Chapter 16
JAX
My entire body feels like it's been run through a meat grinder.
After a full day of “integration training” with Professor Burr, every muscle screams in protest when I shift in my chair.
The temporary library—set up in one of the theory classrooms—is quiet except for the occasional rustle of pages and Joseph's frustrated sighs beside me.
“This is bullshit,” Joseph mutters, shoving a thick tome away from him. “How are we supposed to maintain 'mental barriers' when these ancient assholes are literally living in our heads?”
“Keep your voice down. You want Burr to assign us extra drills tomorrow?” Ridge hisses from across the table.
Nyv groans over her coursework. “I’m starting to see the appeal of being dead.”
I stare blankly at the borrowed text in front of me.
Stonegate Coven sent over what books they could spare after our library was reduced to cinders.
Most of them are older editions, the margins filled with previous students' notes.
My eyes skim over a paragraph about “compartmentalization of consciousness,” but the words blur together.
“Can you concentrate?” my father's voice echoes in my head. He's been quiet most of the day, observing, but now he stirs with purpose.
“I'm trying,” I mutter under my breath.
Ridge glances up at me. “You say something?”
“Just talking to myself,” I reply, rubbing my temples. “I think I'm done for tonight.”
“Weak,” Nyv teases, but her eyes are drooping too.
I close the book and stretch, wincing as my shoulders protest. “Any of you feel like your Ide is getting... stronger?”
Joseph's expression darkens. “Yeah. Casius is getting pushier. Keeps trying to take over during basic exercises.”
“Mine’s started criticizing my form constantly,” Ridge says. “Apparently, I've been throwing fireballs wrong my whole life.”
“Jax,” my father interrupts, his voice suddenly urgent. “You should visit home tonight.”
I blink, caught off guard by the request. “What? Now?”
“You need to go home,” he insists. “To see your mother.”
Ridge raises an eyebrow. “You okay there, cousin?”
“Yeah,” I say, gathering my books. “I just... I think I'm going to head to my mom's place. Check in on her.”
“At this hour?” Nyv asks, checking her watch. “It's almost eleven.”
“She's probably still up,” I say, already standing. “See you guys tomorrow.”
As I leave the makeshift library, my father's presence grows stronger, more insistent. “What's this about?” I ask quietly once I'm alone in the hallway.
“I need to see her,” he admits, his voice softer now. “I was still coming to when you first got out of the ground… And there's something in my study I want you to find.”
“Your study? Mom hasn't changed anything in there since.”
“I suspected,” he says. “That's what I'm counting on.”
The walk to our family home takes about twenty minutes, following a winding path through the woods. The old lodge looks exactly as it always has: solid, unassuming, covered by layers of ivy. It was thankfully spared by the dragonfire, far enough from the worst of the attack.
As I approach the front door, I feel my father's anticipation building like pressure in my chest.
“It's been so long,” he whispers, and the longing in his voice makes my throat tighten.
I unlock the door and step inside. The entrance hall is dimly lit, shadows gathering in the corners.
My eyes immediately find what they always do—the large framed photograph on the mantelpiece.
My father, younger and smiling, his arm around my mother's waist. They look happy, untouched by the grief that would follow.
“Jax? Is that you?” My mother's voice calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah. Me.”
She appears in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Her hair is pulled back in a loose bun, silver strands catching the light. She looks tired but smiles when she sees me.
A wave of emotion crashes through me—not mine, but his. Love, so intense it burns. Regret that cuts like a knife. Longing so profound it steals my breath.
“Oh,” I gasp, unprepared for the force of it.
My mother frowns, concerned. “Jax? Are you okay?”
I struggle to compose myself. “Nothing,” I manage through a thick throat. “Just... tired from training.”
She studies my face, doctor's eyes missing nothing. “You're pushing yourself too hard. Come sit down. I'll make you some tea.”
As she leads me to the kitchen, my father's emotions continue to pour through me.
Every familiar detail of our home hits him with the force of a physical blow—the chipped mug on the counter that he bought her in Vienna, the wind chimes outside the window that he hung himself, the worn spot on the counter where he used to lean while she cooked.
“How are you doing with all of this?” she asks, putting the kettle on. “The Ide situation?”
I swallow hard, fighting the urge to tell her everything. To tell her that her husband isn't gone, that he's right here, seeing her through my eyes, loving her with an intensity that's almost unbearable.
“I'm... adjusting,” I say instead. “It's strange, having someone else in your head.”
“It is...” She turns, leaning against the counter. Her eyes drift to the photograph visible through the doorway. “Can’t help wondering what Dad would make of all this.”
My father's grief is a vise around my heart. “Don't tell her,” he says quietly. “Not yet.”
“I'm sure he'd be proud of how you're handling it,” I say, the words feeling hollow when the truth sits so heavy on my tongue.
My mother smiles sadly. “He would be proud of all of you. He always was.” She hands me a mug of tea. “You look so much like him now. Every day, a little more.”
“Mom...” I begin, not even sure what I'm going to say.
“It’s okay,” she says softly. “I know it’s still hard to… talk about him.”
We sit in silence for a while, drinking tea. My father's presence is quieter now, but I can feel him soaking in every detail of her—the new lines around her eyes, the graceful way she tucks her hair behind her ear, the strength in her hands.
“Actually,” I manage finally, “I wanted to fetch something from upstairs. I won’t be long.”
She nods. “Of course. Stay as long as you want. I’ll be headed to bed soon.”
The study is on the second floor, at the end of the hallway. As I approach the door, my father's anticipation builds again.
“What exactly am I looking for?” I ask him quietly.
“My journal,” he replies. “It has a… black leather cover. I didn’t keep it in plain sight.”
I push open the door, and the scent hits me immediately—old books, leather, and the faintest trace of the cologne my father used to wear. The room is frozen in time. Papers still scattered across the desk, an empty mug long dried out, books open to pages he was reading thirteen years ago.
“It's in the desk,” my father directs. “Bottom drawer, behind the false panel.”
I frown, moving to the large oak desk and pull open the bottom drawer. It's filled with folders and loose papers. “False panel?” I mutter.
“Press the back right corner. It should pop open.”
I do as he says, pushing against the wood. There's a soft click, and a section of the drawer’s back panel swings inward, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside lies a small black leather journal, its edges worn smooth from handling.
“That’s it,” my father confirms as I pull it out. “I think I kept my most… sensitive thoughts here.”
My frown doesn’t leave my face. I had no idea my father even kept a journal, much less that he’d wanted to keep it secret. From whom? As a high-level operative of Darkbirch, a spy, maybe this was standard. I was only a kid then.
I open the journal carefully. The pages are filled with my father's distinctive handwriting—tight, precise, slanting slightly to the right.
But as I begin to read, I realize it's not straightforward.
Many entries are written in what appears to be a personal code, with abbreviations and symbols mixed in with regular text.
“I might be able to translate it,” my father says. “Or some of it. It's... difficult to remember everything clearly.”
I flip through the pages, scanning for anything that jumps out. Near the back, I find entries dated just before his final mission.
“Mission to TH confirmed,” I read aloud softly.
“Tarnhollow,” my father translates.
I continue reading: “ES fixation on protocol. Historical necessity. Details? Something off.”
“ES is Esther Salem. My mother,” he murmurs. “Protocol... I’m not sure what that denotes.”
My heart beats faster as I turn the page. The handwriting on the next entry is messier:
“B restricted archive visit 3rd time this month. Claims academic interest only. Found her notes.”
“B,” my father says. “Blythe…”
“Blythe? And what archives?”
My father makes a frustrated sound. “Trying to remember details.”
I flip to the final entry, dated the day before he left for Tarnhollow:
“TH mission parameters changed last minute. I lead personally.”
The page ends there. The rest of the journal is blank… Literally blank.
“Dad…” I whisper. “Could your notes be any more fucking unhelpful?”
“Language,” my father says automatically. “It’s a spy’s habit. And I didn’t exactly expect to be consulting them from inside your head.”
“Well, we learned a whole load of nothing, basically, unless your memory starts working.”
I flip through the scribbles again, pausing at the mentions of “ES” and “B”.
I wet my lower lip. “All we know clearly is that both Esther and Blythe were on your mind before you disappeared, and they were acting in… unexpected ways. Blythe was researching something classified. Then your routine reconnaissance mission changed last minute… Why don’t we try talking to those women? ”
“No.” My father’s answer is instant. “Not yet.”
“Why? You don’t trust them?”
“I’m not sure anyone can be fully trusted right now. I’ll keep thinking about these notes and… something more may come back to me. In the meantime, you’ll continue life as normal at the academy.”
I lean back in his desk chair and can’t help letting out a dry laugh.
“Life as normal,” I say. “Yeah. Says the man living in my skull.”