Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When the portal drops us back into the standing stones ten minutes later, the cold air is a slap in the face. I manage not to lose my balance and crash into anyone, so I take that as a personal best.
The ancient stones hum at their usual low frequency—that deep, bone-felt vibration that says I’m home—but none of it reaches past the knot sitting in my chest.
Sebastian closes the portal behind us with a soft crack of displaced air, and the eight of us stand in the ring of stones for a moment, with no one speaking.
The eight of us.
Not the nine we left with.
The forest path back to the house seems longer than usual.
"She'll be all right." Sebastian’s voice is low and carefully pitched. "The guardian of the forge chose her. He didn’t do that lightly."
Asher grunts. “Do we really trust our girl to a talking cat named Brimstone?”
I push a low branch out of my way. It snaps back harder than I expect and stings my palm. “We should’ve thought this out better. We were so focused on finding the forge we didn’t take into account what might happen when we did find it.”
“She's coming back." Wylder moves alongside me.
“You don't know that for sure.”
“No, but Mica is not someone to get swallowed by things quietly. Whatever Brimstone and that forge are showing her, if she doesn’t like it, she’ll make it known.”
Rowan makes a sound that's almost a laugh.
Her attempt at humor chips something loose in my chest, at least a little. And Wylder’s right, Mica didn't sign up to get absorbed by an ancient forge in the Arizona desert.
She signed up to be mentored on how to use a mythical forge so we can fight an asshole of a demon.
I don't know if she's safe. I don't know if she's scared. I don't know if that cat is actually benevolent or if the Crucible took what it needed and that's the end of Mica.
I close my eyes and erase that thought from existence.
She’s fine. The cat chose her, and now she’s living her best metal witch life.
The porch steps creak under my feet and, instead of going inside, I let the others file past me and lean against the railing. Is it colder than it was an hour ago, or is that just me?
Winter is coming.
The conversations of the others filter into the house, the soft voices of Wylder and Sebastian becoming muffled and then silent as the back door closes.
"Hey," Asher leans on the railing beside me, staring out at the yard and the stones beyond, "don’t overthink this one, Pops. This isn’t your fault. It seems everyone has their destiny unfolding. Yours, mine, and now Mica’s."
"Yeah, you’re right. It still scares me.”
“Of course… but there’s nothing you can do to safeguard any of us, so you can’t take that on as your responsibility.”
I press my palms flat against the railing. The wood is rough, cold, and real. "But what if she doesn't come back? What if the cat just—keeps her? What if we're sitting here making tea and she's trapped somewhere and we never find out what happened to her?"
Asher shifts closer and hooks his arm under mine. He laces our fingers together and squeezes, and I drop my head to rest against his shoulder. “Tell me she’s going to be all right. You don’t even have to believe it, just say the words and I’ll believe it because it’s you.”
He turns his head and kisses my forehead. “She’s going to be fine, baby girl, and I’m not just saying it. I believe it.”
I draw a deep breath into tight lungs. “All right, then I believe it, too.”
The coffee machine gurgles behind me like it's out of breath. I fold the same dish towel for the third time, stalling because leaving Biscuits & Banter means walking back out into whatever the hell today's atmosphere is serving up.
"You good there, Poppy?"
I glance up. Tanner's leaning against the archway between the kitchen and the serving counter, his arms crossed, his gaze sharp under that easy-going exterior he wears like armor.
"Yeah… it’s just..." I gesture vaguely at the five occupied tables in the middle of afternoon rush hour, "been a weird day. I feel like something big is looming.”
He nods. “Life can feel that way when the stakes are high.”
“So, what do I do?”
“Go home, rest, and take care of yourself. You know what they say, ‘In case of emergency, you need to put your own mask on before helping others.’”
That’s sound logic.
Too bad I’m not great at being logical.
I grab my things from the back room, shrug into my jacket, and sling my purse over my shoulder.
Knowing Tharuzel has broken the first of Sebastian’s wards and will inevitably break through the next at any moment, and knowing we have no way to stop him, injure him, or send him back to Hell, has anxiety prickling like electric nettles under my skin.
What will it mean to be bound to a major demon once he has a physical presence in this realm? What does having a blood contract actually mean?
That worry has taken root in my skull as a sick, tribal rhythm that's been growing louder for days. In my worst moments, I worry that it’s Tharuzel's heartbeat syncing with mine.
And I hate it.
When I emerge, Tanner is up front with Marty, plating a piece of coconut cream pie for Miss Edna. He finishes what he’s doing, sets the knife behind him on the back counter, and lifts his chin. “Remember what I said, Poppy. Take care of yourself, or you’ll be no good to anyone else.”
I exhale a long breath, committed to try. "Thanks. I’ll do my best.”
He winks. “You can only do what you can do. Leave anything beyond to the goddess.”
You hear that, Birdie? You’ve got to pick up the slack. I can only do so much.
I wave to Marty on my way out. He's polishing one of his snarky mugs—the one that says I'm not arguing, I'm just explaining why I'm right—and gives me a two-fingered salute without breaking focus.
The brass bell jingles as I push through the door.
And the world outside feels wrong.
Birds erupt from the trees lining Main Street, a chaotic storm of wings and panicked cries. A deer—an actual deer—bolts past the post office like something's snapping at its heels. It doesn't even slow down at the crosswalk.
I stand frozen on the sidewalk, scanning the street. The storefronts look normal. The sky's overcast but not threatening. Yet everything feels... hollow.
Since the night we went on our ghost tour, I’ve begun to see them.
Faint outlines of old Emberwood ghosts drifting along the sidewalks, lingering near their favorite haunts.
The baker who died in 1947 still hangs around the corner bakery.
The little girl who drowned in Crescent Lake sometimes sits on the bench near the fountain.
Today? Nothing.
The spirit world feels empty.
A horn honks, and I jump. Asher's beat-up gray truck pulls up to the curb, Orion in the passenger seat and Rowan lounging in the backseat. I yank open the door and slide in beside her, fumbling with the seatbelt.
"Tell me you feel it too," I blurt.
Asher twists to look at me. "The weirdness? Oh yeah. I was staring out the back window at home earlier and a whole family of raccoons just sprinted through the yard. In broad daylight. Like they were fleeing a forest fire."
"The shadows are off, too." Rowan has her arms wrapped around herself, fingers tapping restlessly against her ribs. "Sluggish. Like they're... distracted."
Orion shifts in his seat, his silver-blue eyes scanning the street. "Animals have been losing it all day. And the air—" He pauses, nostrils flaring. "—smells like ozone. Like right before a big storm rolls in."
"Except there's no storm in the forecast," I mutter.
"Exactly."
The thrum inside me pulses again. Stronger this time. It's not pain, not quite—just pressure. Like someone's inflating a balloon inside my ribcage.
"So, what are you saying?" Asher pulls away from the curb and heads down Main Street. “Do you think these vibes are less 'cozy autumn afternoon' and more 'final boss music just started playing’?"
Despite everything, Rowan snorts. "Did you just compare our lives to a video game?"
"Our lives are a video game. We've got quests, side missions, a sketchy villain monologuing from the shadows—"
"Don't forget the random loot drops," Orion adds dryly.
"Exactly! Although I'm still waiting for my legendary weapon."
The banter cracks the tension just enough for me to breathe. But then the bond pulses again—harder, deeper—and the words slip out before I can stop them.
"He's getting stronger."
The truck goes quiet, and Asher's hands tighten on the wheel.
Rowan stiffens beside me. "Tharuzel?"
I press a hand to my chest, feeling the thrum beneath my skin. "Yeah. It won’t be long now.”
The truck has barely stopped before I bail out and am sprinting toward the shed.
"Poppy?" Asher cuts the engine and is right behind me. "Are you losing it? Because this feels like you’re taking a header off the deep end.”
"Not crazy," I call back, yanking open the shed door. "I just really need chalk!"
"That doesn't really help your case," Orion mutters.
I ignore them, scanning the cluttered shelves. Garden tools. Bags of potting soil. A rusted watering can.
Come on, come on—
There. In the back corner, half-buried under a stack of old beach toys and deflated pool floaties, is a plastic bucket overflowing with sidewalk chalk.
I grab a thick piece of white chalk and bolt back outside.
The tugging intensifies. It’s not painful, but insistent. Like someone's wrapped fishing line around my sternum and keeps giving it gentle, rhythmic yanks.
I drop to a crouch at the edge of the driveway, scanning the gravel.
"Poppy?" Rowan's voice is careful. "What are you doing?"
"Give me a second."
Stones. I need the right stone. Something smooth, something that'll hold a charge—
My fingers close around a white one. Mostly round, with one end that tapers to a vague point. Perfect.