42. Esme
ESME
“You have your own body?” Jax asks. “How? What happened to Elliot?”
Jax’s last question makes little sense to me.
Clearly I’m out of the loop. But I’m still dumbfounded that I’m standing before Dominic Merlin.
The founder, the legend. The formidable mage, one of the first darkbloods, a creator of Darkbirch itself.
The man who they say ended his own life prematurely to explore the power of the Ides’ veil…
and the one I’m responsible for unleashing.
I don’t know how old he was when he became an Ide, but in human terms, he doesn’t look older than his mid-thirties. Maybe he became an Ide early in life?
“Elliot’s well,” Dominic responds, sliding his hands into his cloak pockets. His tall frame leans slightly against my doorframe. “And as for myself, this isn’t exactly a body. It’s more a manifestation, albeit quite… real.”
I’m standing closest to him, and he gently reaches out, his fingers brushing against my outer wrist in a touch that’s meant to be demonstrative, I think, but nothing about it feels ordinary.
My breath catches before I can stop it. The touch moves through me in quiet ripples, somehow feeling deeper than skin, deeper than bone, settling somewhere I don’t have words for.
Cool, smooth, weightless—and still it feels like too much.
For a second, the room seems to fall strangely still.
It’s like standing at the edge of a starless night, staring into something vast enough to swallow you whole, and feeling some hidden part of yourself lean toward it instead of away.
His hand leaves mine, but the feeling lingers—unsettling, intimate, like he reached past flesh and touched something underneath.
I feel Dayn’s tension snap taut beside me. “I’d rather you get my wife’s permission before touching her,” he says, voice low and edged with warning.
Dominic’s eyes level with Dayn’s, calm as still water, not a hint of intimidation in his posture. “Naturally.”
The silence that follows feels thick enough to choke on.
A clash of two different kinds of gravity—Dayn’s, which is hot, heavy, and pulses with the ancient arrogance of a dragon king; and Dominic’s, which is cold, vast, and quiet…
like the weight of the deep ocean. They don’t move.
They don’t even seem to breathe. They just stand there, as if measuring the exact distance it would take to annihilate one another.
For one strange second, it feels like if either of them pushes, the whole turret might split down the middle.
Then Jax breaks the silence. “I thought you Ides needed vessels to survive or to take any form at all? If you can exist independently, why do we need to keep carrying you all?”
Dominic’s dark eyes move to Jax. “For reasons I’ll gladly explain over a meal, I’ve found there are exceptions.” He glances outside. “Shall we?”
Dominic’s gaze shifts from me to Dayn, that small, unreadable smile returning to his lips. The crushing weight in the room lifts only slightly. “After you?”
I swallow, feeling Dayn’s hand curl around mine. I nod. We might as well see what Dominic has to say for himself. After all, he’s the reason my whole coven is still living.
Dayn doesn’t resist as I head down the tower stairs, but his fingers interlace with mine with a possessiveness that feels like both a comfort and a warning.
I stay close to his side, my shoulder brushing his arm.
I can sense the low-level vibration of his magic, a warning hum meant for anyone—or anything—that dares to get too close.
I can’t help but think that he’s kind of cute like this.
When we all reach ground level, Dominic walks ahead a little, leading us in a strange, silent procession.
I look more closely at the buildings as we walk, examining the transformation of the grounds.
The restoration work is clearly moving along steadily.
Soon enough, I won’t be able to tell this place was hit by dragonfire.
The main academy buildings are almost entirely restored, the ancient gothic architecture somehow looking sharper, more formidable than before.
We’re crossing the central quad toward the main entrance when I see them.
Up ahead, I spot more figures being escorted in the same direction—toward us—by a small group of darkbloods in warden cloaks. My heart jumps when I recognize Mom and Brynn. Brynn looks particularly irritated, flustered even, her posture rigid, like she’s biting back complaints.
The moment she sees me, relief floods her face. She breaks away from the group and rushes over, throwing her arms around me.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispers against my shoulder.
Mom follows close behind, embracing me tightly after Brynn steps back. “Esme,” she breathes, her voice thick with emotion. I notice the subtle glint of a bracelet on her wrist—the suppression charm Dad mentioned.
“Are you okay?” I ask Brynn quietly, studying her face. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes.
“I need to find Chad,” she says, her voice urgent but low. “He’s out there somewhere, and I think he’s in trouble. Or I am. It’s complicated.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “Chad? What does he have to do with—”
“Not now,” she cuts me off, glancing at the darkbloods surrounding us. “I’ll try to fill you in later.”
I frown but respect her preference, not pushing further as we continue walking. Jax gives Mom a knowing look, as if he’s trying to communicate that he’s already filled me in about Dad.
Dad. I can’t believe, walking here right now, we’re together as a family for the first time in thirteen years, albeit in what’s probably the strangest way possible. It still feels utterly surreal.
I suspect Dominic will lead us toward the administrative wing, where professors and coven staff take their meals in relative privacy. But instead, he takes us past the training grounds and toward the oldest, quietest part of the coven. Toward the graveyard.
The air shifts as we approach, feeling cooler, heavier.
Shadows stretch long between the headstones, and the fine hairs along my arms rise from the sheer weight of spiritual energy.
Before Dayn damaged our spirit army at Heathborne, it was always strong here, but right now it feels turned all the way up, pressing against my skin like a kind of electricity.
And there, nestled between two massive yew trees whose branches form a natural archway, a table has been set.
It’s an elegant setting—polished dark wood, crystal goblets that catch the morning light, plates that look centuries old.
We’re eating… here?
It should feel absurd, a formal meal in the middle of a graveyard, yet somehow, I can’t shake the impression that it fits perfectly—elegant and unsettling in equal measure. Uncle Edwin, Aunt Maelis, Nyv, Ridge, and Isola are already sitting there.
But it’s the figure seated at one head of the table that my eyes settle on. And my breath catches in my throat.
Esther Salem.
Not as the flickering spirit I’ve always known her to be. Not as the wisps of memory and power that have guided our family for decades.
She sits there looking almost solid—almost real, the way Dominic does—her hands resting calmly on the table.
Her silver-streaked hair is woven into an intricate traditional braid that I remember from old portraits, but now it looks like actual…
hair, not spirit-stuff. Her face holds the same sharp intelligence, the same weathered lines of someone who has seen too much and forgotten nothing.
She looks... alive. Or as alive as Dominic does. Her form has the same strange solidity, the same subtle shimmer of power and flicker of shadows just beneath the surface. And her eyes… they’re no longer grey, just pools of darkness.
And she’s looking straight at me.
When I meet her gaze, a small, knowing smile touches her lips.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.