Chapter 19
IT MEANS WE HAVE A LOT TO TALK ABOUT.
I came back to consciousness in layers, each one thicker than the last. First, the sensation of softness beneath me.
Then, the weight of a blanket pressed me down.
Finally, the dull throb behind my eyes. I didn't open my eyes yet.
Didn't want to. My body felt like a shell someone had scraped clean, leaving nothing but echoes and dust.
The room smelled of sage and cedar, with undercurrents of rosemary threading through the air.
Kearan's scents. My muscles remembered being carried, cradled against a chest that moved with steady, even breaths.
Not Grayson's careful, measured movements.
Kearan, who always moved like he was handling something precious, even when that something was me.
I forced my eyes open, blinking against the dim light filtering through curtains I couldn't quite place.
My room. Not quite the sterile Division quarters, but now a space Kearan must have transformed since I was last here.
The ceiling above me swam into focus, shadows playing across cream-colored paint.
How long had I been out? Hours? A day? The quality of the light suggested evening, but whether it was the same day or another entirely, I couldn't tell.
The compound lay quiet around me. No alarms, shouting, or demons throwing ultimatums. Just the soft hum of air circulation and distant, muffled voices somewhere down the hall.
I should have been relieved. Instead, the emptiness inside me throbbed like an open wound. I reached for my power, instinctively, the way you reach for a limb even after it's gone. Nothing. No response. Just hollow space where something vital used to live.
But as I lay there, something else stirred.
Not the cold, sharp pull of demon magic, but something.
.. different. Warmer. It brushed against my awareness like fingertips trailing across skin.
Not demanding, not commanding, just... present.
Waiting. Patient in a way demon magic never was.
The sensation reminded me of something half-remembered from childhood.
A scent I'd always known but never named.
A song whose melody I recognized but couldn't place.
I sat up slowly, my head spinning with the movement.
My clothes had been changed… someone had dressed me in soft leggings and an oversized t-shirt that smelled faintly of Grayson's laundry detergent.
The thought of hands on my unconscious body should have bothered me, but it didn't. Not when those hands belonged to my mates.
The pull tugged again, stronger this time. Not inside me, like the demon power had been, but outside. Somewhere in the compound. Calling to me.
Zandia's words echoed through my mind. Your mother was exactly the same way.
Untrained. Chaotic. Brilliant. Eloise. What had she known about my power?
What hadn't she told me? The questions burned, bitter and sharp in the back of my throat.
I had so little time with her. So many secrets she took to her grave.
Why had she spent so many years hiding things from me and punishing me for just existing instead of passing on her legacy?
A soft knock broke through my thoughts. The door opened before I could respond, and Grayson's tall frame filled the doorway. His eyes widened slightly when he saw me sitting up.
"You're awake." Relief colored his voice, softening the edges of his normally controlled tone.
"How long was I out?" I rasped, my throat dry.
Grayson crossed to the nightstand, poured water from a waiting pitcher into a glass, and handed it to me. "Almost eighteen hours. Kearan said your body needed it. The power drain was... significant."
I drank deeply; the cool water soothed my raw throat. "Feels like I got hit by a truck. Several trucks. Moving at highway speeds."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips, though his eyes remained serious. "You scared us. All of us."
Flashes of a memory of Trux's fear-fueled rage flashed through my mind. "Is Trux still here? Still angry?"
"He's here. Not angry anymore." Grayson sat carefully on the edge of the bed, keeping a respectful distance. "Scared. Worried. But the rage burned itself out."
I nodded, fingers tightening around the glass. "The demon... it spoke to me. Before everything went to hell. Inside my head."
Grayson went still, that perfect stillness that reminded me he wasn't entirely human. "What did it say?"
"'Command it,'" I quoted, the words leaving a bad taste in my mouth. "'Show it who is stronger... who is dominant and superior.'"
His face didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. A shadow passed behind them, ancient and knowing. "I know."
Two simple words. Yet they landed with the weight of mountains. I stared at him, waiting for more, for an explanation, for anything that would make those two words make sense.
He just looked back at me, his expression unreadable.
"You know?" I finally prompted when the silence stretched too long. "What does that mean, Grayson? What do you know about what happened to me?"
He stood up smoothly, adjusting his shirt with a practiced motion. "It means we have a lot to talk about. But not right now." His gaze softened slightly. "You need to rest more. Recover your strength."
"I've been asleep for eighteen hours," I protested. "What I need are answers."
"Later." Firm but gentle, his tone brooked no argument. "I promise, Parker. We'll talk about everything. But first—" He hesitated, head tilting slightly as if listening to something I couldn't hear. "First, I think there's something you need to find."
The pull inside me surged in response, as if his words had given it permission to grow stronger. My skin prickled with awareness.
"You feel it too?" I asked, surprised.
A smile touched his lips, enigmatic and knowing. "No. But I can hear your thoughts and the pull you keep feeling." He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead. "Follow it, Parker. Find what's calling you. Then we'll talk."
Before I could respond, he was gone; the door closed softly behind him. Leaving me alone with my questions and the persistent tug pulling me toward... something.
I stood carefully, testing my legs. Shaky but functional.
The floor felt cold beneath my bare feet as I padded to the door and peered out into the empty hallway.
Silence. The compound remained quiet, most of its occupants likely asleep or away on missions.
The pull led me left, drawing me down corridors that seemed different in the dim evening light.
The archive room. That's where it was leading me.
I'd only been in there a few times before…
a repository for artifacts and texts too valuable to destroy but too dangerous to keep in general circulation.
Normally, it required security clearance and a special key card.
But as I approached, the door stood slightly ajar, a thin line of warm light spilling into the hallway.
Creepy.
Pretty on par with what my life had become.
I pushed the door open slowly, half expecting to find someone inside. The room was empty. Shelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and artifacts safely stored in warded containers. A large table dominated the center of the space, its surface clean except for a single item.
The grimoire. Eloise's grimoire. My grimoire. Ro mentioned that it would appear that I would need to find it. I didn't think it would come to me like this.
I approached slowly, something like reverence filling the hollow space inside me. The grimoire seemed to hum with energy, vibrating at a frequency just below hearing but above feeling. My hands trembled as I reached for it, fingers hovering just above the worn leather cover.
"Witch magic is intentional," I whispered, remembering words from one of Rhiot's impromptu lessons. "Not chaotic like demon magic. It requires will. Purpose."
The moment my fingertips touched the cover, the grimoire opened on its own, pages flipping rapidly as if caught in a strong wind. They settled suddenly, revealing text written in a language I didn't recognize but somehow understood. And there, nestled in the center of the pages, lay a dagger.
I lifted it carefully, the weight familiar in my palm. The blade gleamed in the soft light, runes etched along its length catching the glow. As I turned it, something else caught my eye: a bulge in the spine of the grimoire, right where the pages split.
The soul ring. Safely tucked away, waiting. I brushed my fingers over the spot, feeling its power agitate something inside me. Not with my demon half, which lay silent and exhausted. With something else, something older, more fundamental.
My witch's blood recognized what it didn't want.
As I held the dagger, a small, pressed flower fluttered from between the pages, landing softly on the table.
Time seemed to stop as I stared at it, recognition hitting me like a physical blow.
Blue petals, delicate and perfectly preserved.
Lobelia… the exact variety my mother grew every spring in a blue clay pot on our back porch.
She ordered the seeds special and told me they were magic.
I always thought she was speaking metaphorically.
She spoke that way about a lot of things.
My legs gave out, and I sank to the floor, the dagger still clutched in my hand, the flower pinched carefully between my fingers.
Hot tears spilled down my cheeks before I even registered that I was crying.
So many years. My mother had spent so many years preparing this grimoire.
Collecting these artifacts. Creating safeguards and pathways I was only now beginning to understand.
All to protect me. All to prepare me for what she must have known was coming.
And yet, she also spent all those years berating and punishing me.
I didn't understand it… Didn't understand her.
The loneliness crashed over me like a wave, the grief I thought I'd processed years ago returning fresh and raw. I sat on the cold floor of the archive room and cried for the mother I'd lost. For the questions I could never ask her. And for the guidance I desperately needed now.
I don't know how long I sat there, tears falling silently, before I sensed his presence. Kearan didn't announce himself. He didn't clear his throat or shuffle his feet to warn me. He simply appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the light from the hall.
He didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't try to fix it. Didn't offer empty platitudes about how everything would be okay. He just crossed the room with that quiet grace of his and lowered himself to the floor beside me. Close enough that I could feel his warmth, far enough that I didn't feel crowded.
And he sat. Silent. Present. Waiting.
His shoulder brushed mine gently… more of an invitation, not a demand. I leaned into him slowly, and his arm came up around me, solid and sure. His heartbeat thumped steadily against my ear when I rested my head against his chest.
We stayed like that until my tears dried up, until my breathing steadied, until the hollow ache in my chest eased enough to bear.
"Ready?" he finally asked, the single word gentle in the quiet room.
I nodded against his chest. With careful movements, I tucked the pressed flower back into the grimoire and closed it gently. But the dagger... the dagger I kept, slipping it into the pocket of my sweats… Well, Grayson's sweats.
Kearan helped me to my feet, his touch steadying. He didn't comment on the dagger, just offered his arm for support as we walked together toward the door.
The emptiness inside me where my demon power had lived still ached. But the dagger hummed against my palm with something that wasn't demon magic at all. Something older. More rooted. Power that felt like home.
Maybe I didn't need the power I lost. Maybe I needed the power I didn't know I had.
I was going to test that theory soon.