Soren #2
Ira is there before the sound of my voice has even finished bouncing off the walls.
He moves with a tactical, predatory grace that makes my panic feel small and chaotic.
He doesn't ask questions; he assesses and acts.
He steps in behind Aven's chair, his massive arms reaching around to pull Aven back against his chest, pinning him to the solid reality of his frame.
One of his hands, scarred from a hundred exorcisms and steady as the earth itself, cups the back of Aven's head, forcing him to lean into the solid, rhythmic heat of Ira's body.
"Focus on my voice," Ira says. It isn't a request. It's a command, delivered with the kind of absolute authority that only comes from a man who's spent his life telling demons to go back to hell. "Aven. Listen to the heart. My heart. Count the beats. One. Two. One. Two."
Cain moves in from the side, his presence a dark, velvet weight that seems to drink the light.
He places a hand on the desk, not touching Aven but getting close enough that his blood magic starts to bleed into the air like ink in water.
It's a dampener, a thick, heavy curtain thrown over a live wire.
The static doesn't vanish, but it stops screaming.
It settles into a dull roar, the sharp edges of the spirit-noise blunted by the old weight of Cain's blood magic.
"Breathe," Ira commands, his voice vibrating through Aven's spine, a physical anchor. "With me. In for four. Hold. Out for four. Stay in the skin, Aven. The skin is the boundary. Stay inside it."
I'm still holding Aven's hand. I can't let go.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to pull away, to distance myself from the cold void he's become, but I know if I let go, the anchor breaks.
If I let go, I'm just a witch watching his world burn.
I watch as the glassy look in Aven's eyes slowly, agonizingly, begins to clear.
The amber returns in slow ripples, the pupils dilating and contracting as they try to find a focal point.
He blinks, once, twice, and then his focus snaps back to me, the terror in his eyes so bright it's blinding.
For a second, there's a moment of pure, crystalline relief. He's here. He's back. He hasn't been hollowed out. And then his face goes very pale, a sickly greenish tint washing over his features that overrides the fear.
"Oh," he chokes out, his hand flying to his stomach.
Before any of us can react, Aven leans forward and throws up directly onto Ira's boots.
The sound is wet and miserable in the sudden silence of the library.
The room freezes. I'm still holding his neck, my thumbs resting just under his cheekbones, and I can feel the shame radiating off him in hot, stinging waves.
It's a visceral, human moment that shatters the high-stakes magical tension.
Ira doesn't move. He doesn't even flinch.
He just keeps his hand on the back of Aven's head, holding him steady while Aven gasps for air, his shoulders shaking with the aftershocks of the purge.
Cain is already moving, his expression unreadable as he produces a clean white cloth from somewhere within the folds of his coat.
He hands it to me, his eyes dark with a quiet, steadying concern that says it's okay, we're still here.
I wipe Aven's mouth, my hands still trembling so hard I can barely coordinate my fingers.
The panic is receding, replaced by a wild, hysterical urge to laugh.
It's the adrenaline, I tell myself. It's the sheer absurdity of the situation.
We were battling for his soul ten seconds ago, and now we're dealing with the contents of his breakfast. The contrast is too much for my fractured nerves to handle.
"Well," I say, and my voice is a shaky, high-pitched mess that sounds nothing like the Academic Chic persona I started with. "That was... an unconventional ending to the session. I don't remember that being in Vera's notes. I'll have to check the index under Emetic Consequences of Mediumship."
Aven groans, leaning his forehead against the edge of the oak desk, his eyes closed tight. "Fuck off, Soren," he mutters, his voice muffled by the wood. "Just... fuck right off. I hate all of you. I hate magic. I hate my own stomach."
The relief hits me then, a physical blow that makes my knees weak. If he can insult me, he's still here. If he can be a brat, then the ghosts haven't won yet. I let out a sound that's half laugh, half sob, a jagged little noise that echoes in the high ceiling of the library.
“He’s fine,” Ira says, his voice a low rumble. He eases his hand away from the back of Aven’s head, giving him room without fully leaving his side.
I look down at the mess near my boots with a pinched expression that would probably be funnier if my hands weren’t still shaking.
“He’s back,” Ira says. “Get him some water before he tries to apologize.”