rhythm against Navira's hair. Sierra's thumb traced circles on her arm, grounding, patient.

At some point, the front door opened. Cool night air swept in, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. Footsteps crossed the threshold, hesitated, then retreated. Someone was keeping watch. Giving them space.

Navira didn't know how long they stayed on the floor. Minutes. An hour. Time had lost all meaning. But eventually, the tears slowed. The sobs quieted into shuddering breaths. The hollow ache in her chest settled into something more constant, a low throb she knew would be there for a long time.

She pulled back, just enough to look at Nami. Nami's face was streaked with tears she hadn't bothered to wipe away, her amber eyes red-rimmed and swollen, but her smile was soft, steady, the same smile she'd given Navira that first morning at the Voss Estate.

"I'm sorry," Navira whispered. Her voice was wrecked, barely a rasp. "I got your costume wet."

Nami let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "I don't care about the costume." She cupped Navira's face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away the remaining tears. "I care about you."

Navira's chin trembled. "She's gone."

"I know." Nami's voice cracked, but she held steady. "I know."

Sierra shifted, pulling Navira closer, her arm still wrapped tight around her waist. "She went the way she wanted to go. On her terms. That's—" She swallowed hard. "That's a gift. Even if it doesn't feel like one right now."

Navira nodded. She knew that was true. She knew it would feel true eventually. But right now, all she felt was the absence, the sharp, jagged edge where her grandmother used to be.

She looked down at her hands. The costume was rumpled, stained, the brown lace of the corset smudged with dust and tears. The grimoire was still tucked under her arm—she didn't remember picking it up again, but it was there, solid and real. The folded paper in her pocket pressed against her hip.

She needed to stand. She needed to move. She didn't know how.

Nami seemed to understand. She shifted, rising to her feet, and held out her hand. "Come on. Let's get you off the floor."

Navira took her hand. Sierra rose beside her, gripping her other arm, and together they pulled her upright. Her legs were unsteady, hollow, but they held.

The foyer looked different now. The blood had been cleaned, the furniture righted, the shattered vase swept away. The house had been put back together while she sat with Grams, and she hadn't noticed. Somewhere, Reyen had done that. Or Nic. Or Kiaan. Someone had taken care of the mess so she didn't have to.

She looked toward the archway that led to the sitting room. Nic was there, sitting in the same chair he'd occupied during Grams' last hours, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. He didn't look up, but his shoulders shifted, a small acknowledgment that he knew she was there.

"He blames himself," Nami said quietly, following her gaze. "He's been sitting there since she stopped breathing. Won't move."

Navira's chest ached. "It wasn't his fault. He saved her life. She chose—" Her voice broke. She pressed her lips together, steadied herself. "She chose to let go."

Nami squeezed her hand. "He knows that. But he's been alive long enough to know that knowing something and feeling it are two different things."

Navira nodded. She understood that better than she wanted to.

She took a step toward the sitting room, then stopped. She didn't have the words for Nic. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe in a week. She turned toward the stairs instead, the grimoire heavy under her arm.

"I need to put this somewhere safe," she said.

"I'll come with you," Sierra said.

"No." Navira's voice was soft but firm. "I need—I need a minute. Alone."

Sierra hesitated, her dark eyes searching Navira's face. Then she nodded, stepping back. "I'll be right here if you need me."

Navira climbed the stairs. Each step took effort, her legs heavy, her body drained. The hallway at the top was quiet, the doors closed, the nightlight casting its small pool of amber. She walked to the guest room—her room, the one she'd slept in that first night—and pushed the door open.

The bed was made. The curtains were drawn. Her bag sat in the corner, still packed from the trip to Grams' cottage that now felt like a lifetime ago. She crossed to the small writing desk by the window and set the grimoire down, her hands lingering on the worn leather cover.

She didn't open it. She wasn't ready. But she let her fingers rest on the surface, feeling the ridges and cracks, the places where Grams' hands had rested a thousand times. The warmth of her grandmother's presence clung to the leather, faint and fading, and Navira held onto it for as long as she could.

A soft knock at the door.

She didn't turn. "Come in."

The door opened, and she felt him before she saw him—the familiar weight of his presence, the shift in the air. Reyen. He didn't speak. He crossed the room slowly, his footsteps quiet on the hardwood, and stopped a few feet behind her.

"I don't know what to say," he said, his voice low, rougher than usual. "I've lived two hundred and thirty-seven years, and I still don't know the right words for this."

Navira turned to face him. He was still in his pirate costume, the white shirt hanging open, his dark hair disheveled, shadows carved deep under his eyes. He looked exhausted, stripped of the easy charm he wore like armor. He looked real.

"There aren't right words," she said. "You just have to be here."

He held her gaze. Then he crossed the remaining distance between them, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing the tear tracks on her cheeks. He looked at her like she was something precious, something fragile he was afraid to break.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

She leaned into his touch, her eyes closing, her breath shuddering out of her. His skin was warm, his palms rough against her cheeks, and she let herself be held by the warmth of him.

When she opened her eyes, his were still on her. Dark. Steady. Full of something she wasn't ready to name.

"I should sleep," she said. "But I don't think I can."

"Then don't sleep." His hands slid from her face to her shoulders, down her arms, until his fingers laced with hers. "I'll stay up with you."

She looked down at their joined hands. His fingers were warm around hers, grounding, present. She held on.

"Will you stay?" she asked. The words came out smaller than she meant.

"Always."

She led him to the bed, and they sat on the edge of it, side by side, their shoulders touching, their hands still intertwined. The grimoire sat on the desk, waiting. The spell in her pocket pressed against her hip, a promise she would keep.

But not tonight. Tonight, she let herself grieve.

She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he pressed a kiss to her hair, light and reverent. The lamp on the nightstand cast a soft glow across the room, catching the dust motes floating in the air, turning them into something almost beautiful.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window pane. Somewhere in the dark, Medora was still out there. The Halloween party was in two nights. The threat was still alive, sharp and waiting.

But none of that mattered right now.

Right now, there was only this room. This quiet. The warmth of his hand in hers. The slow, steady rhythm of his breathing beside her.

She closed her eyes.

He stayed.