The air snapped.
One moment I was watching the rafters like they held back the apocalypse, the next I was ducking again — not from feathers, but from something heavier. Thicker. Like the air had grown claws.
Then Kaito grabbed my arm — firm, insistent — and yanked me into motion. We ran, boots thudding against the dirt, dodging the eerie hush that followed the snap like the air itself was waiting to pounce. I didn't even have time to ask where. I just knew that wherever we were going, standing still was no longer an option.
We made it to the van, hearts still hammering like snare drums. Kaito stepped up first and started whistling — soft, sharp tones at different pitches, like he was tuning the air itself. The side panel of the van glowed faint blue, then the back trunk popped open with a hiss like a sigh of recognition.
Inside: weapons. Not props. Not ritual stand-ins. Weapons.
Kaito reached in and pulled out a heavy black case. Opened it with a snap.
"I was saving these for the wedding day," he said, half-smiling like the joke still stung. "But now's as good a time as any."
Inside were two matched axes, polished and rune-marked — and etched with his name along the handles. For a second, I just stared. He remembered. I'd told him straight out, if he ever broke my heart, I'd walk down the aisle with axes etched in his name — not as a threat, but a warning. I never thought he'd actually make them. Yet here they were — not as a threat, but as a vow forged in steel and magic.
He handed them to me without ceremony, then reached for a shotgun, a compact revolver, a shoulder strap of runes, and finally — a baseball bat engraved with warding sigils like scars.
Then he knelt and gently swapped out my shoes, replacing the heels with flats that shimmered faintly with magic. As he worked, he started rubbing my feet, and I felt the tingle of a spell ripple up my calves — soothing, anchoring, like someone humming comfort directly into your bones. I guess he was some kind of warlock. I mean, come on, you think I'm that naïve? Just because he looked like a heartthrob pulled from an old jukebox ballad doesn't mean I took him at face value.
History taught folks like me not to. There were always those too beautiful to be safe — sirens in slacks, demons with dimples. Even back in the day, folks whispered about crossroads men with smiles like salvation. And still… people accepted them because when the world's full of monsters, you hang onto whatever's warm — even if it burns later.
I didn't even realize I was shaking until he looked up and said, "It's okay to be scared."
I stared at him, still trying to put it all together. "You kept all this from me?"
He exhaled slowly. "The motel girl — she was Solas. That motel's one of theirs. They had to modernize like everybody else. Solas runs it now. He's... complicated. Got himself a cult these days. Not surprising. Religion's not even a word most folks use anymore — not when spirits, gods, demons, and worse walk around like bad weather."
He stood and looked me straight in the eyes. "Every gig we've done? Every one I suggested? That was me hunting."
I blinked, then took a step back. "You used me."
He sighed, rubbing his hand along his jaw like the words tasted bitter. "Yes... in a way. I didn't lie, but I didn't tell you either. I took jobs — low-risk ones, at first. Finding enchanted items, investigating cold spots, making peace where I could. Things that didn't involve blood, not often. But once in a while..."
His voice trailed off, and I caught the flicker of guilt in how his shoulders dipped.
"This cult here — they keep dragging Solas' name through the dirt. Disrespecting him in ways that go beyond heresy. Using his image, twisting it. It's the same as mortals with bosses they can't disobey. You act out too long, and somebody like me gets sent in."
He wouldn't look at me.
I studied him — the way his fingers gripped his bat a little too tight. The way the bell tattoos along his arms shimmered faintly like warning lights. And right then, I heard my mother and father in my head — all their warnings, all their sighs. Maybe they'd been right. Maybe I really was just some naïve country bunkin playing dress-up with devils.
I crossed my arms, glared, and said loud enough for the owls and their ancestors to hear, "You are not getting no ass tonight."
The woods had grown quieter. Too quiet. The owls hadn't fled — they were waiting. Watching. Even the wind held its breath.
And me? I didn't know whether I wanted to scream or run. My heart was trying to do both.
"You did all that... with me beside you."
He nodded. "Because I trust you. Because if things went sideways, I knew you'd dance through it. And because I didn't want to do it alone."
Then he grinned, all crooked charm and danger-softened sweetness. "And hey... once this is over, I'm getting double for this job. Double. That means you can pick out whatever you want. New boots? Crystal chandeliers? A cursed tea set that screams at midnight? It's yours."
I rolled my eyes, but a laugh escaped anyway. "Kaito, you think bribery gonna save you from the cold shoulder?"
"No," he said, wrapping an arm around my waist like the world wasn't ending, "but I figure it might buy me time to earn my way back into the good graces of that fine southern ass."
"Mmhmm," I said, swatting his chest with the flat of one axe. "Dream on, contractor boy. Dream big."
I didn't say anything. I couldn't. Because underneath all of it — the betrayal, the spells, the cults — there was something deeper, something unspoken. Being a Sonter wasn't the real secret. Not to me. That just meant he did magical grunt work for dangerous people, same as a bounty hunter or a fixer. But the way he looked at me, the pauses between his words, the way he kept dodging the full truth — it made my skin crawl with the sense that something much bigger was still buried beneath it all. Something I hadn't been invited to see.
I tightened my grip on the axes. "What else haven't you told me?"
He whistled low — not a spell this time, just a sound full of weight.
"More than I should've," he said finally. "But I'll tell you. Over time. Piece by piece. If you still love me — and I hope to every god left that you do — then let me earn the right to give you the whole story."
He wasn't begging. Not exactly. But there was something raw in his voice, something I hadn't heard since the day we first made that peach-tree vow.
Which meant the list was long. And if I still loved him like I said I did — and I did, gods help me — then I might as well stick around and hear it all. One truth at a time.
Then — one by one — torch lights ignited in midair. The same couple from before floated down slow and deliberate, like spirits pretending to be polite. Hovering close to the van but just far enough to avoid a good swing. Too strategic to be anything but staged.
The husband and wife moved forward in perfect sync, their owl masks catching the flickering light like a horror stage play lit by madness. It wasn't just a haunting. It was theater. And we were the audience and the main act.
Slow clapping broke the tension — sharp, deliberate. The kind of clap meant to mock, not to praise. They stepped into view, wearing crudely made owl masks — the husband's cracked down the middle, the wife's feathers singed and mismatched.
He let out a screech so harsh and dry it didn't even sound human. She, ever the translator, tilted her mask toward us and said, "The Hollow welcomes you to the grand finale."
She clapped again. "You've danced. You've bled. Now it's time to repent — or repeat."
Kaito muttered, "What the hell is this, a cursed talent show?"
Then he stepped back to the van, shut the trunk with a solid thud, and adjusted his jacket like he was getting ready for a date, not a deathmatch. He took a few slow practice swings with the bat — smooth, tight arcs that made the sigils along the wood hum low and dangerous.
The couple kept rambling, their voices echoing off the torches like they were reading from some cursed community theater script, but my nerves were burning. My grip was sweaty on the axes. Every step Kaito took looked practiced, intentional. And I was right there on the edge, waiting for the world to crack open and spill the next horror.
The wife continued, lifting her arms in some exaggerated ceremony. "In the name of Solas, the misused, the misunderstood, the mutilated by media—"
"Okay," I cut in. "This monologue got a script supervisor? 'Cause it's real off-book."
The wife tilted her head at me like I'd just insulted her casserole. Then she flicked her wrist, and a cluster of jagged feather-daggers zipped through the air straight at my chest.
Before I could move, Kaito was there — bat already swinging. The impact rang out like a cracked bell, knocking the daggers off course with a spin and a snarl.
"Batter up, bitch," he said with a wink.
Then everything exploded into motion.
Kaito yanked out his revolver with one hand and opened fire, the bark of bullets lighting up the space between us and the owl-masked husband. The shots didn't slow him down much — but they made him stagger, flinch, retreat into the flickering torchlight like it burned more than the bullets ever could.
They ran — or floated — toward the woods.
And that's when I realized I was going to have to deal with the wife.
I stepped away from the van, circling, keeping the axes high and my breath slow. She mirrored me, like we were in some ballroom of death.
"Traveling with that thing," she spat, voice curling with judgment behind the mask. "You think that makes you special? You don't even know what you're carrying around, do you?"
"Lady," I said, "I've carried worse in a corset."
She lunged before I could ask what she meant. One fist rocketed straight at my stomach. I braced, but the hit still landed — hard.
Hard enough that I should've crumpled.
But instead — light. My dress glowed. Just a flicker. Just enough.
The enchantment Kaito had laced into the seams kicked in. The blow still hurt, but I stayed standing.
"Nice try," I growled. "Now let me show you how we do formal wear in hell."