Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The costume rack crashes to the floor with a sound like a small explosion.
Twenty-three tutus—hand-sewn, carefully pressed, each one representing hours of painstaking work—sprawl across the studio floor in a tangle of pink tulle and sequins. Three of them land directly in the puddle of mysterious liquid that definitely wasn’t there five minutes ago.
“No, no, no, no, no.” I drop to my knees, grabbing the nearest tutu and holding it up to the light. The bodice is soaked through with something dark and acrid-smelling. Coffee, maybe. Or motor oil. Or the tears of everyone who’s ever tried to run a dance studio three days before a major showcase.
“Miss Izzie?” A small voice from the doorway. Emma, one of my junior ballerinas, peers in with wide eyes. “Are we still having class?”
I force a smile. “Give me five minutes, sweetie. Go warm up at the barre in studio B.”
She scampers off, and I let the smile drop.
This is the fourth incident this morning.
First, the scheduling software crashed and erased three weeks of carefully organized lesson times. When I tried to restore from backup, I discovered the backup files had been corrupted too—not deleted, just... scrambled, like someone had taken each file and run it through a blender.
Then the speaker system started playing music backwards. Not just any music—the specific piece we’ve been rehearsing for the showcase. Hearing “Waltz of the Flowers” in reverse at seven in the morning is a special kind of psychological torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
Then the mirrors in Studio A fogged over. All of them, simultaneously, despite the climate control running perfectly. The fog didn’t dissipate for forty-five minutes, and when it finally did, someone had drawn a smiley face in the condensation. A smiley face with too many teeth.
And now this.
I pull out my phone and text Mal: Something’s wrong. Get here when you can.
The response comes immediately: Already on my way. Nix is acting strange.
Fantastic. Because what this morning really needs is an agitated imp adding to the chaos.
I’m salvaging what I can from the tutu wreckage—eleven are definitely ruined, eight are questionable, four might be salvageable with aggressive spot-cleaning—when Bianca bursts through the front door.
“We have a problem.”
“Just one?” I gesture at the carnage around me. “Pick a number and get in line.”
“The printer is possessed.”
I look up. “What?”
“The printer.” Bianca’s usually perfect hair is escaping its bun, and there’s a wild look in her eyes that I’ve only seen once before—the Great Recital Costume Crisis of 2019.
“It won’t stop printing. It’s been going for twenty minutes straight.
I’ve unplugged it three times. It’s not plugged in anymore, Izzie, and it’s still printing. ”
She thrusts a handful of papers at me.
I take them with numb fingers.
The pages are covered in the same phrase, repeated over and over in increasingly erratic fonts:
TIME IS RUNNING OUT
TIME IS RUNNING OUT
TIME IS RUNNING OUT
My blood goes cold.
“Where’s the printer now?”
“I threw it in the dumpster.” Bianca’s voice is shaking. “It was still printing when I closed the lid.”
I should probably be concerned about environmental responsibility or the cost of replacing office equipment. Instead, all I can think is: Azrael.
He said the contract was impossible. He warned Mal that completing it would never work. And now, with three days left until the showcase—three days until our best chance at triggering the seventh invitation—things are mysteriously falling apart.
Coincidence?
I’ve stopped believing in coincidences.
“Call the parents,” I say, standing up and brushing tulle fluff off my knees. “Let them know we might have some schedule adjustments today while we sort out technical difficulties. Don’t mention the possessed printer.”
“What should I mention?”
“Power surge. Computer glitch. Mercury in retrograde. Whatever sounds most plausible.” I’m already moving toward Studio B, where I can hear the junior ballerinas chattering. “I need to get through this class, and then we’ll figure out what’s actually happening.”
The class goes... poorly.
Not because of the children—they’re as enthusiastic as ever, tiny bodies bouncing with barely contained energy as they practice their positions. The problem is everything else.
The portable speaker keeps switching tracks mid-song.
The rosin I put on the floor this morning has somehow become slippery instead of grippy.
Two of the fluorescent lights start flickering in a pattern that I could swear spells out something in Morse code, though I don’t know Morse code, so maybe that’s just paranoia.
And then there’s the temperature.
It starts subtle—a slight chill that I attribute to the air conditioning. But over the course of the hour, the temperature drops steadily until I can see my breath and the children are shivering in their leotards.
“Miss Izzie?” Little Sophie tugs at my hand, teeth chattering. “Why is it so cold?”
“I don’t know, honey.” I keep my voice calm despite the ice forming on the inside of the windows. “Let’s take a break and warm up in the lobby, okay? We can do jumping jacks.”
I herd them out of the studio, casting one last glance at the thermometer on the wall.
Thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit.
Inside.
In June.
This isn’t random malfunction. This is targeted.
Mal arrives while I’m distributing hot chocolate to traumatized six-year-olds. He takes one look at my face and his expression goes grim.
“Show me.”
I leave Bianca with the children and lead him through the studio, cataloging each incident. The crashed software. The backwards music. The fogged mirrors. The destroyed costumes. The possessed printer. The frozen studio.
By the time I’m done, his jaw is set and his eyes have gone red around the edges.
“This is infernal interference,” he says quietly. “The signatures are subtle, but they’re there. Someone’s been laying minor curses throughout the building. Nothing individually powerful enough to trigger protective wards, but combined...”
“Combined they’re destroying my business.” I press my palms against my eyes, fighting the urge to scream. “The recital tomorrow. The showcase in three days. How am I supposed to run any of this when the building itself is attacking me?”
“You’re not the target.” Mal’s voice is hard. “I am. Azrael is trying to create enough chaos that we can’t complete the Dance of Accord. If the showcase falls apart, if the studio shuts down, if everything you’ve built collapses around you—”
“Then I won’t be in any emotional state to offer genuine acceptance.” I finish the thought, stomach sinking. “He’s not trying to stop us directly. He’s trying to break me.”
“He’s trying to break us.” Mal takes my hands, his warmth a stark contrast to the lingering chill from the frozen studio. “And he’s underestimating both of us.”
“Is he, though?” I hate how small my voice sounds. “Because right now, I have eleven ruined costumes, a frozen practice space, terrified students, and a printer in the dumpster that’s probably still spitting out death threats. That’s not exactly a recipe for emotional stability.”
“So we fight back.”
“How? I can’t exactly file a complaint with the Better Business Bureau about demonic sabotage.”
Mal’s lips twitch despite the gravity of the situation. “No, but I can set counter-wards. Protections against infernal influence. I should have done it weeks ago, but I didn’t want to risk you noticing the magic before I’d explained everything.”
“Do it now.” I don’t hesitate. “Whatever you need. I’ll keep the students out of the way.”
He nods, already moving. “It’ll take a few hours. The building is large and the existing curses need to be dispelled before I can set new protections. Can you handle things until then?”
“I’ve been handling things my whole life.” I square my shoulders. “Go do your demon magic. I’ll manage the chaos.”
Famous last words.
The next two hours are a masterclass in crisis management.
I reschedule three classes, soothe seven anxious parents, and personally hand-wash the eight questionable tutus until my fingers are raw.
Bianca handles the administrative nightmare of the crashed scheduling system, somehow reconstructing two weeks of bookings from memory and scattered notes.
We’re making progress. Things are stabilizing.
Then the fire alarm goes off.
Not just the studio’s fire alarm—every fire alarm in the building, plus the smoke detectors, plus the emergency sprinklers.
In seconds, the entire ground floor is drenched.
Water pours from the ceiling like a monsoon, soaking costumes, flooding practice spaces, destroying equipment that took me years to afford.
I stand in the middle of it all, water streaming down my face, and watch my life’s work dissolve around me.
This is it, I think distantly. This is how it ends. Not with a dramatic confrontation, but with water damage and insurance claims and the slow death of everything I’ve built.
“Miss Izzie?”
I turn. Emma and Sophie and a dozen other tiny dancers are huddled in the doorway, staring at the destruction with wide eyes. Some of them are crying. Others just look confused, unable to process why the magical place where they learn to dance has suddenly turned into a waterpark.
“Is the recital canceled?” Emma’s voice trembles. “We practiced so hard.”
Something cracks open in my chest.
Not breaks—opens.
Because looking at these children, seeing their disappointment, their fear, their desperate hope that somehow things will still be okay... I realize I have a choice.
I can let this defeat me. Let Azrael win. Let all the small acts of sabotage add up until there’s nothing left but surrender.
Or I can fight.