We walk out of the bank. The clerk's words still ring in my ears: "Yes, there is a pending transfer to your account of twenty-five thousand dollars."
Beside me, Grace practically floats, a rare lightness in her step. My chest feels tight, the air heavy with the truth I don't want to name. This is his doing. It has to be. Uncle Robert wouldn't leave us a dime unless someone—or something—pushed his hand. I glance at Grace, her innocent excitement palpable, and suppress a shiver that fractures my smile. If only she could see the shadows lurking behind the windfall, the whispers in my head that do nothing but echo my dread.
"I think we should fix up Uncle Robert's house with the money," Grace says, her voice humming with possibility as we cross the parking lot toward my car. "Make it ours. You know?"
I nod slowly, forcing my lips into a shape that resembles agreement. My head, though, is spinning, my stomach coiling tighter with every step. The sun is too bright, the normalcy of it all too sharp. I can barely hear Grace over the whisper in my chest—his presence, faint but steady.
By the time I unlock the car, sweat gathers at the back of my neck. I can't tell if it's from the August heat or from the mark heating under my shirt like a brand about to sear.
Grace slides into the passenger seat, already pulling out her phone to look up paint colors, blindsided by the promise of a fresh start. I stay frozen, keys in hand, staring at the reflection in the glass.
Not mine. Behind me. A shadow stretches unnaturally long across the pavement, and my pulse stutters hard. I don't need to turn to know who it is.
Adrial.
We drive to Uncle Robert's house in silence—Grace humming under her breath, scrolling through endless décor ideas on her phone, while I sit rigid behind the wheel, trying to scrub the thought of Adrial shadowing me. But the mark under my shirt pulses faintly, a reminder I can't outrun.
The house isn't far—just a few blocks from our apartment—and when I pull up, the sight of it steals my breath for reasons I can't pin down.
It looms at the end of a cracked driveway, its paint weathered to a dull gray, shutters hanging crooked, the stone walkway fractured with weeds breaking through the seams. Grace leans forward in her seat, eyes shining like she sees potential instead of decay.
"Not in the best shape," she says softly, already brimming with plans. "But… I think it could be beautiful again."
My heart gives a strange flutter as we step out, the cicadas buzzing overhead, the late-afternoon heat clinging to our skin. Gravel crunches beneath our shoes as we walk up the path, and I can't shake the prickling at the back of my neck.
At the porch, I crouch down and reach under the chipped wooden railing, fingers brushing against the familiar plastic of a hide-a-key rock. My pulse quickens as I pry it open, pulling out the small bronze key inside. The metal is warm from the sun, almost alive against my palm.
Grace bounces on her toes beside me, eager. "Well? Let's see what's inside."
I slide the key into the lock, feeling the mark burn more intensely beneath my shirt. It seems to demand a choice from me—either open the door and face whatever waits or turn and flee. But even as uncertainty grips me, some unseen force compels me to proceed. The key turns with a reluctant click, and the door groans as I push it open. A wave of stale air hits me—dust, old wood, the faint tang of mildew. Grace wrinkles her nose but steps inside eagerly, like she's walking into a promise instead of a ruin.
The entryway is dim, sunlight filtering weakly through slanted blinds. Dust motes spin lazily in the air. The floorboards creak beneath our weight, complaining at every step.
Grace's voice is hushed with awe. "It's bigger than I thought."
We start with the living room—threadbare carpet, a sagging couch draped with a blanket that looks older than either of us, water stains spreading across the ceiling like bruises. Grace presses her fingers to the faded wallpaper.
"It just needs some love," she whispers.
I trail behind her, unease prickling down my spine. The mark beneath my shirt pulses faintly, like it's listening.
The kitchen comes next. Yellowed linoleum curls at the corners, and a line of ants marches dutifully across the counter. A single mug sits in the sink, rim chipped, as if Uncle Robert just left it there. The refrigerator hums, low and steady, though I can't bring myself to open it.
Grace tugs me toward the hallway. "Come on—let's see upstairs."
We pass the bathroom—mirror cracked, tiles chipped, the smell of rust and damp clinging like a second skin. My hand brushes the door frame, and the mark burns sharper for a moment, like it recognizes something here. I yank my hand back quickly.
The staircase moans as we climb, every step echoing too loud. Upstairs, two small bedrooms wait—both stripped bare except for dust-coated dressers and a few scattered papers. One window stands cracked open, a curtain stirring faintly in the breeze. Grace darts in, already envisioning new paint, new curtains, new beginnings.
I linger in the doorway. The air feels heavier here.
Last is the master bedroom. The door sticks before it gives way with a sharp crack, revealing a room that feels too preserved. The bed is still made, a thick film of dust coating the quilt. A stack of envelopes sits on the nightstand, unopened. The closet stands slightly ajar, shadows pooling inside.
Grace exhales softly. "This was his room."
I step inside, the floor cold under my feet, the mark throbbing harder now—slow, steady, like a second heartbeat. My skin prickles as I scan the room, every corner seeming too dark, too full.
It feels like someone is still here.
My eyes linger on the closet, unease crawling under my skin, as if the shadows themselves are holding their breath. Grace hums cheerfully, oblivious, as she slips out of the room, murmuring something about checking out the backyard.
The moment her footsteps fade, the air shifts.
From the dark slit of the closet, shadows thicken, stretching across the floor like spilled ink. An abrupt chill fills the air, as if the temperature plummets in an instant, wrapping around me like an icy shroud. Silence descends, unnaturally dense and profound, smothering the faint hum of the world outside as the shadows coil upward, rippling until they shape themselves into a figure. My pulse spikes, the mark under my shirt burning hot enough to sting.
Adrial steps forward, shadows clinging to him like a cloak, the weight of his presence pressing against me until my lungs forget how to work.
"So," I hiss, the words scraping out before I can stop them. "You got my uncle to hand over his house? And money on top of that." I cross my arms, though it feels more like shielding than defiance.
His smile widens, ember-red eyes glinting as the shadows curl tighter at his feet.
"He wanted to leave you the house and money," he says, voice smooth, deliberate. "He thought it would make up for everything he did to your family. I just gave him the nudge he needed."
My jaw tightens. "A nudge? You mean you crawled into his head and twisted it until he thought this was his idea."
He tilts his head, considering me the way a predator might consider prey that has teeth of its own. "Does it matter how the gift was delivered? You have the money. You have the house. Isn't this what you've always wanted?"
The mark flares hot under my palm, pulsing with every syllable that falls from his lips. My body betrays me as my heart races and blood heats. I flinch slightly, fingers twitching as though they might curl into the bedspread for anchor, even as my mouth twists into defiance.
"I want to bring you somewhere," he says suddenly, stepping closer, shadows stretching with his movement. "Are you able to slip away?"
I stumble back until the backs of my legs hit the bed, forcing me to sit. My pulse skitters.
"Where? To your realm again?"
His smile curves slow and deliberate. "No… somewhere nicer."
His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek, and the mark ignites under his touch—searing, aching, alive. My breath catches. The warmth of his skin against mine should soothe, but instead it drags me under.
Visions slam into me unbidden. The battlefield. Gold blood glittering as it spills across shattered earth. The clash of swords, a terrible symphony of steel and screams. His white wings torn open, feathers scattering like burning stars.
I shiver, the memory so sharp it feels carved into my ribs. I see him again, broken and defiant, falling. And then I'm here, in this quiet bedroom, with his thumb stroking my skin as if nothing could touch us.
He slips back into the darkness, swallowed as if he'd never been there at all.
"Hey, Evie. I have to get to my appointment soon," Grace says, stepping back into the room.
My hand is still pressed over the throbbing mark, but I force myself to straighten, to smooth my expression into something normal.
"You go, take the car," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "This is… hitting me a little more than I thought it would. I'm just gonna walk home, get some air."
She studies me for a beat, her brow softening with concern, but she doesn't push. Instead, she crosses the room and folds me into a brief hug, warm and grounding.
"Be safe. I love you."
"I love you too," I whisper, holding onto her for a second longer before letting go.
I watch her leave, the sound of her footsteps fading down the hall until the front door clicks shut. The silence that follows feels cavernous. My palm stays pressed to my chest, the mark still pulsing like a heartbeat that isn't mine.
Adrial reappears from the closet, shadows coiling at his feet, his ember-red eyes catching the sunlight spilling through the window.
I let out a shaky breath, watching him, the truth settling heavy in my chest. Grace might believe Uncle Robert had some sudden change of heart, but I know better. This is Adrial's doing.
I don't care where the money came from, not really. Uncle Robert was a bastard. He drained my parents dry, always taking and never giving back, feeding his addictions while they broke themselves trying to cover what he owed. I can still see Dad at the kitchen table, bills spread out like a battlefield, Mom pressing her hands to her temples, and Robert nowhere in sight. He drank and lied and promised, and still left us with nothing.
So no, I don't care about his apology. Not about his sudden "generosity." He would've never given us a dime unless something—or someone—forced his hand.
And here that someone stands, with shadows at his feet and fire in his eyes.
His face shifts—so subtle it's almost imperceptible—but I catch it. The hardness in his features eases, his shoulders lowering as though he can sense the change in me. A faint, knowing smile tugs at his lips. He extends his hand, palm open, an offering.
"Are you ready?" His voice is low, threaded with something that feels like both promise and warning.
I rise slowly, the floorboards creaking under my weight, and step into the gravity of him. My hand finds the solid plane of his chest, heat radiating through the thin barrier of his shirt. My pulse thrums against my palm.
"Yes," I whisper, holding his ember gaze.
The shadows coil tighter around us, swallowing the room whole until there's nothing left but him—and the dark.