Soren
Deciding I'm the least damaging person to send after Aven, which isn't the same thing as being safe, I choose to go. I've got good intentions, a fraying leash on my magic, and a talent for making bad situations worse with excellent posture, so naturally I go alone.
The next night, Gabriel's Bar smells like stale beer, wet dogs, and the kind of existential despair that usually requires a decade of therapy to unpack.
The floor's got a layer of stickiness that feels less like a spill and more like a biological choice, and the lighting's doing no one any favors.
It's the kind of place where hope goes to have a cigarette and then forgets why it came.
The wards at the threshold are even worse.
They're thin, clumsy things, the magical equivalent of a Beware of Dog sign when you actually own a very old hamster.
They'd stop a drunk human with a grudge, maybe, but they wouldn't stop a breeze with a bad attitude.
I step over them and feel the pathetic buzz against my ankles, a static-shock greeting that makes me want to find the person who drew them and hit them with a heavy book.
Possibly one of Vera's larger encyclopedias on ethics. Or just a brick.
At the far end of the bar, a man who's clearly been dead since the mid-nineties is sitting in the sugar bowl.
He's a smudge of grey smoke and poor life choices, his translucent backside merging with the white granules.
He's staring at his own hands with a level of focused boredom that only the truly deceased can manage.
I ignore him. I've got enough emotionally unavailable men in my life without adding ghosts who think they're condiments to the rotation.
There’s a man in a booth, the one where the leather's cracked and looks like it's weeping foam.
He watches me with that smug, spectral patience that makes my teeth ache.
He knows something. Ghosts always think they know something, mostly because they've got nothing better to do than eavesdrop on the living.
I give him my most dismissive profile and head for the bar.
Aven's behind the counter, currently trying to wipe a puddle of stout toward the edge with a rag that looks like it should be declared a biohazard.
He looks exhausted. The kind of tired where a person starts to become translucent around the edges.
He's a walking bruise, all sharp angles and defensive humor, and the sight of him makes something in my chest tighten in a way that's deeply inconvenient for my brand.
"Oh look," Aven mutters, not looking up from his beer puddle. "The decorative arts have arrived. Did the shop run out of sentient plants to torment, or are you just here to critique the dust?"
"The dust's actually the most stable thing in here," I say, leaning against the mahogany counter.
"I'm here because I decided I was the least threatening option to check on you.
Cain's currently vibrating with enough guilt to power a small city, and Ira's busy sharpening things.
I was the only one left with a sense of perspective and a decent pair of shoes. "
Aven finally looks at me, his amber eyes bloodshot and wary. "Least threatening. Right. Because nothing says safe space like a manic witch in a designer sweater who looks like he'd turn my seminary handler into a decorative shrub for breathing wrong."
“I make no promises where Ezra is concerned,” I say, tracing a circle in a dry patch of the bar. “But we aren’t here to talk about him. We’re here because you’re stubborn, exhausted, and currently trying to hide from a fated bond in a dive bar that doesn’t even have proper plumbing.”
Aven sets the rag down, his knuckles white against the wood. "It's not hiding if I'm just going to work, Soren. Some of us have jobs that don't involve selling cursed candles to tourists. It's called being a functioning member of society. You should try it sometime. It's very grounding."
"I'm extremely functioning," I snap, the manic edge in my voice sharpening.
"I'm functioning so hard I can practically hear your brain trying to rationalize whatever new family-shaped horror you dragged home from Gabriel's instead of bringing it into a room with actual wards.
You're terrified, Aven. And you're trying to flatten the truth into something easier to hate so you don't have to face the fact that you actually want us. "
Aven's jaw tightens. "I don't want a group project with better cheekbones. I want a night of sleep where I don't hear the dead whispering about their unpaid taxes. I want to not be an asset. I want to be a person."
"You think we see you as a tool?" I lean in, my voice dropping.
"Aven, look at me. I'm a mess. My magic's eating me from the inside out, Ira's one bad day away from building a bunker out of pure spite, and Cain's been a captive for longer than your family's had a surname.
We're selfish. We're desperate. We're absolutely not in control of this.
But we aren't lying about wanting you. The bond benefits me.
It keeps me from hollowing out. I'm not going to pretend I'm a saint here to save you.
I'm drowning, Aven. I'm not going to pretend I didn't reach for you because you were the first thing that felt solid. "
The honesty of it seems to catch him off guard.
The sarcasm falters, replaced by a flickering uncertainty that makes him look even more fragile.
He looks down at my hand on the bar, then back up at me.
"At least you're not trying to tell me it's for my own good.
That's Ezra's line. Everyone who wants to cage me starts with it's for your own good. "
"Fuck him," I mutter, and for a second, I see a ghost of a smile on Aven's face.
It's small and tired, but it's there. "Cain shouldn't have herded you.
He's an ancient predator; he doesn't know how to do anything gently.
And Ira… well, Ira thinks protection's a synonym for don't move.
They're idiots. Useful idiots, occasionally.
Dangerous idiots, often. But they're not lying to you. "
I reach out, my fingers brushing the back of his hand.
The contact's electric. It isn't the heavy, silent anchor of Cain or the steel-wrapped containment of Ira.
My magic's Essren. It's texture and warmth and movement.
When I touch him, the bond opens like a door to a heated room in winter.
The spectral static in the bar doesn't vanish; it changes.
Aven's breath hitches. His hand doesn't pull away. Instead, his fingers twitch, almost catching mine before he catches himself. "It feels... warm. Why's it warm?"
"Because I'm not trying to shut the world out for you," I whisper, stepping closer until the smell of the bar's replaced by the smell of Aven: salt, old paper, and something like ozone.
"I'm trying to help you read it. Maybe you're not meant to be deaf to the dead.
Maybe you're meant to understand them without letting them eat you alive.
My magic gives you the lens. It turns the screaming into something closer to a conversation. "
He stares at our joined hands, his expression a mix of awe and absolute terror. "I don't know if I can do that. I don't know if I want to."
"You're already doing it," I say, squeezing his fingers. "You're just doing it without a map. Come back to the shop, Aven. Not because you have to. Because you're exhausted, and stubborn, and I'm tired of pretending that watching you unravel is a reasonable plan."
Gabriel calls out from the back, something about the kegs, and Aven jerks back as if the wood had turned to ice.
The moment shatters, the warmth retreating into a dull ache in my chest. He looks away, grabbing his rag again with frantic energy.
"The bar's closing in twenty minutes, Soren.
Just... go. I'll think about it. I'm thinking. "
"Think faster," I say, but I back away. I know when a thread's about to snap. "The dead aren't going to wait for you to finish your shift, and neither are we."
I walk toward the door, feeling the dead man’s eyes on my back the whole way.
I don't look back until I'm outside, the cool night air hitting my face like a reprimand.
I'm a liar. I told him I was the least threatening option.
But as I watch him through the grimy window, watching him lean his forehead against the cool glass of a beer tap, I know that's the biggest lie of all.
Because I'm the one who's going to make him feel everything he's been trying to drown in whiskey, and that's far more dangerous than anything Cain or Ira could do.
I wait. The streetlights flicker, casting long, jaundiced shadows across the pavement.
It takes thirty minutes for the last of the stragglers to stumble out, Gabriel's voice booming a final get out before the heavy click of the lock echoes through the quiet street.
The lights inside dim, leaving only the neon Open sign to hum its dying red song.
Gabriel disappears through the back, leaving Aven alone to finish the closing tasks.
I slip back inside before the deadbolt can slide home.
The bar's a different beast in the dark.
The shadows are longer, more crowded, but they feel less like a threat and more like an audience.
Aven's at the far end of the bar, his back to me, counting the drawer with a focus that borders on religious.
He doesn't hear me until I'm standing right behind him.
"I told you to leave," he says, though there's no bite in it. He doesn't even turn around.
"I'm a witch, Aven. We aren't known for our listening skills," I say, stepping close enough for him to feel the heat of me without touching. "Stop counting the money. The money doesn't care if you're drowning."
"Soren—"