Chapter 7 Kaia
Kaia
“Hi, Evie.”
Evie doesn’t answer.
At first I think she’s frozen.
She’s still under the table, half-crouched in the wreckage, and her expression is pure disbelief, like her brain is trying to reject what her eyes are reporting.
And underneath it… something that looks a lot like revulsion.
Like I’m the nightmare that followed the demon in…
My stomach drops.
Her hair is a mess, her apron twisted, and there’s a dark smear under her eye that might be mascara—please let it be mascara.
Her eyes lock on mine.
She looks exactly like my memory and nothing like it. Older, obviously, grown into herself in a way that makes my chest ache. Her face has sharper lines now, less soft teenage roundness, and there’s a steadiness to her that wasn’t there at sixteen, a hardness earned.
She takes one look at me—at the blade, the costume, the glitter, the light still humming around my wrist—and her mouth twists again.
“What the hell?” she snaps.
For a second, I don’t know what to do with my hands.
Aurora is still half-present as light curled around my wrist, ready to be summoned again quickly. I’m still in stage makeup. I’m in costume.
I take a step forward anyway, because my body runs on instinct and instinct says get closer, check her, make sure she’s real.
“Evie—” I start.
I hold out my hand, palm up… an offer, a question, a stupid reflex.
Evie scoffs like my hand is an insult.
She ignores it and scrambles out from under the table on her own, movement sharp and angry. She stands too fast, swaying for a half second.
“Don’t touch me,” she says.
My throat pinches.
I deserve that. I deserve worse.
So, I withdraw my hand.
“I won’t. I’m—” I start, then stop, the apology sticking in my throat. I swallow it and ask the only thing that matters. “Are you hurt?”
Evie laughs once. The sound is sharp, humorless. “No.”
But then her hand flies to her throat anyway, fingers pressing like she’s checking that it still belongs to her.
My chest goes tight.
I want to touch her. I want to check the skin, make sure there’s no bruising, make sure she really isn’t hurt... I want to make sure my world didn’t leave marks on her.
I don’t.
I keep my hands to myself because she told me not to touch her.
Evie’s eyes meet mine again, blazing. “You’re not real,” she says, like she’s trying to make it true. "This isn't real."
I hold still, breathing hard, forcing my face into neutral. "I promise it is."
Behind her, the TV is nothing but gray static. The jukebox is dark again, but the air still tastes wrong, like ozone and old pennies. Broken glass crunches under my boot when I shift my weight.
Evie’s gaze flicks down—Aurora’s light, my half-summon—and back up to my face with fresh disgust.
“What is that?” she says.
“It’s—” I swallow. “It’s done.”
I let the breath out and release Aurora. The prismatic light unwinds from my wrist like a ribbon cut loose, dissolving into nothing but a faint afterimage that fades fast.
“That wasn’t my question.”
I take a slow breath, the kind Blaire drilled into me for interviews. “A weapon. Mine.”
Evie’s eyes narrow. “A real weapon?” Her voice spikes. “I thought those were… props. For the shows. For the stupid sword choreography.”
Her gaze snaps to the shattered glass, the overturned stools, the dead TV spitting static. “And what was that—thing? What attacked me?”
My stomach turns. There’s no gentle way to hand someone the truth.
“A demon,” I say simply.
Evie goes still like the word hit her in the sternum.
Then her face tightens, anger rushing in to cover the fear. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” I say.
I set my jaw. I don’t move closer. Her whole body is saying do not touch me.
“Evie,” I say carefully, “there might be more. I can explain more, but for your safety—”
“Oh my god,” she snaps, voice climbing. “You’re still as bossy as ever. Don’t you walk in here after—after years and start giving me instructions like you’re—like you’re still—”
Her voice breaks on something she refuses to finish. My breath catches.
“Okay,” I say softly. “No instructions.”
It isn’t fair—bossy was never the word for me. Evie was the one who was bossy. Who told me to breathe, and eat, and to keep singing even if I was scared. I was the one who followed her light.
But this isn’t the moment to argue semantics.
She stares at me, breathing hard, eyes bright with adrenaline and fury. She’s still shaking. Not dramatic shaking—her hands tremble just slightly, like the aftershock of a near car crash.
My instincts scream to reach for her, to steady her.
My instincts are useless. Her glare would burn my hand off.
So I do the only other thing I know how to do.
I put myself between her and the doors.
I turn my head slowly, scanning the windows, the reflections, the corners where sound can hide. My skin still remembers the pressure of the splinter trying to crawl into her throat. The diner is quiet now.
Evie follows my gaze. “What, are you expecting round two?”
“Maybe,” I say honestly.
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her anger flickers into something else for a heartbeat. Fear, maybe, or the raw memory of being pinned to the floor by invisible weight.
And the worst part is, I can’t lie to her about it.
I didn’t kill it.
Not really.
I drove it off. I severed its grip long enough for the room to breathe again, blasted it into static and silence, but a splinter like that doesn’t always die clean. It slips. It hides. It looks for another seam.
It could come back.
I press my tongue to my teeth, swallow down everything that wants to spill out, and turn it into something usable.
“I need to call this in,” I say.
Evie’s eyes sharpen. “To who?"
“To—” I hesitate, because the truth is ugly. “To Eon. And the Council.”
My fingers twitch toward my ear out of habit, and I remember—too late—that my in-ear went dead the second I cleared the ward perimeter. Once I was out of range, the comms cut like a severed thread. No Blaire in my head. No calm voice telling me what to do next. Just the empty hiss of nothing.
“Ah,” she says, and the sarcasm returns like armor. “Your people.”
“My people,” I repeat, quietly.
She gestures at the wrecked booth, the shattered cups, the smear of coffee across tile. “Tell them to bring a mop.”
Something in my chest almost loosens because that’s Evie. Sarcastic and kind of huffy. It’s so familiar… I almost smile.
It would be easier if I could smile.
“My comms are dead in here,” I say. “Out of range. Can I use your phone?”
Evie stares at me like I’ve asked to borrow her spine.
Then she jerks her chin toward the counter. “Diner phone. If it’s still alive.”
Miraculously, it is.
The cord is twisted, the receiver slightly off-hook, but the dial tone is steady, like this place refuses to stop functioning out of spite.
I grab it and punch in the number from memory. Blaire’s direct line. The one I’m not supposed to need unless something is on fire.
It rings once.
Twice.
Then—
“Kaia?” Blaire’s voice snaps in, sharp with contained fury. “Where are you? You ran—”
“I’m at the Lighthouse Diner,” I cut in. “A splinter of the Chorus made contact with—a civilian. It’s neutralized, but we need a cleanup crew. Now.”
There’s a silence so sharp I can hear her inhale.
“Kaia,” Blaire says, voice suddenly all ice. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“And the civilian?”
I glance at Evie. She’s watching me like she might throw something.
“Fine,” I say.
Blaire’s answer is immediate. “Stay put. Don’t leave the site, and don’t let anyone touch anything. Cohen is already mobilizing. Council’s en route.”
“Understood.”
I slowly hang up.
Evie’s jaw clenches. “Jesus.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Are your people at least going to fix this? Because Gus will literally kill me if he walks in tomorrow and sees his diner looks like it got robbed by a tornado.”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “They’ll clean it. It’ll look exactly as it was before.” My gaze sweeps the broken glass and overturned stools, cataloging the damage.
Evie’s mouth twists. “Great. So I get a magical assault and a corporate cleaning service. What a night.”
She’s taking it in stride. Or she’s pretending she is. Or shock is holding her upright like a splint.
Evie has always been like that though: adaptable in the way people get when they’ve had to be. When the world keeps changing the rules and you learn to keep moving anyway.
I should be relieved she isn’t screaming.
I am, a little.
But the relief curdles fast, because underneath it is the truth I don’t say out loud:
It came here because of me.
Because the Chorus—whatever it is, however it listens—caught my thoughts running ten blocks ahead. Felt the pull in my chest. Noticed the shape of my attachment like blood in water…
Evie in my mind’s eye.
Evie as a weakness I’ve tried to pretend isn’t one.
And then it followed that thread straight to her throat.
My stomach twists hard.
I keep my face neutral anyway, because if I let the guilt show, it becomes real in a way Evie can see.
We stand in the wreckage, ten feet apart, but separated by more than distance.
The neon sign buzzes in the front window like it’s laughing at both of us.
Outside, the town is still awake, still drunk on the concert.
I can hear it faintly—shouts, laughter, distant honking, the lingering bass pulse from the arena.
Evie moves behind the counter, side-stepping glass, to pick a shattered tip jar from the debris with hands that are still shaking.
“What are you doing?” I ask because I can’t help it.
“Closing,” she snaps, not looking up. “Because I have a job. Because I live in reality.”
I absorb it. “Okay.”
She stacks the bills with aggressive precision. “Also,” she adds, voice tight, “because I’m not leaving my tips on the ground for your—your demon friends.”
“They’re not—Never mind.” I swallow. “Evie… you should sit down.”
She shoots me an incredulous look. “Why? I’m fine. And what did we say about instructions?”