Chapter 27 Olivia
OLIVIA
The library has never been louder.
Kids are sprinting between the shelves like little berserkers, clutching foam spears wrapped in duct tape and stickers.
One boy swings his “weapon” at a cardboard cutout of the Vorfaluka I painted last week, toppling it into a pile of beanbags.
The crash earns a cheer that rattles the glass in the front doors.
I should be horrified. But instead, I’m grinning like an idiot.
“Slow down, you wild things!” I call, though I don’t mean it. The floorboards shake under their stampede. The air smells like crayons, spilled juice boxes, and the faint sharpness of printer ink. It’s chaos. Beautiful chaos.
I never thought I’d see this day—the first-ever Occult Literacy Day, Walnut Falls’ weirdest attempt at a festival yet.
My brainchild, though I’ll deny it if it flops.
The idea was simple: if the Veil left scars on this town, let’s turn them into stories, into games, into learning instead of fear.
And so here we are: history disguised as playtime.
At the corner table, Peggy Sue is already half-drunk, swirling something that glows faintly purple in a mason jar. “Try this,” she tells me, shoving it forward with a wicked grin.
I sniff. Strong. Sweet. Wrong. “What did you do?”
She lifts her chin proudly. “I call it The Two-Faced Bastard. Rum, blackberry syrup, a dash of bitters, and just enough chili oil to make you question your life choices.”
I take a sip. My eyes water immediately. “Peggy Sue—this is war.”
She cackles, smacking the table. “Exactly!”
Before I can reply, Mayor Durning totters up in his usual too-tight suit, sweat beading on his bald head. He clears his throat and adjusts his glasses, trying to look official over the din of foam-spear battles and children howling like banshees.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, holding up a shiny plaque, “I am proud to present this award of community excellence to Miss Olivia, for her vision, dedication, and, uh… bravery in creating Occult Literacy Day.”
The crowd of parents claps. Kids ignore him completely, locked in a brutal duel with cardboard demons.
I blink at the plaque as he presses it into my hands. Gold lettering, cheap wood. My name engraved at the bottom. My stomach flips.
“Thank you, Mayor,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “Though really, the whole town made this possible. Well… the whole weird town.”
Laughter ripples through the adults.
As the mayor shuffles off, I glance over to the far side of the room.
Kursk leans against a shelf, arms crossed, tusks glinting in the fluorescent lights.
He looks equal parts unimpressed and amused as a pair of seven-year-olds charge past him yelling, “FOR HONOR!” One bounces right off his leg and keeps going without noticing.
I slip behind the stacks, heart hammering from the attention, and he follows, quiet as always. In the narrow aisle between mythology and gardening, I sag against the shelves, plaque still clutched in my hand.
“Well,” I mutter, “that was surreal.”
Kursk tilts his head, watching me. “You looked proud.”
“I felt… seen,” I admit. “And also like I was accepting a trophy for babysitting a horde of sugar-high gremlins.”
He rumbles low, that half-growl, half-laugh I’ve come to crave. “Better than fighting demons.”
“Barely.” I grin, shaking my head. “But yeah. Better.”
For a moment, we just stand there, hidden from the noise. I can hear Peggy Sue’s laughter echoing, the crash of another cardboard monster going down, the faint slosh of Burnout’s guitar as he’s apparently decided to provide a soundtrack. The library smells of old paper and new beginnings.
I look up at him, at the man who isn’t supposed to be here, who should have been swallowed by war and Veil and grief. He looks back at me, steady, unshaken, and I feel laughter bubble up in my chest.
“What?” he asks, brow furrowed.
I hold up the plaque. “Community excellence.”
His tusks flash. “You deserve it.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning into him, lowering my voice so only he hears. “But the truth is, I couldn’t have done it without you. Without us.”
His arm slides around my waist, pulling me close. His breath brushes my ear. “Then let them give you plaques. I’ll give you laughter.”
And I do—I laugh, muffling it against his chest while foam swords clash outside and Peggy Sue pours another round of Bastards.
Here, behind the stacks, it’s just us.
The night settles quiet around us, the kind of quiet that only comes after too much noise.
The festival’s gone, the library doors are locked, the last of Peggy Sue’s cocktails long since emptied.
It’s just us now—me and Kursk, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the porch, listening to the fire crackle low in the pit at the yard’s edge.
The stars are spread thick across the sky, sharp as salt crystals scattered on black velvet. I smell smoke, pine resin, and the faint sweetness of marshmallows we charred too long. The boards under us creak every time Kursk shifts his weight, the sound steady, comforting.
For a long while, we don’t talk. We just breathe. I tuck my feet under me, sip the last of my cider, and watch the flames curl and spit.
Without planning it, the words tumble out. “You ever think about going back?”
His profile is cut sharp in the firelight. For a moment, he doesn’t answer, just stares into the blaze like it’s got secrets written in the coals. The amulet around his neck glints faint, a reminder of the voices he carries.
He shakes his head. “No. I have all I need right here.”
I swallow hard. My throat aches in that way it does when I want to cry but don’t. I lean into him, his shoulder solid against mine, his arm warm where it brushes me.
“Even with no monsters left to kill?” I tease, though my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
His tusks catch the light as he smirks. “There’s always the recycling bins.”
A laugh bursts out of me, sudden and full. “God, you’re ridiculous.”
“I learned from the best,” he rumbles, tugging me closer until I’m half in his lap, his arm draped heavy and safe around me.
We kiss. No prophecy burning in the background. No doom pressing against our backs. No magic sparking in our veins. Just lips, warm and human and alive. Just joy.
The wind shifts, carrying the scent of woodsmoke into my hair. Crickets hum in the grass. The world is simple for once.
I close my eyes, memorizing the taste of him, the press of him, the quiet of this moment. Because maybe tomorrow the world will tilt again. Maybe another shadow will stir.
And maybe, just maybe, it won’t.
Because for now, it ends here.
Here, with his arm around me. Here, with the stars above and the fire snapping at our feet. Here, where I finally feel safe.
Somewhere deep in the mountains, something new might be waking. Another story waiting its turn.
But that’s not ours to tell tonight.
Tonight, ours ends exactly where it should.