Aven
Waking up in Ira's arms feels less like an awakening and more like a tactical error I'm currently too comfortable to correct.
My body is a roadmap of yesterday's poor decisions and last night's desperate ones, but all I can hear is the low, steady rhythm of a man whose chest is broad enough to act as a physical barrier against the rest of the world.
The air smells like burning coffee and a very specific kind of magical tantrum. From somewhere down the hall, in the kitchen of Soren's shop, there's the unmistakable sound of metal hitting linoleum and a voice that sounds like a cello being fed into a woodchipper.
"I will hex your entire lineage back to the Industrial Revolution," Soren snarls, presumably at the espresso machine. "You miserable, steam-venting heap of scrap metal. Do you have any idea what my essence feels like right now? You're an affront to the gods of caffeine."
Ira shifts beside me, his muscular arm tightening around my waist for a second before he relaxes.
He's warm in a way that feels unfairly practical.
I'm embarrassed, sore in places that remind me Ira is roughly twice the size of a standard human, and quietly furious that a witch's backroom feels safer than my own apartment ever has.
My apartment has a leaky faucet and three ghosts who think they're entitled to my Netflix password.
This room has iron-bound walls and a man who treats my safety like a professional obligation.
"You're awake," Ira mumbles, his voice a gravelly vibration against the back of my neck.
"Hard to sleep through generational violence against kitchen appliances," I say, my voice sounding like I've swallowed a handful of dry seminary dust. "Is he always like this in the morning?"
"Usually worse," Ira says. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his green eyes scanning my face with that terrifyingly observant gaze of his. He's checking for cracks. Not the kind on the ceiling, but the ones in my head. "How's the noise?"
"Quiet," I admit, and the word feels like a betrayal of every prayer I ever offered to a god who never answered. "It's... it's okay."
I look toward the window, where the morning light is filtered through stained glass and the dust motes are dancing in the air.
A spirit is standing there, a thin, translucent woman in a Victorian-era nightgown who's currently blocking a good portion of the sun.
She's staring at the bed with an expression of mild disapproval, which is rich coming from someone who hasn't had a pulse since the invention of the telephone.
"If you're going to block the light, the least you could do is make yourself useful and judge the coffee," I mutter to her. "Tell Soren his technique is lacking."
"Tell her to pay rent if she wants an opinion on the roast," Soren's voice carries from the kitchen, sharp and manic. "And tell her if she touches my beans, I'll find a way to bind her to a toaster."
I laugh. It's not the sharp, defensive bark I usually use at Gabriel's Bar to keep the drunks at arm's length.
It's a real sound, surprising and unweighted.
The spirit huffs, her image flickering like a dying bulb, and drifts through the wall toward the library.
It's the first time I've spoken to a ghost in this shop without feeling like I was one second away from a nervous breakdown.
"Breakfast," Ira says, sitting up and leaving a cold patch on the bed where his body had been. "Soren makes the coffee. I make the food. If we let him near the stove, he'll try to cook with essence and we'll all end up having visions of the seventeenth century instead of eating."
I watch him move, methodical, efficient, his shaved sides and tattoos making him look like a riot cop who wandered into a fantasy novel.
He doesn't ask if I'm staying. He doesn't make me explain why I'm still here.
He just assumes that because I'm here, I'm fed.
It's a different kind of safety, one lined with high-protein meals and terrifying competence, and I'm still not sure if I should be running for the door or asking for seconds.
I drag myself out of the blankets, feeling the ache in my thighs and the strange, pulsing warmth of the bond in my chest. It's a fragile thing, this choice to stay.
It feels like a temporary ceasefire rather than a permanent peace treaty.
I find my shirt on the floor, sheer, black, and looking entirely too dramatic for a Tuesday morning, and pull it on before heading toward the common area.
Cain is on the couch in the library, a book resting on his knee.
He looks like a museum exhibit of a very dangerous man trying to pass as a graduate student.
He's wearing a V-neck that shows off the lean muscle of his chest, and his dark curls are a mess that probably costs a fortune to maintain.
He's positioned just close enough to the hallway that I have to pass him, but he doesn't look up as I approach.
He gives me the choice to engage or ignore him.
His restraint still hurts. It's a reminder of that first night, of the way he manipulated the silence to pull me in, but seeing him now, after Ira's weight and Soren's manic honesty, it feels less like a trap and more like a man trying to remember how to be human.
He's a predator holding his teeth behind his lips, and the effort is written in the tight line of his jaw.
"The coffee is an act of war," Cain says without looking up from his page. His voice is smooth, old, and currently laced with a dry amusement. "Soren is convinced that if he burns the beans enough, they'll surrender their secrets."
"I heard that!" Soren yells from the kitchen. "At least I don't drink lukewarm blood pouches and judge everyone from a velvet perch, you overgrown bat."
"It's mahogany," Cain murmurs, finally looking at me. His brown eyes are soft, searching. "Good morning, Aven."
"Morning," I say, leaning against the doorframe. I feel the denial loop starting in my head, reminding myself that this is just logistics, just a group of supernatural misfits sharing a lease, not a family. "I'm assuming the coffee isn't actually poisonous."
"Debatable," Cain says. He moves his hand on the couch, patting the cushion beside him. It's an invitation, not a command. "But it is hot."
I don't sit. Not yet. I follow the smell of charcoal and resentment into the kitchen, where Soren is standing over the espresso machine like he's performing an exorcism.
His reddish-orange hair is standing up in several directions, and he's wearing a sweater that looks thin enough to be a second skin.
He looks hollowed out, pale, green eyes wide and manic, but he hands me a mug with a flourish that suggests he's just handed me the Holy Grail.
"Drink," Soren says. "It's a sacred household offering. If you don't finish it, Vera's spirit will weep and the plants will eat your shoes."
I take a sip. It's terrible. It tastes like a tire fire extinguished with bitter tears, but it's hot, and Soren is watching me with a vulnerability that he's trying to hide behind a bratty smirk. He needs me to like it. He needs me to be part of the rhythm. I swallow the sludge and force a nod.
"It's... complex," I say, choosing the most academic word for disaster I can find. "Very artisanal."
Soren beams, a quick, sharp flash of light that makes my heart do a strange little stutter. "Exactly. Ira doesn't understand the nuance of a dark roast. He just wants things to be efficient."
Ira is at the stove, silently sliding eggs onto plates.
He doesn't join the bickering. He just moves a knife out of Soren's reach when the witch gets too animated with his hands, a quiet act of protection that he doesn't even seem to notice he's doing.
I'm given a plate, a blanket that Ira pulls from a nearby chair, and a place at the small kitchen table.
No one looks at me like I'm a ticking spiritual time bomb.
No one treats the fact that I'm talking to a Victorian ghost as a symptom of insanity.
That's the dangerous part. Not the fated bond talk, not the ancient vampire charm, but the fact that they've made a space for the broken parts of me and called it domesticity.
I eat the eggs, which are perfectly seasoned, because of course they are, and feel the fragile reality of my old life slipping away.
The Seminary, the Bar, the cold apartment where I drink myself into a stupor just to get the dead to shut up.
It all feels like a movie I saw years ago and can barely remember the plot of.
"I need to make some calls," I say, the weight of the coffee mug suddenly feeling like a leaden anchor in my hand. "I can't just... vanish."
"The Seminary?" Ira asks, his eyes flicking to mine. He's already thinking about the security implications. He's already building the wall higher.
"And Gabriel," I say. "He'll think I'm dead in a ditch. Or worse, that I've finally joined a cult."
"Technically, we're a coven," Soren points out, licking jam off his thumb. "Cults have better branding and tax exemptions. We just have a biting plant and a lot of repressed trauma."
I walk back into the library, my phone feeling like a hot coal in my pocket.
I sit on the edge of a chair, as far from Cain as I can get without being rude, and dial the Seminary's administrative office.
My voice is dry and polite, the voice of the boy who wanted to be a priest because he thought God might be the only one who could give him a moment of peace.
"I'm calling to resign," I say, and the words feel like I'm cutting a tether I've been clinging to for five years. "Effective immediately. Personal reasons. Yes, I understand the protocol."
There's a pause on the other end. It's long, too long, and I can hear the click of keys being pressed. The person on the other end isn't just an administrator; they're a monitor. I can feel it in the way the air in the room seems to chill.
"Have you spoken to Ezra about this decision, Aven?" the woman asks. Her voice is level, bureaucratic, and entirely too interested. "Are you in a safe location?"
"I'm fine," I say, my grip tightening on the phone until my knuckles turn white. Lying remains my most transferable skill, a byproduct of years spent pretending the shadows weren't screaming at me. "I've spoken to who I need to speak to. I'll send the formal letter by mail."
"The Church is very concerned about your welfare," she continues, her tone sliding into that managerial concern Ezra always uses. "Perhaps you should come in for a meeting? Just to ensure you're making this choice with a clear mind."
"My mind is perfectly clear," I say, and I hang up before she can mention spiritual guidance, wellness checks, or any other phrase that means someone is coming to collect me.
I file that pause away, the way she knew Ezra's name immediately, the way she checked for my safety as if I were a piece of equipment that had gone missing from the inventory.
I call Gabriel next. This one hurts. Gabriel is the only family I have left who isn't a ghost, and the sound of his gruff, worried voice makes the back of my throat tighten.
"Aven? Kid, where the hell are you?" Gabriel's voice is filtered through the background noise of the bar, the clinking of glasses, the low hum of the regulars. "I called your place. You weren't there. The energy here has been… stiff."
"I'm okay, Gabe," I say, closing my eyes. I can picture him: older, grizzled, the only family I have left who isn't a ghost. "I'm with... people. I'm staying at a shop for a while. It's safer here."
"Safer?" Gabriel snorts. "You're with that vampire, aren't you? The one who looks like he's never done a day's work in his life? And the witch with the orange hair who talks to his plants?"
I look over at the kitchen. Soren is currently insulting a piece of toast because it didn't brown evenly. Cain is pretending to read but I can see his ears twitching, catching every word. Ira is silently moving a steak knife out of Soren's reach, his face a mask of tactical patience.
"It's debatable," I say, and a small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "But they're... they're okay, Gabe. They know what they're doing. Mostly."
"Text me every day," Gabriel commands. "If I don't hear from you by noon, I'm coming over there with a shotgun and a priest, and I don't care how many wards that kid has on the door."
"I'll text," I promise, feeling a lump in my throat. "I promise."
I set the phone down and let out a breath I feel like I've been holding for a decade.
The silence in the library is different now, not the oppressive, forced quiet Cain provides, but a natural lull.
The spirits are still there, hovering in the edges of my vision, but they aren't screaming. They're just... waiting.
I pull up my messages. Ezra's name is at the top, a string of unread texts that vary from Thinking of you to Please call me, I'm worried.
He's my friend. He's the one who held my hand when the visions got too bad in the Seminary. He's the one who told me that my blood wasn't a curse, just a responsibility. Old comfort is a hard thing to distrust, even when your mother's journals are screaming at you from a box under the bed.
I'm taking some time off, I type, my fingers trembling slightly. Away from the city. I'm fine. I'll explain later.
The response is almost instantaneous. The little bubbles appear and vanish, then the text pops up.
Aven, thank God. I've been so worried. Let's get coffee soon, okay? I want to make sure you're really all right. I'm here if you need anything. Always.
I look at the screen. The concern is warm, familiar, and tight enough that I mistake it for comfort. I put the phone on the coffee table, face down, and lean my head back against the chair.
Cain doesn't say anything, but I feel the shift in the air as he stands and crosses the small distance between us.
He sits on the edge of the couch, close enough that I can feel the radiating heat of his body, but he doesn't touch me.
He just sits there, an ancient predator offering the only thing he has left: his presence.
"You're shaking," he says softly.
"It's the coffee," I lie. "Soren's brew is basically liquid adrenaline and spite."
"Aven." Cain's voice is a low vibration that bypasses my ears and goes straight to my jawbone. He reaches out, his hand hovering over mine for a long, agonizing second.
I turn my hand over, my palm meeting his. His skin is cool, not cold like a corpse, but the temperature of a stone that's been sitting in the shade. I lean toward him, my shoulder meeting his, and the silence in my head deepens until it's a physical weight, pinning me to the moment.
"I'm staying," I whisper, the admission feels like the heaviest thing I've ever said.