7. Anouk
SEVEN
ANOUK
The knock on my office door comes three hours later.
I’m deep in Mathilda’s fragmented notes, piecing a timeline that spans centuries and crimes. My eyes ache. My neck is stiff. My magic keeps making the ink on the pages rearrange itself into more legible formations, which is helpful but also concerning—I’m not doing it consciously.
Discipline. I’m supposed to have discipline.
“Enter.”
The door bursts open—not a polite entrance, not a respectful interruption.
Leire Firesinger sweeps into my office like a flame given purpose, her red hair catching the late afternoon light.
Behind her, Sakura Tempest hovers with the apologetic expression of someone who tried to stop a force of nature and failed.
“Girls’ Night,” Leire announces it like a decree. “Tonight. Non-negotiable.”
“I’m in the middle of—”
“An investigation that will still be there tomorrow.” Leire plants her hands on my desk, leaning forward with the intensity of someone who has zero intention of being refused.
“We want to hear about the investigation.” Sakura edges into the room, her weather magic responding to the tension with a subtle drop in atmospheric pressure. I can feel the barometric shift in my sinuses. “And maybe talk about other things. If other things come up. Naturally.”
Leire shoots her a look. “We’re not being subtle.”
“I know. I just thought we should at least pretend.”
“Why pretend? She knows why we’re here.” Leire turns back to me, her expression softening into the concerned-friend version that’s somehow more difficult to refuse than the demanding one. “Anouk. You had someone break into your home. Your magic has been unstable for months. We noticed.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Your air is doing the thing.” Sakura gestures vaguely at the space around me. “The thing where it gets very still before someone argues.”
I hadn’t noticed. But she’s right—the temperature in my office has dropped two degrees, and the papers on my desk are eerily motionless despite the draft from the window.
“I simply don’t have time for social obligations tonight.”
“Then it’s a good thing this isn’t a social obligation.” Leire straightens, crossing her arms. “It’s a mandatory wellness check mandated by your extremely concerned friends. We have the authority.”
“You don’t have any authority.”
“I have the authority of caring about you and refusing to watch you self-destruct.” Her voice softens again, and I hate how effectively that tactic works on me. “Please, Anouk. One evening. Zeph’s got a new batch that’s supposedly good for processing complicated emotions. And there’s cobbler.”
“Grandmother Peach already gave me cobbler.”
“There’s more cobbler. There’s always more cobbler. That’s the fundamental law of Mistvale.” Leire grins, sensing victory. “Come on. You can bring your notes if you need to. But you’re coming.”
I look at Mathilda’s journals. At the weight of centuries-old conspiracies and present-day murder. At the evidence that everything I thought I understood about the magical world is built on lies and violence.
Then I look at my friends. At Leire’s determined concern and Sakura’s gentle hope. At the proof that maybe—just maybe—I don’t have to carry all of this alone.
“Fine.” I close the journals and rise from my desk. “One drink. One hour. And I’m not discussing my personal life.”
Leire and Sakura exchange a look that suggests they’ve already won more than I intended to concede.
I’m beginning to suspect I’ve been outmaneuvered.
Duskfire Brewery smells like hops and warmth and barely contained chaos.
The stone-and-timber building sits on the edge of The Hollow, its thick walls built to handle magical incidents.
I can see the scorch marks on the doorframe from Zeph’s last “experimentation mishap”—or at least, the most recent one she’s willing to admit to.
The windows glow with amber light, and the sound of laughter drifts through the evening air.
Inside, the atmosphere is exactly what I expected: rustic bar with mismatched stools, copper brewing equipment gleaming in the back, a chalkboard menu that changes based on what’s “behaving” today.
Today’s specials include “Liquid Courage” (actual courage-enhancing), “Memory Lane Ale” (lets you taste your happiest memory), and something called “Regrettable Decisions Lager” that has a warning symbol next to it.
The large fireplace crackles with flames that might be magical—with Zeph, you never know.
Buckets are strategically placed throughout the room.
Zephyra Grimwood rises to greet us with a glass in each hand and a grin that borders on unhinged. “You came! Excellent. I’ve prepared specific beverages for tonight’s intervention.”
“It’s not an intervention.”
“It’s absolutely an intervention.” Zeph sets the glasses on the table and slides into the booth, patting the seat beside her. “Sit, sit. This batch is for ‘coven leaders in denial about their feelings for wolf alphas.’ Very targeted effects. I’ve been refining it for months.”
“I’m not in denial about anything.”
Heat flushes my cheeks. I sit, accepting the glass Zeph pushes toward me with the wariness it deserves. The liquid inside is a deep amber, shimmering with undertones that might be gold or might be magical interference.
“What exactly are the side effects of this?”
“Minimal. Probably.” Zeph takes a long sip from her own glass—a different color, I notice. “Mild truth-telling, enhanced emotional processing, and a slight tendency to make declarations. Nothing dangerous.”
“That sounds very dangerous.”
“Only if you have things you don’t want to say out loud.” Her grin widens. “Do you have things you don’t want to say out loud?”
“Everyone has things they don’t want to say out loud. That’s the definition of privacy.”
“Privacy is just denial with better boundaries.” Zeph waves a dismissive hand. “Drink up. The first sip is the hardest. After that, it’s smooth sailing into uncomfortable emotional territory.”
I don’t answer. I take a cautious sip instead.
The beer tastes like honey and starlight and the first cool breath of autumn. It tastes like comfort and courage and the particular bravery required to admit uncomfortable truths. It tastes like—
“She’s got feelings face.” Sakura leans forward, eyes bright with interest. “She’s definitely got feelings face.”
“I don’t have a ‘feelings face.’”
“You do. It’s the one where your walls slip for approximately half a second before you lock everything down again.” Leire settles into the booth across from me, her expression warm but relentless. “We’ve been watching you do it. Usually in council meetings. Usually when Caius is speaking.”
“The wolf alpha who you’ve been ‘just colleagues’ with since before I opened this place.” Zeph makes air quotes with her fingers. “That’s not a job description. That’s a committed relationship with paperwork.”
“We’re not—”
“You’ve been dancing around each other since the day you met.” Leire cuts off my protest without missing a beat. “Don’t deny it. The entire town has been watching.”
I stare at them. At my friends, who have apparently been placing wagers on my nonexistent romantic life while I’ve been busy running a coven and investigating murder.
“This is insane.”
“This is Mistvale.” Leire’s smile softens into genuine warmth. “We care about you, Anouk. All of us. And we’ve watched you wall yourself off. You work. You manage. You maintain this perfect facade. You don’t let anyone in.”
“I let people in.”
“You let people see the coven leader. That’s not the same thing.” She reaches across the table, her hand covering mine. “When’s the last time you admitted you were struggling? When’s the last time you let yourself need someone?”
The question lands like a blow. I don’t have an answer—or rather, I have one, and it’s too raw to speak aloud.
Yesterday. In Mathilda’s cottage. With Caius’s hand in mine and his voice saying words I haven’t been able to stop replaying.
He positions himself where he can see you enter. Caius. At every council meeting. Every formal gathering.
I didn’t know that. I didn’t let myself know that. I’ve spent years carefully not-knowing all the ways Caius Sternwolf has been present for me, all the spaces he’s occupied at the edges of my awareness.
There’s a difference between being seen by friends and being seen by him. With Leire and Sakura, the vulnerability felt like practice. With Caius, it felt like the real thing.
“And with him.” Leire’s gaze sharpens. “There’s been a shift between you and Caius. I can see it in the way you’re avoiding the topic.”
“I’m not avoiding—”
“You’ve mentioned the murder three times. You’ve mentioned Cordelia’s suspicious behavior twice. You haven’t mentioned spending days in close quarters with a man who’s been circling you since you took leadership of this coven.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “What happened?”
I take another sip of beer. Stall for time. Watch the bottles behind the bar rearrange themselves again—by size this time, tallest to shortest.
“He kissed my hand.” The confession comes out barely above a whisper. “After we found the journals. After I admitted—” I stop. Breathe. Try again. “After I admitted that I’ve been hiding how much I’m struggling. After I told him that needing him is what scared me.”
Silence. Then Zeph lets out a sound that might be a squeal or might be a victory cry.
“He kissed your hand.” Sakura is beaming. “That’s so old-fashioned. That’s so romantic.”
“That’s so Caius.” Leire laughs, the sound warm and knowing. “He’s been courting you in wolf time for years. Slow, deliberate, persistent. Of course, his first move is a gesture out of a centuries-old romance novel.”
“It wasn’t a move. It was just—”
“A declaration of intent wrapped in plausible deniability.” Zeph refills everyone’s glasses on autopilot.
“Classic wolf behavior. They’re very good at communicating without words.
All those meaningful stares. All that protective hovering.
All those ‘accidental’ touches that are definitely not accidental. ”
I think of Caius’s hand brushing mine while we searched Mathilda’s cottage. His shoulder pressed against mine while we read her journals. The heat of his palm against my cheek before Grandmother Peach interrupted.
All those touches I’ve been telling myself meant nothing.
The brewery door swings open.
Grandmother Peach is carrying a dish of cobbler and wearing an expression of knowing amusement that makes my stomach drop.
“Oh good. You’re discussing the wolf.” She crosses to our booth with the unerring aim of someone who always knows exactly where they need to be. “Excellent timing. I have additional commentary.”
“Of course, you do.” I take a fortifying sip of beer. “How did you know we were here?”
“The mist tells me things. Also, Zeph sent a messenger sprite forty minutes ago saying ‘intervention in progress, cobbler welcome.’” She slides into the booth beside Sakura and serves cobbler to everyone—still warm despite the walk from wherever she materialized from. “I never miss an intervention.”
“Then let him catch you.” She says it before I can deflect, before I can redirect to something safer. Grandmother Peach reaches across the table, her weathered hand covering mine with surprising warmth. “Let yourself be held. Just once. Just to see what it feels like.”
“And if it breaks me?”
“Then you’ll break.” Her grip tightens. “And then you’ll heal. And you’ll be stronger for it—not because you were strong enough to survive alone, but because you were brave enough to let someone help you stand.”
She rises and vanishes out the door before I can respond. The cobbler remains on the table, warm and impossibly fragrant.
The fireplace crackles. The beer shimmers in my glass. My friends watch me with expressions ranging from hope to concern to fierce protectiveness.
And somewhere outside, the mist curls in patterns I’ve never seen—golden and warm and anticipatory.
Later—much later, after more beer and more cobbler and more confessions I’ll probably regret in the morning—I walk back to the apothecary through streets thick with mist.
It swirls around my ankles like a living thing, responding to my presence in ways it never has. The color isn’t quite gold, but it’s not the usual silver either. Somewhere in between. Somewhere new.
Somewhere hopeful.
Marcus waves from the window of The Crescent Cup, the vampire’s knowing smile visible even through the glass.
Thalia, his wife, appears beside him with an expression that suggests they’ve already heard about Girls’ Night and have opinions.
Three centuries of marriage has given them both an uncanny talent for reading romantic tension.
I keep walking.
I think about Leire’s words. About Sakura’s gentle encouragement. About Zeph’s chaotic wisdom and Grandmother Peach’s quiet certainty.
I think about Caius.
About the way he looked at me in Mathilda’s cottage, like I was worth the years of standing still. About the way his voice dropped when he made promises he fully intended to keep. About the way my magic responds to his presence—not with instability, but with recognition. With want.
I’ve been cracking since Corwin died, maybe longer. And Caius has been there the whole time, steady and present and ready for me to stop pretending I was fine.
Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.
The apothecary is dark when I arrive, the wards humming their recognition as I approach. I let myself in, climbing the familiar stairs to my office, the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders.
Mathilda’s journals await on my desk. The investigation awaits. Cordelia awaits, cunning and deadly and completely unaware that we’re closing in.