Chapter 8 Avine
EIGHT
AVINE
Not a crash. Not the settling creaks she’d grown used to. This was deeper—a groan that seemed to rise from the bones of the building itself. The kind of noise old houses made when they were hurting.
She sat up in bed, heart pounding. The Full Moon Suite was cold, far colder than it should have been with the wards humming along the walls. Her breath misted in the air.
Wrong. This is wrong.
She threw back the covers and grabbed her phone, the screen’s glow harsh against the darkness. No alerts. No messages. The time staring back at her and that terrible, low rumble pulsing through the floorboards.
Her fuzzy socks slid on the hardwood as she padded toward the door, still wearing the faded band T-shirt and flannel pants she’d claimed from her ex-husband’s side of the closet during the divorce. Spite pajamas. Comfortable spite pajamas.
The hallway was darker than it should have been. The spelled sconces that usually glowed soft blue through the night had gone dim, their light flickering weakly as she passed. One of them sparked and died completely.
Not good.
The sound grew louder as she descended the main staircase, the third step squeaking sharply under her foot—a warning, or old wood being old wood.
The parlor was empty, the armchair Eleanor had approved by the window sitting undisturbed.
But the air tasted wrong. Decay. Her magic stirred uneasily beneath her skin.
She followed the sound to the basement door.
The basement. Of course, it was the basement. Because nothing good ever happened in basements at 4 a.m., and apparently her new life of coastal independence came with horror movie clichés included.
Water was seeping under the door.
Not freshwater—she knew that instantly, the way any witch knew the difference between rain and sea. This was ocean, salt-sharp and dark, spreading across the kitchen tiles with an almost purposeful creep. And magic threaded through it. Visible if she squinted, pulsing with a sickly, greenish light.
That’s not natural.
She yanked open the door, and the smell hit her full force—brine and rot and the unmistakable tang of magic gone wrong, of old enchantments left to fester and curdle in the dark.
The stairs descended into darkness, water sloshing at the bottom, the ward lines she’d reinforced last week flickering like dying heartbeats along the walls.
The inn groaned again, and this time Avine felt it in her gut. A plea. A warning.
Help.
She descended.
The water was ankle-deep by the time she reached the bottom, cold enough to make her gasp. The basement stretched before her in the dim emergency glow of the failing wards—stone walls, old shelving units, and the massive pipes that ran beneath the inn like veins.
One of those pipes had burst. Water sprayed from a seam near the floor, but it wasn’t the source of the flooding—the seawater was pushing up, seeping through cracks in the foundation that hadn’t been there yesterday, hadn’t been there when she’d checked the ward anchors three days ago.
Foreign magic threads pulsed beneath the surface. She could see them coiling through the water, wrapping around the base of the ward stones—strange, incompatible energies that didn’t belong here, pressing against the protective sigils like a body rejecting a splinter.
Something is wrong. More wrong than a burst pipe.
The realization steadied her. Whatever this was, it needed to stop.
She waded toward the nearest ward stone, water rising past her calves now, and pressed her palms against the cold surface. The protective sigils carved into the rock were flickering, some already dark. She could feel the magic inside straining, fighting against the assault.
Come on. Push. Hold.
Her magic surged in response—and the force of it nearly knocked her backward.
It wasn’t the careful, measured power she’d spent years learning to control.
This was raw. Vast and deep and wild, rising from a place inside her she’d forgotten existed.
The ward stone blazed beneath her hands, its sigils flaring brilliant turquoise, and for a single blazing instant, the foreign magic recoiled.
Then her strength wavered. The surge receded. The attacking interference pressed back harder than before.
Too much. Too fast. Can’t sustain it.
The water was at her knees. Overhead, pipes strained against their brackets, metal protesting. The inn’s distress pulsed through her bones, ancient magic crying out for help she couldn’t provide alone.
She needed help.
She shoved her pride aside and called him.
He answered on the second ring, which meant he’d either been awake or sleeping with his phone on his pillow. She wasn’t sure which was more alarming.
“Avine.” Not a question. Not a greeting. Her name, spoken in a voice rough with sleep and already sharpening toward alert. “What’s wrong.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” The water was at her waist. She was lying. “There’s been a minor—”
A pipe exploded behind her, spraying water across the basement with enough force to splash the phone. She swore, violently, in a way that answered his question.
“I’m on my way.” Movement on his end—clothes rustling, a door banging. “Beck. Now.”
A distant voice, sleepy and cheerful: “Road trip! I’ll bring snacks.”
“I don’t need—” she started.
“Stay out of the water if you can. Don’t try to reinforce the wards alone. I’m fifteen minutes out.”
The line went dead.
Avine stared at her phone, standing waist-deep in cursed seawater, wearing spite pajamas, and felt her carefully constructed new life tilt dangerously off its axis.
Of all the people in this damn town. Of all the numbers Junie could have put in my phone.
She shoved the phone back in her pocket—the water had already killed it anyway—and turned back to the flickering ward stones.
Fifteen minutes. She could hold for fifteen minutes.
Likely.
They arrived in twelve.
She’d been counting. Not consciously—her mind was too busy fighting to keep the wards from collapsing entirely—but a part of her had tracked every minute since she’d ended that call.
Twelve minutes of feeding magic into stone that didn’t want to hold.
Twelve minutes of watching the water rise and fall in response to her efforts, like an argument she couldn’t win.
Avine heard the truck before she saw it—engine cutting off, doors slamming, and then footsteps pounding through the inn above her head. Fast. Coordinated. The footsteps of predators who knew exactly how to move through unfamiliar territory.
“Basement!” she called, hating how hoarse her voice sounded.
The water was chest-high now, and she’d moved to higher ground on an old shipping crate that creaked under her weight.
Her magic was stretched thin, feeding into the remaining ward stones, trying to slow the assault.
It wasn’t enough. The dark threads were winning.