Chapter 7
Nicole
If I continue with life as usual, the Black Joker will vanish.
That was the theory I’d decided to stick to this morning. It has now fallen apart like a poorly built house.
I bolt upstairs to my room, my mother’s irritated shouting fading into the space behind me. My hands are stiff as I slam the door shut. The scent—his scent, no longer just lingering in the air—has soaked into my skin, my throat, and my very bones.
My heart pounds in my ears, each beat echoing like footsteps behind the closed door.
I lean back against it, eyes darting around the room.
This is my own space, supposed to be my sanctuary.
But now, the shadows seem darker than usual.
The curtains shake. Or am I just imagining it?
Maybe he’s behind them. Or in the wardrobe. Or…
A cold wave spreads through my stomach. For a moment, I’m that girl again.
She’s standing alone in the dark hallway, too afraid to step out into the schoolyard, expecting either mockery or a physical blow.
She knows they wouldn’t dare attack her inside the school—that they’ll likely wait until after class to follow her on her way home.
Yet, her heart is clenched, and there’s no one to whisper that it was an isolated incident, that they probably won’t strike with anything more than hollow insults.
Daria is sick at home again. But even if she were here, Daria doesn’t understand that it’s not the fear of physical pain that paralyzes her.
It’s the fear of blows to her dignity. Because the situation has reduced her to a victim, and deep down, she knows she’s a lioness.
If I could go back, I’d tell that little girl to stand her ground and fight with claws out and teeth bared. A lioness doesn’t retreat. Even when she’s outnumbered.
But I can’t change the past. I can only act in the present moment.
With hesitant steps, I move deeper into the room. “Show yourself.” My voice doesn’t tremble, but it’s softer than it should be. Almost a plea. So I swallow down the fear and grit out, “Don’t hide like some scared little ghost!”
In an instant, the air thickens with a dark, electric friction that makes my skin prickle.
I swivel on my heel and see his shadowed figure leaning against the door.
The space around him shimmers and distorts.
Darkness recedes, unveiling his sharp features carved with icy precision, radiating both arrogance and threat.
My heart leaps into my throat.
“To avoid confusion about our contract, let’s get one thing clear—I’m not a ghost. I’m a witcher.” The low vibrations of his words resonate through my core.
A witcher. The Black Joker.
So, I didn’t dream last night after all.
Channeling a shred of fake confidence, I step toward him. “What’s this contract you keep going on about?”
He arches an eyebrow in a gesture of disdain. “The one you and I signed, Baroness.”
The contempt in his voice when he says the nickname doesn’t escape me. Rather than disturbing me, it’s like a slap, jolting me out of my startled, rabbit-like daze. I’ve spent years earning the title my father gave me, and I’ve learned not to flinch in the face of trouble, but to crush it.
“I demand to read it.”
The corners of his lips twitch into a smile, though his expression remains ice cold. “Very well.”
He waves a hand through the air and, defying the laws of reality, that same scroll appears before me. The old parchment unfurls slowly. Golden ink spells out handwritten letters across it, flickering between hues of silver and deep purple—like magic.
Because it is magic.
I ignore the fresh spike in my pulse and focus on the words.
CONTRACT FOR THE FULFILLMENT OF A WISH IN EXCHANGE FOR THREE TRIALS
By this act, concluded beyond the bounds of written time and sealed under the authority of the Higher Powers, I, Gaetano Neri (hereinafter “the Summoned”), agree to render my services to Nicole Vrancheva (hereinafter “the Summoner”), on the condition that such services shall commence upon the Summoner’s twenty-first birthday, wherein the contract is activated.
The Summoner acknowledges and accepts the following:
1. Every act arising from this contract occurs by their own will, regardless of any ambiguity in its consequences.
2. No force, magical or otherwise, may annul this contract once sealed with the Summoner’s personal sigil.
3. The stake is the Summoner’s freedom, including their soul.
The Summoned agrees to:
1. Present three trials to the Summoner, at his sole discretion, while guaranteeing their physical safety throughout the process.
2. Grant the Summoner a reasonable period to complete the trials, which shall not exceed three weeks from the moment the contract is activated.
3. Upon successful completion of all three trials, grant the Summoner a single wish—whether strength, knowledge, or another resource in alignment with the Summoner’s desires, within the bounds permitted by the Higher Powers.
This contract remains in effect until the stated condition is fulfilled or the Summoner fails, whichever occurs first. Should the contract’s time limit expire before either outcome is achieved, it shall be deemed a failure on the part of the Summoner.
Any breach of this contract by either party shall result in immediate and unconditional banishment to Hell for an unspecified duration, enforceable upon both parties.
The Summoned bears no responsibility for any emotional or psychological damage incurred by the Summoner.
Summoner: Summoned:
Beneath the final lines of the contract, reddish stains mark the parchment. On closer inspection, they resemble drops of blood that have seeped into the very threads of the document.
I read and reread the words, while the fabric flutters like a bird hovering in place. “I never signed this!”
“On the contrary.” The Black Joker’s motionless figure reminds me of a dark statue by the door.
He pushes away from it and strides over to me.
That bittersweet scent becomes overpowering as he stops beside the parchment and gestures to the red blotch beneath the word Summoner.
“This is your blooр, offered freely and with full awareness.”
Up close, his skin is pale and smooth like marble, with features unnaturally symmetrical and sharp. I try not to stare or think about the uncomfortable closeness of… a witcher.
“I didn’t sign anything. I pricked my finger because I believed I was summoning some joker to grant a wish. Without the part about three trials.”
The witcher smirks, and the parchment crumbles, dissolving into fine gray wisps. “Ignorance of the rules doesn’t free you from them,” he says, his tone cool, on the edge of boredom.
I square my shoulders. “Why are you after me, when it was both me and Daria? And actually… that’s her blood, not mine.”
He laughs. “Nice try. You both signed the contract. And don’t worry, she’s next.”
Next? I haven’t seen Daria in years and have no desire to. Still, I’m not sure I’m indifferent to her being dragged into this, too.
“But we were just children,” I whisper.
“Old enough to chant and bleed.”
Irritation flares up in my chest, and my teeth clench. “This is pure deception!”
He closes the gap between us in a single step and leans in, invading my personal space. It’s a challenge, daring me to recoil. I lift my chin, refusing to back off.
“I’m a trickster in every sense of the word, but for once, I didn’t twist the rules. You walked right into my game,” he murmurs, his voice silken, almost tender, and yet it sends a shiver of dread straight through me.
Don’t let him scare you. That’s what he wants. I cross my arms over my chest, creating a barrier between us, even though it holds no real power. I don’t move back an inch.
One corner of his mouth twitches into a half-smile.
I hold my breath, determined not to give in to the crackling pressure in the air.
My mind still struggles to accept that a witcher—the Black Joker—is in my bedroom, summoned by my own blood magic.
But in the face of this craziness, I stick to my one unbreakable rule: never show weakness.
The moment stretches into eternity. My lungs grow uncomfortable from the intensity of his scent, and my muscles tighten with the sheer effort of standing my ground.
The door bursts open, and I turn, my stomach sinking when I see it’s my mother.
“Well, well! I was starting to think you no longer lived in this house!” she exclaims. Thanks to countless Botox injections, her facial muscles can’t show emotions, so I can’t tell if she’s being funny or genuinely irritated.
“I’ve been trying to talk to you since your birthday, and every time I come to your room, you’re never here… ”
I glance over my shoulder. He’s gone.
“I’m talking to you, Nicole.”
“Mom, I’ve got something urgent—”
“The only thing that needs to be urgent is your face. You have bags under your eyes, and your skin is dry. Do I really need to remind you that if you look like this at twenty-one, you’ll be an old crone by the time you’re thirty? Let’s just hope we’ve married you off by then.”
I let her words wash over me.
“On Saturday, the Deliberovs are hosting a grand ball at the InterContinental,” she says.
“All the major players will be there. We’ll be attending, of course.
The Deliberovs are planning to build the most luxurious spa center in the Balkans, and they’re about to assign the project to someone. Your father wants it.”
“Of course he does,” I mutter.
My mother rolls her eyes. “Make sure you’re presentable. The youngest Deliberov boy is back from abroad and, rumor has it, he’s searching for a wife.”
Fury explodes in my chest like a bomb. “Does the rumor also say he’s been sleeping with that male TV host?”
“Nicole!”
“Fine, Mother. I’ll go to the ball.” Anything to get rid of her.
“Good. And wear the black Calvin Klein dress. The long one. With the modest neckline. Old Mr. Deliberov is conservative. I don’t want him dismissing you as a potential daughter-in-law because you dress like a tramp.” She huffs, striding away.
My upper lip curls, but I bite back a retort.
Better to say nothing than to give her a reason to linger.
I’ve never been “a tramp.” But how would she know?
She hasn’t spoken to me properly since I was in fifth grade, around the time my dad realized what a miserable woman he’d married and started ignoring her altogether.
Sometimes I wonder if she envied the way he focused on me.
Maybe she never noticed the weight of it.
The constant demands. Always an A. The great ambitions.
And she assumes I need a reminder to behave.
As if I’ve ever disgraced this family in public.
My reaction to her is so visceral, I forget about the witcher and his damned contract.
But when I ground myself back, his silhouette is cast against the window. For a second, I question if I got drunk and brought some stranger home, and all of this has been an elaborate hallucination.
The witcher isn’t looking at me but at something in his hand. My attention shifts to the photograph held between his inked fingers. When I recognize my handwriting on the back, my entire body freezes.