Chapter 15 #2
“Well, that’s a first,” I say with a chuckle, but the sound is cut off abruptly as the doorbell rings, its chimes echoing through the manor like a warning.
I sit up straighter, frowning as I glance at the antique clock on the mantelpiece, its ornate hands clearly showing the late hour.
“Who in the world is at my door at ten o’clock at night?”
“Someone who chose not to wait for morning,” Sir replies cryptically, already settling back down as if he knows exactly who it is.
I slide off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cool hardwood floor, and head toward the bedroom door.
“What is that supposed to mean, cat? You are so incredibly cryptic half the time that I wonder if you do it just to annoy me.” I mutter, turning to see if he’s going to follow me downstairs.
Sir stands and stretches languorously, displaying the full elegant length of his body, then lays back down again with deliberate dismissal.
I roll my eyes at his obvious refusal to help. “Oh, that’s fine,” I complain as I step into the hallway, the runner soft under my feet. “Stay up here in the warm bed. If something drags me into the shadows, just know I will remember this betrayal in whatever afterlife awaits me.”
He doesn’t respond, and honestly, why am I not surprised?
I head downstairs, my hand trailing along the smooth banister as I descend, the manor’s magic humming more insistently around me now, as if sensing the late-night visitor.
I’m hoping against hope that I’m not about to have another confrontation with my aunt, only to remember with relief that she can’t actually reach the porch, much less ring the bell and force me into another battle of wills.
When I open the heavy front door, I find Ezra standing there.
Tension sits in his posture, subtle but unmistakably present in the way he holds his shoulders, the careful set of his jaw, like something brought him here that he could not ignore or put off until morning.
His dark eyes are bright with urgency behind his black-rimmed glasses, and his usually neat appearance is slightly disheveled, as if he’s been running his hands through his locs.
“Ezra? Is everything okay?” I say, genuine concern coloring my voice as I take in his obvious agitation.
“I did not mean to come this late,” he says, his voice carrying that careful precision he uses when he’s trying to maintain control. “I can come back in the morning if you prefer.”
“No,” I say immediately, stepping back to give him room. “You’re here now, and you look like you’ve discovered something important. Come in.”
He steps inside but doesn’t move any further into the foyer before he begins to speak, his words tumbling out with uncharacteristic urgency.
“I found something in the municipal archives,” he says, dragging a hand through his locs. “A spell that’s supposed to be forbidden, something that was banned decades ago. It was designed to drain a Witch’s magic completely, to sever the connection between practitioner and power permanently.”
I drop my head forward, weariness already weighing me down like a physical force. “Let me guess,” I say with resignation, “the pages describing this spell are conveniently missing.”
Ezra’s eyes widen a fraction at my immediate understanding, and he nods grimly. “The pages have been carefully removed. Not torn out in haste, but cut away with precision, as if someone knew exactly what they were looking for.”
“Do you think this is what Lenora used on me?” I ask, though I’m honestly unsure if I want to know the answer. Part of me has been hoping that whatever was done to me was reversible, fixable, not the result of forbidden magic designed to destroy.
Ezra blows out a breath, then pulls his glasses away from his face to squeeze the bridge of his nose, a gesture that speaks to hours of research and growing concern.
“I believe she attempted to use it on you, yes. But your magic is not gone, Keisha. I can sense it every time I’m near you, like a current running just beneath your skin.
I don’t think the spell worked the way she intended it to. ”
“So instead of draining me completely, she managed to lock it away,” I say, reaching up to scratch my scalp through my silk bonnet. The weight of this revelation settles over me.
“That is my working theory,” he confirms, “I think we should look through some of the older grimoires, see if the origin of the spell was documented by one of your ancestors. There might be a counter-spell, or at least a better understanding of what was done to you.”
I exhale slowly, feeling the day’s exhaustion catching up with me. “Tomorrow,” I say firmly.
He pauses, his mouth opening as if to protest or offer to stay up all night researching, but I hold up my hands in surrender.
“You look completely exhausted,” I add, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the way his usually perfect posture has sagged slightly. “We’ll figure it out in the morning when we’re both thinking clearly.”
He nods reluctantly, stepping back toward the door. “Okay, yes, that makes sense. It is late, and you were already settled for the night. I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening routine.”
He turns to leave. I study this man who has become so important to me, noting the way his shoulders carry tension, the careful way he moves as if he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
My hand goes to my hip almost automatically, and before I can second-guess myself, I reach out to catch his hand.
“Ezra.” I say his name softly, infusing it with all the warmth I feel for him.
He looks back at me, then down to where my hand is wrapped around his.
His fingers tense beneath mine, the struggle obvious.
His eyes don’t leave the point where we’re joined, but his body shifts from foot to foot as if he doesn’t know what to do with the physical connection, with the invitation it represents.
“You’re not interrupting anything,” I tell him, my voice gentle but certain. “You never interrupt anything that matters to me.”
Something shifts in his expression, a softening around his eyes, and he looks up at me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“You can stay here tonight,” I continue, the words coming easier than I expected.
“You’re dead on your feet, I can see it in every line of your body.
I can’t let you walk back to your place like this.
I would worry all night, imagining you collapsing from exhaustion.
I would rather you sleep beside me and ease my concern. ”
He hesitates for a long moment, and I can practically see him weighing propriety against exhaustion, against whatever it is he’s been holding back. Then he nods, the movement small but decisive. “Very well.”
I release his hand and take his coat, hanging it carefully on one of the hooks by the door before turning back toward him.
“Come on,” I say, taking his hand again and marveling at how perfectly it fits in mine, pulling him gently toward the stairs. “We’re going to bed.”
He blinks once, as if stunned by my directness, and my stomach flips at his reaction. This shy, brilliant, sweet-as-hell Wizard who can analyze magical theory for hours but gets flustered by simple human connection.
“Keisha—” he starts, but I can hear the uncertainty in his voice.
“No arguments,” I cut in, glancing back at him with a small smile that I hope conveys reassurance. “You can sleep on top of the covers if it makes you feel better, but you’re not leaving. Not tonight.”
Something almost like amusement flickers across his face as he follows me upstairs, and I catch a glimpse of those kissable lips quirking up at the corners, transforming his usual serious expression into something breathtakingly beautiful.
When we step back into my bedroom, the warm lamplight welcomes us, and I notice that Sir has made himself completely scarce. Probably off doing whatever mysterious cat business he conducts at night.
Ezra pauses just inside the doorway, his gaze moving slowly across the space, taking in the carved wood details, the high coffered ceilings, the quiet weight of history that sits in every corner like accumulated wisdom.
“This place,” he says softly, almost to himself, his voice filled with genuine awe. “It is absolutely remarkable.”
I gather the scattered grimoires into a careful stack and set them aside on the nightstand before moving toward the bed.
“It’s a lot,” I agree, turning down the covers to give my hands something to do.
“It responds to you,” he continues, stepping further inside with the careful steps of someone who recognizes he’s in the presence of something significant.
“The structure itself, the magic woven into every beam and board. It is attuned to your presence in a way that is not entirely typical. Well, typical for a sentient structure, that is. The architectural plans for this place alone must represent decades of planning and magical integration—”
“Ezra.” I call his name as I glance over my shoulder, noting the way his eyes have lit up with academic fascination. “You’re doing the thing.”
He blinks, pushing his glasses up on his nose, his hands clasping in front of him as he straightens from his careful observation of the intricate wallpaper patterns. “What thing?”
“The thing,” I reply with a fond chuckle at the genuinely confused look on his face.
“The rambling academic thing where you start analyzing everything like it’s a research project,” I clarify, climbing onto the bed and pulling the covers back invitingly.
“It’s incredibly endearing, believe me, but right now I need sleep more than I need a dissertation on magical architecture. ”
That earns me another one of those rare, transformative smiles that make my heart skip.