Chapter 14
Nia
“A PRINCE HALF ROYAL REG: WHAT THIS MATCH MEANS FOR THE SUPERNATURAL COMMUNITY.” —THE WEEKLY HEX
Wulfric’s manor loomed dark and foreboding against the dimming sky, its black walls and spires casting long, jagged shadows over the surrounding grounds.
Gargoyles perched on every corner, their stony eyes tracking Nia and Lochlan’s every move.
As they climbed the staircase, one gargoyle’s head gave a stiff swivel before bowing slightly.
Nia lifted a hand in a casual wave. “Hi, Larry.”
Beside her, Lochlan made a sound somewhere between amusement and irritation. “You would charm a statue.”
She shrugged, suppressing a smile. “Larry and I go way back.”
“Should I be jealous?” Lochlan asked.
Nia smirked. “Depends. He’s very reliable. Always watched out for me.”
Lochlan eyed the gargoyle as if Larry had become competition.
The manor’s massive purple doors groaned open, revealing an expressionless butler Nia had never seen before, who stared at them for an uncomfortably long time before turning wordlessly and striding into the house.
“I guess we follow him?” Lochlan murmured, warily.
“I guess so.”
Before they crossed the threshold, Lochlan slipped his fingers between hers, the sensation jarring and unfamiliar.
Holding hands. They were holding hands. She’d done this as a child, but not since, and never like this.
She told herself it was just the effect the house had on them both—the way it swallowed light, how the air felt thick with ghosts of the past. The connection was practical, grounding, and nothing more.
The manor’s interior was a labyrinth of dark and opulent furniture, shadowy corners, and an atmosphere that seemed to breathe. Each step echoed ominously.
Looking at it now, she couldn’t understand how she’d once thought this place was magical. The memory of her childhood wonder felt distant and distorted; the warmth she’d once believed in had never been real, only a carefully constructed illusion.
She had been hidden here, a secret tucked away, told it was for her own protection. Bad people don’t like the choices I’ve made, her father had said. That’s why your mother died.
She had believed him.
Until she turned eighteen and found the diary, tucked between forgotten tomes in the library.
The delicate scrawl, the ink smudged in places from tears.
The horror in those last pages. Her mother had been forced to marry Wulfric.
His family had been cruel. She had wanted to escape, but never had the chance.
Nia had confronted him.
It was my fault, he’d admitted. I couldn’t keep her safe.
She had walked away then. Dropped her full name. Enrolled in college under a new one. Found work at a sandwich shop, and built a life of her own. Now, after all these years, she was back because her father was once again trying to take what wasn’t his—only this time, it was her freedom on the line.
They followed Wulfric’s butler in silence, his stiff movements giving no indication of where they were going or what awaited them. Lochlan held Nia’s hand until they reached the attic door. There, with quiet reluctance, she let go.
The door creaked open and they entered the shadowy expanse illuminated here and there by the warm orange glow of the setting sun streaming through grimy windows.
The beams hanging over the large room were covered in cobwebs, and the walls were lined with shelves sagging under the weight of old tomes, dusty scrolls, and jars filled with mysterious substances that shimmered softly in the dim light.
Amid the curious and eerie items stood one pristine shelf. Not a speck of dust could be found on the wood, or the three stuffed animals sitting in a neat row. Their shiny button eyes gazed innocently but intently, as if guarding the secrets of the attic.
“Are those yours?” Lochlan asked, pointing toward the rat, dog, and an orange cat plushie on the shelf next to the thirteen books on necromancy.
“No.”
They were her father’s.
He stood in the center of the room, glowing lines tracing intricate patterns on the floor, all leading to the large ornate altar where he worked. Chopped herbs and other ingredients lay scattered across its surface, evidence of his preparation.
“My lovely daughter and son-in-law,” Wulfric said, eyeing them over the rim of his half-moon glasses.
Nia rolled her eyes. “Let’s just get on with it.”
They stepped up to the altar, and she scanned the ingredients neatly ordered in a row.
Mugwort—to open the mind. Bleeding Heart—for love. Peppermint—for pure thoughts. And… Honeysuckle?
She frowned, glancing at her father. “Honeysuckle?”
“To sweeten the spell,” he replied smoothly.
Nia made a vague sound of acknowledgment, already moving on. The mugwort gave her pause. Magic came from the witch, but herbs and crystals helped steer it. And mugwort—that could cloud your judgment. Exactly what Wulfric would be hoping for.
Verbena, lemongrass, rose petals, and there: aspen.
“Lochlan is curious about your collection on necromancy,” she said nonchalantly.
He gave her a curious look but recovered quickly. “Yes, I haven’t seen such an extensive collection.”
Wulfric took the bait immediately, launching into a detailed account of how he had acquired all thirteen volumes.
As he spoke, absorbed in his own self-importance, Nia made her move.
With practiced ease, she dumped the mugwort beneath the altar and replaced it with an equal amount of aspen in the gold dish.
Cleaner. Safer. Less likely to mess with their heads.
Satisfied, she turned her attention to the spell her father had been preparing. She skimmed the words and scoffed.
Lochlan turned, abandoning his conversation with Wulfric to join her.
Behind them, several thick tomes slipped from a shelf and hit the floor with a dull thud. Wulfric cursed softly and moved to retrieve them, grumbling about “poorly enchanted bindings” as he began to rearrange the stack.
“‘Open the mind to seal your fate. Promises to keep and love to wake,’” she read, her tone dry.
This wasn’t a promise spell—it was a love spell.
Lochlan leaned in, his warmth pressing against her back.
She let herself sink into him for the briefest moment, the solid presence of him an unexpected comfort.
But then reality pulled her upright again.
With a promise spell looming, and her father’s doubts hanging over them, she couldn’t afford to let herself get caught in something she might not be able to escape.
She steeled herself and shifted away.
“‘Fate’ and ‘wake’ don’t even rhyme,” Lochlan muttered behind her, voice laced with quiet skepticism.
Rhyme and rhythm matters, she thought, grabbing the ink pot and quill. Sloppy words make sloppy spells. Everyone knows that.
She cast Lochlan a sideways glance, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself.
“What if it starts with ‘Light to flame’?” Lochlan suggested, his voice thoughtful. “We could each light a candle during the spell.”
She glanced up, considering. “Yes. Light to flame, seals the… bargain? Pact?”
“Deal.” Lochlan tapped the table. “Light to flame, seals the deal.”
Her lips twitched. “I’ll allow it.”
“What about ‘Bound by truth’… no, that’s not it,” he mused.
“No, it’s perfect,” she said, already writing. Bound by truth, our hearts reveal. “Because we’re proving what’s in our hearts.”
Lochlan hesitated, then nodded. “What’s next?”
She tapped the quill against her lip. “Right are our actions—”
“And we win this fight?” Lochlan finished.
Nia tilted her head. “I was going to say something about honor, but I think I like yours better.”
Lochlan’s grin was small but proud, and she couldn’t help returning it.
“And since we started with light, let’s finish with it,” she added, scribbling the last line. “The moon will be close to full on Samhain, so how about… ‘Prove our fate under the moon’s light.’”
“Well, well, well,” Wulfric drawled, making them both jump. Nia had completely forgotten he was still in the room. “I’m glad to see you two working so well together.”
“It’s just a simple spell,” Nia replied, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue as she said them. Diminishing the moment they’d just shared felt like swallowing coffin nails.
Lochlan cleared his throat and stepped back, busying himself with the candles.
Nia turned away, grabbing the mortar and pestle and adding the first herb—her swapped aspen.
She had never created or worked on a spell with anyone before.
She’d have expected it to be tedious, frustrating—a chore to tolerate.
But instead, it felt like breathing fresh air, like fun. It shouldn’t have been fun.
Not with the husband she was trying to leave.
Grinding the herb into fine pieces, she forced her thoughts elsewhere as the rhythmic motion of the pestle anchored her. She didn’t want to be married. Her grip tightened as her thoughts drifted to her mother—the woman with whom she shared the same magic.
The woman who had died after giving birth to her.
Whether it had been an accident or something more sinister, like her father claimed, Nia didn’t know.
That was the reason he’d kept her hidden for so long. Or, at least, that was what he had wanted her to believe, whispering stories of unseen enemies, of the dangers lurking beyond their walls. But a part of her had always wondered: was it truly about keeping her safe?
Or had it been about keeping her under control? She remembered a passage from her mother’s journal.
I must escape before they take me—before they claim my power and add it to their own. The Cabots have always coveted the magic in my blood. They want to control it. Shape it. Breed my magic into their bloodline so its power will pass to their heirs.
But I have no one to turn to, no one willing to help me flee. My grandfather won’t protect me.
He has sold me to save himself.
Her mother hadn’t escaped. And Nia couldn’t fathom the fear and loneliness she must have felt in the days leading up to her death. Reading those words had changed everything. She had sworn she would never end up like her mother—never marry, never let anyone dictate her fate.
Nia added the second ingredient, bleeding heart, grinding it with the aspen, its petals stretching and tearing against the rougher herb.
Then came the peppermint—for pure thoughts, for promises.
She had made so many promises—to herself, to her mother’s memory.
Vows to be stronger, to undo the damage of the past. Yet, here she was, bound to a man she barely knew.
But not for long.
Finally, she added the honeysuckle. The sweet scent curled around her, tugging her back to that morning in the field—waking up beside him. A man nothing like what she’d feared. Lochlan was kind, gentle, attentive.
But promises were still promises.
And she wouldn’t break them, not even for him.
She thought about her freedom as she weaved a never-ending symbol around the candles with the crushed herbs, but the freedom she had always been so desperate for didn’t taste sweet. The idea of being alone became more bitter with each moment she spent with Lochlan.
As she finished her work and gazed back at him, the low light cast shadows across his features, highlighting the gentle furrow of his brow and quiet concern etched in his face.
He was worried about her.
Nia felt a pang of guilt. She’d been so focused on her own internal struggle that she hadn’t considered how all of this might affect him.
Shame washed over her. He was a stranger, yes, but he was kind and cared for her in a way she hadn’t anticipated.
She realized she hadn’t treated him the same way.
“Step into the circle,” Wulfric said from the altar. Lochlan and Nia complied, each taking a spot near him. “Are you both ready?”
They each nodded as Lochlan’s fingers brushed her knuckles. It brought her a small comfort amidst the dark attic and the presence of the man she despised above all else. Her father began speaking the words of the spell. With the first line, one candle lit on its own.
“Light to flame seals the deal.
Bound by truth, our hearts reveal.
Right are our actions, and we win this fight.
Prove our fate under the moon’s light.”
The air shimmered with magic, the lines on the floor pulsing in rhythm with Wulfric’s words. Lochlan began speaking the spell and the second candle lit. With each word, the power of the spell weighed more heavily on Nia’s shoulders. When he finished, she grabbed his hand, anchoring herself to him.
“Light to flame…” she hesitated, and he squeezed her hand in encouragement. “…seals the deal.” The last candle lit. “Bound by truth, our hearts reveal. Right are our actions, and we win this fight. Prove our fate under the moon’s light.”
The intricate designs on the floor pulsed brightly before dimming to a soft glow.
“By these flames, your bond is forged. May your actions prove your worth, and your fates be sealed under the moon’s watchful gaze,” her father said.
It felt like a curse. This wasn’t part of the spell, or their agreement. Fury flushed over Nia as she opened her mouth to spit an insult at him, but before she could—
“Now, who wants burgers?”