Chapter Thirteen
It took both of us to get the trunk out of the attic—and even then, it felt like it resisted every inch of movement.
The wood was heavier than it should have been, the weight uneven, as if whatever was inside shifted against us while we dragged it down the narrow stairs.
My foot slipped, my heart lurching as the trunk tilted dangerously forward, and for one breathless second I was certain it would take me with it.
We wrestled it into the back of Owen’s pickup, breathing hard, hands shaking.
I leaned against the tailgate, chest heaving—and then froze.
“The grimoire,” I said suddenly. “I left the grimoire in the car.”
I scrambled around to the passenger side and dug beneath the seat, pulling out the thick, weathered book. The leather cover felt warmer now, alert beneath my fingers.
Owen frowned. “That needs to be translated. Soon.”
“Mrs. Rollins,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
He nodded, glancing toward the house. “Tonight, this thing doesn’t stay here.”
“Not without me.”
His mouth curved into a quick, tight smile. “Grab what you need. I’ll wait.”
Gripping the book, I hurried back inside, heart pounding harder with every step. Halfway down the upstairs hall, something tugged at my attention.
The guest room.
I slowed, pressed my ear to the door.
Nothing.
Unease prickled up my spine. I opened it.
The Red Queen lay on her back, hands folded neatly on her chest, eyes closed. So still she looked like a queen laid out for a formal funeral.
At least she was quiet.
I closed the door softly, then hurried to my room and set the grimoire on my dresser. I stared at it for half a second—too long. Leaving it here felt wrong. Like leaving a live wire in my house.
With a muttered curse, I snatched it back up, tucked it under my arm, and grabbed my purse. I locked up. Owen waited beside the truck, his hand on the passenger door. When I approached, he opened it for me.
Ever the gentleman.
We drove to Charmed & Vintage. The road stretched too quiet, the darkness pressing close to the headlights. I found myself checking the mirrors over and over, convinced I caught movement beyond the edges of the light.
But there was nothing there. Just my hyperawareness and paranoia. The sooner we got rid of this trunk, the better.
We arrived without incident—but relief never came. Owen parked and cut the engine and we both hopped out. I scooped up the grimoire from the seat before I even unbuckled, as if leaving it behind would be an invitation. The leather felt warmer than it should’ve.
“I’ll grab the dolly.”
“You’re leaving me out here alone?”
“For a minute,” he said. “I won’t be long. Promise.”
The door shut behind him, plunging the street back into silence.
I clutched the grimoire to my chest, scanning the quiet storefronts, the single streetlamp casting a sickly halo of light. My imagination whispered.
Then one of the shadows moved.
Not flickered. Not shifted.
Moved.
My breath snagged.
The shadow slid along the storefront across the street, stretching unnaturally, peeling itself free from the darkness like ink lifting from a page.
“Owen, hurry up,” I whispered.
The thing surged forward.
Owen burst back out of the shop, shoving the dolly aside as his hands flared with light. “Get behind me.”
The creature took shape mid-charge—jaws splitting wide, stench of rot and sulfur hitting me like a physical blow. Owen released a blast of white-gold energy that sent it screeching backward—
—and then the air went cold behind me.
I spun.
Another one had formed.
Then another.
And another.
They were pulling themselves out of shadows, detaching from doorways, crawling out of the spaces between parked cars—too many, circling, hemming us in.
Fear crushed down on my lungs.
“There are too many,” I whispered.
He saw them. I felt it in the way his shoulders squared, the way he backed us toward the shop. He shoved the keys into my hands.
“Get inside. Now. I’m right behind you.”
“What about you—”
“I’ll hold them off.”
I fumbled with the lock, hands slick with sweat as the first key slipped uselessly against the metal. Light detonated behind me as Owen hurled magic into the street, demonic howls echoing in the night.
“Piper!”
“I’m trying!”
A set of claws slashed against invisible resistance inches from my face. I screamed, jamming another key into the lock—wrong again—
A demon lunged.
Owen’s magic cracked like thunder.
The door finally gave way.
I stumbled inside as Owen leapt after me, slamming it shut. He slapped his palm against the doorframe, white light sealing the cracks—but the impact of bodies hit immediately, the magic shuddering under the weight.
“That won’t hold them long,” he said grimly. “Come on.”
We ran.
The store felt endless in the dark, every shadow threatening movement. Owen navigated without hesitation, pulling me into the storeroom and flicking on the light.
I slapped the grimoire onto the worktable like it might bite, then wiped my damp palm on my jeans.
“The sword,” I gasped. “The long box.”
He wrenched the lid free and thrust the sword toward me.
The moment my fingers closed around the hilt, the world changed.
The blade warmed—not with heat, but with awareness. Power surged up my arms, not overwhelming, not violent. Recognizing. As if the sword had been waiting for this hand. For me.
Something deep in my chest answered.
Owen cracked open another crate and drew a second blade, its edge etched with ancient runes that flared briefly as he grasped it. “Stay close.”
The first demon tore through the sealed door like it was made of paper. He readied his stance. So did I. Together, we faced the door. Our doom.
The demon darkened the doorway. Then the fighting began.
At first, I moved on instinct alone—barely keeping my footing, swinging wide and wild. But the sword shifted in my grip. Adjusted my stance. Nudged my balance. Knowledge flowed not into my mind, but into my muscles.
I stopped thinking.
Stopped doubting.
I moved.
The blade sang as it cut through shadow and flesh alike, bright and sure. Shapes fell—shrieked—dissolved into black smoke at my feet. Each strike felt right, as if I were restoring something that had been broken rather than destroying it.
When the last creature collapsed, I staggered, breath ragged, every nerve alight and humming.
“You’re incredible,” Owen said hoarsely as he dispatched his final opponent.
“Your dad’s going to kill us,” I managed faintly.
Owen huffed a laugh—one quick, disbelieving breath.
And then the grimoire on the table thumped like it had a heartbeat.
The floor shuddered. Not from the fight. From the building itself—like the shop had taken a breath it didn’t want.
Cold swept the room without warning. Not a draft. Not air moving. Cold with intention.
The fluorescent lights snapped off one by one, plunging the shop into darkness until only the streetlamp outside cast a sickly glow through the storeroom windows.
He stood in the doorway. He didn’t step inside. He didn’t need to.
The same man from the woods. He’d found me again. Up close, I saw him more clearly.
And he was terrifyingly beautiful.
Tall and broad-shouldered, built like violence wrapped in silk. Thick black hair brushed his shoulders, threaded with faint silver, and his eyes—God—his eyes were the color of a storm-tossed sea, blue-green shot through with gold. Ancient. Appraising. Hungry.
His presence reached me first—pressure sliding along my skin, coiling tight in my chest. Not heat. Not magic the way Owen’s was.
Something older. Darker. Power that didn’t ask permission.
“There you are.”
His voice—dark, deep, melodic—slid over my skin and straight into my bones.
My knees buckled. I sank to the floor, the sword dangling uselessly from my hand as something in me answered him in the worst way—like a part of my body recognized a command before my mind could refuse it.
The ache hit first.
A sudden, violent loneliness that didn’t belong to me. Like someone had poured grief straight into my bloodstream and smiled while I drowned in it.
That same thought pounded through me. Go to him. Let him take away the ache of loneliness. Let him take that pain away.
“Piper!”
Owen tried to reach me. He took a step—
—and stopped.
I looked up in time to see him strain, muscles locked, boots rooted to the floor as if the boards had become a vise. His jaw clenched. Veins stood out in his neck.
He couldn’t move. The sword in his hand was frozen.
The man’s smile deepened, satisfied.
“Good,” he murmured. “I was hoping you’d bring the caretaker.”
“Stay away from her,” Owen snapped, voice tight with effort.
The words cut through the haze—firm, commanding, grounding.
The pressure recoiled at the sound of him, lessened enough for me to inhale. Enough to remember myself.
But not enough to move.
The man’s gaze dropped to the grimoire—where it lay on the worktable, half-shadowed, like it wanted to hide and couldn’t.
“That book has been quiet for a long time,” he said softly. “And then you picked it up.”
My throat tightened. “Who are you?”
His eyes glinted in the windowlight—predator assessing prey.
“A problem you inherited,” he said. “A door your aunt left cracked. My scout said you smelled like her. I had to find out for myself.”
He paused, smile sharpening.
“You can call me Garrat.”
He took one slow step forward. Every instinct in me screamed to back away.
The sword in my hand warmed—alert, offended—like it hated him on sight.
“Don’t,” Owen growled, and the lights above flickered as Owen’s magic pushed against whatever held him.
Garrat didn’t even look at Owen. He looked at me.
“Do you know what it’s like,” he murmured, voice lowering, “to listen to a boundary tear and not be able to reach through it?”
My stomach turned.
He lifted his hand—not toward my face, not to touch me—
Toward the grimoire. The leather cover shuddered. The shop groaned. And the air thinned, like something behind the walls had leaned closer.
“No.” The word scraped out of me. “Don’t touch it.”
His smile sharpened. “Ah. There it is.”
He shifted his fingers, delicate as a pianist.
The grimoire’s clasp clicked.