Actions Have Consequences
Ididn’t sleep last night. I tried. I went to bed at a reasonable hour, like a person who has their life together and definitely does not have a furious shadow king trapped in their living room.
I lay there staring at the ceiling while blue light seeped under my bedroom door and the temperature in the flat dropped to somewhere around arctic.
Every so often there was a sound. A scrape. A thud. Once, something that might have been a growl, or might have been the building settling, or might have been my imminent death approaching.
I did not sleep.
Now it’s six in the morning, and I’m standing in my living room doorway with a cup of tea, staring at the summoning circle.
The eyes are still there. Burning blue in the darkness. The shadows around them have become thicker overnight, more solid, like Dis is slowly pulling himself into a more tangible form despite his clear desire to sulk.
He’s been testing the circle. I can see the scorch marks on the floorboards where he’s pushed against the boundaries. The runes are holding. Barely.
“Good morning, Disney,” I say.
The eyes narrow. “There is nothing good about this morning, Little Witch.”
His voice sounds rougher than it did last night. Like he’s been shouting. Or screaming. Or doing whatever shadow beings do when they’re trapped and furious about it.
“Sleep well?” I ask.
“I do not sleep.”
“Right. Of course you don’t.” I take a sip of tea. It’s too hot and tastes like spite. Perfect. “Well, I’m going to work now. Try not to destroy my flat while I’m gone.”
“Release me.”
“No.”
“Release me or I will tear this pathetic binding apart and make you regret every decision that led to this moment.”
I look at the scorch marks on the floor. At the way the shadows keep trying to push past the runes and failing. At those burning blue eyes that are glaring at me with enough intensity to melt steel.
“The binding will hold,” I say, with far more confidence than I feel.
“Will it.”
It’s not a question. It’s a threat.
I drain my tea and try not to think about what happens if he’s right. “Enjoy your day. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
I leave before he can respond. I can feel those eyes on my back all the way to the door.
The coffee shop is blissfully normal. The espresso machine is exactly where I left it. The pastries are delivered on time. Everything is ordinary and calm and definitely not involving ancient shadow magic.
I’m setting up the counter when Brian arrives.
He explodes through the door like a small, enthusiastic bomb, all big smiles and golden retriever energy, despite the fact that it’s barely seven in the morning.
“Good morning!” he announces, loud enough to wake the dead or possibly summon them. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
I look out the window. It’s grey and drizzling. Classic Bristol weather.
“It’s raining,” I say.
“Exactly! The earth is being nourished! High Priestess Magdalene always said rain was a blessing from the goddess.”
“High Priestess Magdalene sounds exhausting.”
“Oh, massively.” Brian grabs an apron and ties it on with disturbing efficiency. “She once made us stand in a thunderstorm for six hours to ‘receive the wisdom of the tempest.’ Brian Two got struck by lightning. He said it was very enlightening.”
I stare at him. “That’s not what enlightening means.”
“That’s what I said! But apparently I was missing the spiritual significance.” He starts checking the milk levels with the same delight most people reserve for Christmas morning. “So, what’s the plan for today? Any exciting coffee-based adventures?”
From upstairs, there’s a loud thud.
I freeze. Brian looks up at the ceiling.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“It sounded like something fell.”
“Old building. Things settle.”
Another thud. Louder this time. Something scrapes across the floor with a sound like nails on a chalkboard.
Brian’s eyes widen. “Are you sure everything’s okay up there?”
“Completely fine.”
“It sounds like someone’s moving furniture.”
“I’m rearranging.”
“At seven in the morning?”
“I’m an early riser.”
This is technically true. It’s just not the reason there are noises coming from my flat.
Brian blinks for several seconds. “But you’re here, standing in front of me. How are you rearranging furniture upstairs?”
“I am a witch,” I scowl. “This.” I gesture at my black on black outfit. “Is not merely an aesthetic.”
“Oh right! Of course.” Brian nods happily as if my answer explains everything.
I shake my head and thank my lucky stars that Brian is not the brightest. At least something is working out in my favour.
The espresso machine hisses. I focus on it with the intensity of someone absolutely not thinking about what an angry shadow being might be doing to their living room.
The morning rush starts. Customers filter in with their usual orders and their usual complaints about the weather. I make lattes. Brian charms everyone with his cult-survivor sunshine energy. Everything is perfectly normal.
Then there’s a crash from upstairs.
A proper crash. The kind of crash that sounds like something expensive just became something broken.
Every customer in the shop looks up at the ceiling.
“What,” says a woman in a business suit, “was that?”
“Plumbing,” I say immediately.
Brian looks at me. “I don’t think plumbing makes that sound.”
“Old pipes. Very temperamental.”
Another crash. This one sounds like it might be my homemade bookshelf. Or possibly my entire bedroom wall.
“Those are some aggressive pipes,” says the business woman.
“You have no idea,” I mutter.
I make her flat white with shaking hands. She takes it and sits down at a table, but she keeps glancing at the ceiling with an expression that suggests she’s reconsidering her choice of coffee shop.
Brian leans over and whispers, “Felix, seriously, is someone up there? Not just magically rearranging furniture?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Because it really sounds like someone is up there. Someone who is very angry about something.”
He has no idea how accurate that is.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Everything is fine.”
From upstairs, there’s a sound like tearing fabric. Then a bang. Then what might be a roar or might be my imagination but is probably a roar.
Three customers stand up and head for the door. I don’t blame them.
Brian is staring at the ceiling with the expression of someone trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle. “Felix, I really think we should check on whatever is happening up there.”
“We absolutely should not.”
“What if it’s a burglar?”
“It’s not a burglar.”
“What if it’s a ghost?”
I nearly laugh. If only it were that simple. “It’s not a ghost.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s complicated.”
Another bang. This one makes the lights flicker.
The remaining customers exchange glances. One of them starts putting on their coat.
“Felix,” Brian says, with the kind of patience that suggests he’s dealt with much stranger situations than this and is willing to wait me out. “What is going on?”
I open my mouth to give him another excuse. Something about construction work, or a very large angry cat, or possibly poltergeists.
Then there’s a sound from upstairs that I can only describe as reality tearing.
It’s not loud. It’s worse than loud. It’s the kind of sound that makes your teeth ache and your skin prickle and your brain insist that something is very, very wrong with the fundamental nature of existence.
Every light in the coffee shop flickers. The espresso machine makes a sound like it’s dying. The temperature drops ten degrees in as many seconds.
The last three customers abandon their coffees and flee.
Brian and I are alone in the shop.
He looks at me. I look at him.
“So,” he says, with the calm of someone who grew up in a doomsday cult and has seen some shit. “Are you going to tell me what you’ve got trapped up there, or am I going to have to guess?”
My hands are gripping the counter so hard my knuckles are white. The sound upstairs has stopped, but the wrongness in the air hasn’t. I can feel it pressing down on the coffee shop like a weight.
I should lie. I should make up something convincing and send Brian home and deal with this myself.
But I’m so tired. And scared. And desperately out of my depth. And I can’t tell Adam because he’ll tell Hex, and the shadow prince will definitely get involved. And then my coven will find out and that won’t be good because I’m fairly certain I’ve broken about a billion rules.
I let out a heavy sigh. It would be nice to tell someone. I’m so weary of facing everything alone.
“If I tell you,” I say quietly, “you have to promise not to tell a soul.”
Brian’s expression goes serious in a way I didn’t think he was capable of. “I promise.”
I take a breath. Then another.
“I’ve bound a shadow being,” I say. “He’s trapped in my flat. And he’s trying to break free.”
Brian blinks at me. Once. Twice.
Then he grins. That enormous, face-splitting grin that I’m starting to recognise as his response to literally everything.
“Oh wow,” he says. “That’s so much cooler than a ghost.”
From upstairs, there’s another tearing sound. The lights flicker again. Frost starts forming on the windows.
“Cool is not the word I would use,” I say.
“Can I meet him?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s ancient and dangerous and currently trying to escape so he can kill me.”
“That does sound tricky,” Brian agrees. He’s still grinning. “Want some help?”
I stare at him. This cheerful, cult-raised law student who makes perfect flat whites and has absolutely no sense of self-preservation.
“You have no idea what you’re offering.”
“Probably not,” he says. “But you look like you could use a friend right now. And I’m very good at dealing with volatile authority figures. High Priestess Magdalene threw a lot of tantrums.”
Despite everything, despite the terror and exhaustion and the sound of the former king of the Shadow Realm destroying my flat, I feel something in my chest loosen slightly.
“He’s not throwing a tantrum,” I say. “He’s attempting to tear through the fabric of reality.”
“Potato, potato.” Brian unties his apron. “Come on. Let’s go see how bad it is.”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Most of my ideas are terrible. That’s never stopped me before.”
He heads for the door that leads upstairs. I follow him because apparently I make terrible decisions too, and at this point I might as well commit to the theme.
We climb the stairs. The temperature drops with every step. By the time we reach my door, I can see my breath misting in the air.
I unlock it. Push it open.
The living room is a disaster. The few books I’ve managed to scavenge from charity shops since I was forced to start all over again, are scattered everywhere. My sparse, cheap furniture is pushed against the walls. The summoning circle is glowing so bright it hurts to look at.
And in the centre of it, the shadows have grown thicker. Darker. More solid.
The blue eyes turn toward us.
“Oh,” says Brian, very quietly. “Those are some really intense eyes.”
“Little witch,” says Dis. His voice is colder than the air, sharper than the ice forming on my windows. “It is time to discuss the terms of my release.”
“No,” I say.
“I wasn’t asking.”
The shadows pulse. The runes flare brighter. The binding holds, but I can see the strain on it now, the way the magic is starting to fray at the edges. All the fail-safes I wove into my spell casting don’t appear to be working, at least not in the way I thought they would.
He’s going to break through.
Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon.
And I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do when he does.