Stella answered the call from Naomi, her voice firm but reassuring.
"I'll take care of her tomorrow, don't worry," she said before hanging up.
Sliding her phone into her pocket, she pushed open Mallory's door without hesitation. Inside, the room was dimly lit, the scent of ink and old paper lingering in the air.
Mallory sat at her desk, her pen moving across the reports in sharp, deliberate strokes, barely acknowledging Stella's presence.
"I need to talk," Stella said, standing near the desk.
Mallory hummed in acknowledgment but didn't look up.
Undeterred, Stella dropped onto the couch beside her, arms crossed, her words prattling out in frustration. Mallory kept writing, letting her vent, the only sound between them the rhythmic scratching of ink against paper.
"My life sucks," Stella huffed.
For a second, Mallory flicked her eyes up before returning to her work.
"Did you ask him what he was doing in the market?" Mallory asked flatly.
Stella blinked, momentarily thrown off. Shit. She hadn't.
Mallory sighed, shaking her head in disappointment.
Finally, after what felt like forever, Mallory set her pen down, rolling her shoulders before turning fully toward Stella.
"I have a question for you," she said.
Stella nodded, curious.
Mallory's gaze was steady, calculating. "Your parents died when you were young, and according to the grimoires, you must have turned at least ten times a year." She tilted her head. "You met Grams when you were ten. So how did you manage to hide this from everyone when you were just a kid?"
Stella's lips parted slightly, caught off guard. Then, a small, wistful smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Now that I think about it, I feel guilty," she admitted.
Mallory remained silent, waiting.
"Laila," Stella said softly. "There was this girl—older than me. She knew what I was. She was a siren, I think, because her tail was black. She took care of me all those years, told me never to reveal who I truly was."
Mallory listened intently, her expression unreadable.
"She was the only one who knew. Then, when I was nine, she got adopted. I never saw her again." Stella exhaled slowly. "I feel guilty for forgetting about her. If you hadn't reminded me, I probably never would have thought about her again."
Her voice trailed off, lost in memories.
Mallory simply nodded. She didn't offer false comfort, didn't tell Stella it wasn't her fault—because that wasn't how Mallory worked.
Stella frowned slightly. "But why did you ask me this all of a sudden?"
Mallory leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. "I've been wondering about it for a few days now."
Stella studied her for a moment, then nodded. She didn't press further. Some things with Mallory were better left unquestioned.
Mallory locked the doors, checking twice before slipping the key into her pocket. The house was silent, the kind of silence that stretched and pulled at the edges of reality, thick and unnatural.
She made her way up the narrow staircase, each step creaking under her weight. The attic door loomed ahead, untouched for years, the wood warped and darkened with age. As her fingers wrapped around the handle, a shiver crawled up her spine—like something inside was already aware of her presence.
She twisted the knob and pushed.
The attic was suffocating in its silence, the air thick with dust and something far more ancient. Moonlight filtered in through a small, cracked window, casting fractured shadows across the wooden floor.
Mallory moved like a phantom, deliberate and soundless. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed a photograph of Stella into the iron cauldron at the center of the room. Flames licked at the edges of the image, curling it into blackened fragments, consuming her face inch by inch.
The scent of burning paper mixed with something metallic—Mallory had already cut her palm, her blood seeping into the pages of the ancient grimoire laid open before her.
She knelt, tracing her fingers along the pentagram she had carved into the floor, salt glistening in the dim light.
A breath.
A whisper.
A pulse of something unseen rippled through the air.
She closed her eyes and let herself fall—her mind slipping through the veil, through time, through memory.
The moment she reached into Stella's past, a violent shudder tore through her body.
Then she saw it.
A little girl, no older than nine, standing ankle-deep in the ocean under a storm-dark sky. Her golden hair was soaked, clinging to her small face. She wasn't alone.
A figure loomed behind her.
Mallory's breath hitched as she tried to focus, but the image twisted, warping like a cracked mirror.
The girl turned.
Her lips moved, whispering something, but the wind carried the words away.
And then—
A hand. Cold, wet fingers wrapping around Stella's wrist. Dragging her into the waves.
Mallory gasped, her eyes snapping open as she was ripped back into the attic. The candles around her flickered wildly, the flames stretching unnaturally high before extinguishing all at once.
Darkness swallowed the room whole.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, her breath uneven.
Something—no, someone—had been there. Watching.
And whatever it was, it had seen her, too.
Mallory exhaled slowly, the weight of realization settling deep in her bones. Laila. The name echoed in her mind, a phantom from Stella's past that had been buried beneath years of forgotten memories. But now, it stood at the center of something much bigger—something that didn't sit right.
She had to find her.
Either Laila was an alibi… or an enemy.
The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows on the attic walls as Mallory closed the grimoire, her fingers tightening around its fragile spine. She didn't believe in coincidences, not in a world where monsters hid behind human skin and secrets ran deeper than blood.
Who was Laila? Why had she disappeared right before Stella met their grandmother? And why had Stella—someone who never forgot the people she loved—barely remembered her until now?
A chill slithered down Mallory's spine.
This wasn't just about Stella's past anymore.
Something told her that whatever was coming… had already begun.