San Francisco, California: Friday - Saturday, September 16th – 17th, 2011.

Goddess, I feel absolutely dead this morning. It's Friday, and my mom decided we needed to leave before the crack of dawn to meet with her lawyer in San Francisco before tomorrow's court hearing. Five hours on the I-5 stretch ahead of us, punctuated by caffeine stops—first at this tiny, hole-in-the-wall coffee shop called Mudslingers and then inevitably at Starbucks. I'm clinging to the faint hope of getting some sleep on this ride, but turning off my emotional sensing doesn't happen just because I will it to.

The air in her Honda Civic is stifling, heavy with her anxiety and stress. It radiates off her in waves, tightening my chest and making it impossible to fully relax. As if that weren't bad enough, her taste in music is doing nothing for my mood. Don't get me wrong—I love Adele. But at 6:30 a.m., with her soulful cries about estranged lovers blasting through the speakers while my mom sniffles along, it's just… too much.

I groan dramatically, flipping over in the passenger seat and grabbing her phone off the dash where it's hooked to the aux cord. "Goddess, Mom. I knew this trip would be rough, but I didn't sign up for clinically depressing."

She glances at me, affronted. "Adele is calming. And she's great listening music."

"For sixty-five-year-olds! We're literally driving to court."

Her eyes flick back to the road, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Listen, I know this is going to be a hard weekend, but hey—at least the hotel has a pool and free Wi-Fi."

"It's the middle of winter," I deadpan, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "And if I have to listen to one more tear-soaked ballad, I swear I'm going to combust."

Adele is in the middle of a mournful solo when I switch the music to Bulletproof Love by Pierce the Veil. My mom immediately shoots me a withering glare. "No, Adrian. It's too early for this."

Ignoring her protests, I sit up straighter, belting out the first verse with unrepentant enthusiasm. Then I smirk at her. "Come on, Mom. You love this shit! Screw that man for making us drive out to San Francisco at the ass crack of dawn!"

"Adrian! Language!" she scolds, but her lips twitch with suppressed amusement.

"Come on, Mom! Say it with me: Fuck him!" I grin, nudging her shoulder playfully. "You know the lyrics."

For a moment, she gives me a pointed look, teetering on the edge of frustration. Then, finally, she sighs and lets the words spill from her mouth, her voice tinged with reluctant amusement. "Fine. Fuck him."

It's ungodly early, but we're yelling Kellin Quinn's lyrics together as we race down the nearly empty freeway. There's something unexpectedly freeing about watching my mom let go for a moment, her punk-pop voice harmonizing with mine in a way that makes the drive feel a little less daunting. I think the divorce was good for her—liberating in a way she hadn't let herself experience before. Now, she's belting out her favorite punk tracks at the top of her lungs, and honestly? It's kind of awesome.

Our singalong lasts until we pull into the Hyatt in downtown San Francisco. It's one of those overly modern hotels with sterile architecture, but hey—it's across the street from the park. I stretch as I step out of the car, glancing at the bleak winter sky and the towering glass building in front of us.

"At least there's a view," I mutter, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

My mom looks at me with a small smile, her earlier tension fading just a little. "And maybe we can hit the pool later."

"It's freezing, Mom."

She shrugs, handing the car keys to the valet. "You're young. You'll survive."

After checking in, we decided to grab an early lunch at a cozy little pizza place just a block away from the hotel. The place is warm and bustling, a welcoming comparison to the crisp San Francisco air. I'm exhausted from the drive, my head foggy and my limbs heavy. Every inch of me craves the clarity of a Brightwake potion, but with us sharing a suite, sneaking one from my suitcase feels impossible.

I stuff myself with two slices of cheese pizza, the gooey mozzarella doing its best to lull me into a food coma. My mom, however, has other priorities. At one, she has a meeting with her lawyer on the other side of town, and she insists on leaving early to avoid traffic. Before she heads out, she hands me her credit card with a warning look.

"Don't go wild. Just grab something if I'm not back by dinner."

"Yes, Mom," I say, rolling my eyes playfully.

She leaves, and I flop onto the bed, my gaze wandering to the ceiling as I contemplate whether to nap or muster the energy to sneak that potion. A knock on the door interrupts my thoughts, and I groan, assuming my mom forgot something. I swing open the door with a sigh.

"Did you forget your—"

A pair of firm lips meet mine, stealing the rest of my sentence. The scent of cedarwood and vanilla envelopes me as Gabriel's familiar frame fills the doorway, his tousled brown locks brushing against my forehead. His leather jacket fits him perfectly, paired with a simple black tee that stretches across his chest and jeans that hang low on his hips, making him look annoyingly good.

"Hey, princess. Ready to go explore?" His voice is smooth, and his smile devilish as he steps inside without waiting for an invitation.

I close the door behind him, giving him a skeptical look. "What are you doing here?"

"Reconnaissance," he says, his eyes scanning the suite before landing back on me. He leans casually against the counter, his confidence almost maddening. "Rose and I figured you might need some backup."

"Wait," I say, narrowing my eyes. "You're both here?"

"Of course," he replies with a shrug, moving closer. "She's upstairs, still getting ready."

He's close now, too close, and the mischievous glint in his eyes tells me he knows exactly what he's doing. His gaze flickers to my lips as I chew on them nervously.

"So," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, "we've got a few minutes."

I can't help the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. He chuckles softly, the sound reverberating in my chest as he presses his lips to mine again. Goddess, help me. This man is pure sin. His kiss is hot and demanding, his hands finding my waist as he backs me into the kitchenette counter. My pulse quickens, every inch of me consumed by the intoxicating heat of him.

With an effortless strength, he lifts me onto the counter, his body slotting perfectly between my legs. My arms wrap around his neck as my fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to earn a low growl from him. His tongue brushes against mine, and a soft moan escapes my throat, spurring him on. His hands trail under my shirt, his fingertips exploring the curve of my spine, sending shivers racing down my body.

My legs tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer as his hips grind against mine. The air around us feels electric, charged with a dangerous, almost overwhelming energy. His lips leave mine, traveling along my jaw and down my neck, each kiss igniting sparks that leave me breathless.

A sharp cough cuts through the haze, and we freeze. Gabriel's lips linger against my skin for a heartbeat before he pulls back, his eyes dark with frustration. I glance toward the doorway, my face flushing as I realize I'm still straddling him on the counter.

Rose stands there, one arm propped casually against the doorframe she unlocked with her magic. Her hair is swept into a low, messy bun, a few blonde strands framing her amused expression. She's dressed in high-waisted jeans, a cropped cream sweater, and ankle boots.

"Well," she drawls, a smirk tugging at her lips. "While I'm all for a good nightcap, it's noon, and we've got plans, witches."

"We were just multitasking," Gabriel says with a smirk, his hands lingering on my waist as he tilts his head toward her. "You know, making the most of our free time."

Rose arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Right. Multitasking. Come on, Casanovas. We've got places to be."

Gabriel chuckles as I slide off the counter, smoothing my shirt and avoiding Rose's knowing look. "We'll be down in a second," I mutter, my cheeks still burning.

"Make it quick," she says with a wink. With that, she turns on her heel, her boots clicking against the floor as she disappears down the hallway.

Gabriel leans closer, his lips brushing my ear. "Guess we'll have to pick this up later, princess."

I rolled my eyes, shoving him lightly as I grabbed my jacket. "Come on. Before Rose leaves us behind."

He grins, holding the door open for me with a playful flourish. "After you, Your Highness."

Twenty blocks in San Francisco takes less than ten minutes, especially with Rose behind the wheel. Nestled in the backseat of her Audi, I hold on for dear life as she weaves through traffic like she's auditioning for her own version of Fast and the Furious.

"Where are we going?" I ask, bracing myself as Rose takes another sharp corner. The g-forces are doing wonders for my nausea.

"My Taurus contact," she replies, not even glancing back at me. "She's a mechanic at a shop not far from here. If anyone has information about House Sagittarius, it's her."

Gabriel tightens his seatbelt with a grimace, clutching the door handle. "Goddess, Rose, we're not in a race against time."

Rose shoots him a sidelong glance, her smirk as casual as her disregard for road laws. "You wanna drive?"

"Gladly," Gabriel fires back as she swerves into an empty oncoming lane to bypass a row of cars, making my stomach flip.

Rose merely chuckles as she zooms down the street, ignoring his protests. After a series of near-death experiences, she finally parks on the street outside a four-car garage with a sign that reads Paul's Automotive.

As I step out of the car, the low, seductive beat of a song filters through the air. It's haunting, with a falsetto that drips with longing and melancholy, carried by a deep, pulsing bassline that seems to vibrate through my chest. It's the kind of song that feels like it belongs in a smoky, dimly lit room, heavy with unspoken words and lingering gazes.

The garage is alive with activity, the hum of machinery blending with the music as sparks fly from the far side. My attention snags on a figure bent over a piece of machinery, her frame illuminated by the flash of a welding arc. Sparks fly like fireflies caught in a storm, casting fleeting shadows on her rich brown skin, slick with a faint sheen of sweat.

Her hands move with practiced precision, her sleeveless white tank top smudged with grease and hanging loose over her toned frame. Loose cargo pants sit low on her hips, tucked into scuffed work boots that have seen more years than I have. A welding helmet obscures her face, but there's an unmistakable confidence in her stance.

"This muffler's shot," she calls, her voice smooth and warm, tinged with a Nigerian accent that wraps around her words like velvet over steel.

"That'll run another 250 for a new one," a gruff voice answers from somewhere deeper in the shop.

The woman scoffs, brushing her gloved hand over the muffler. I feel it before I see it—a subtle hum of magic laced in the air, weaving through the light of the welding arc. The glow flickers as she pulls back her torch, lifting her visor to inspect her work.

"Never mind, Juan!" she hollers, her tone dripping with smug satisfaction. "Tell Mr. Johnson to thank his gods; I just saved his wallet." She strips off her gloves with a practiced motion, tugging at her tank top to fan herself briefly before looking at us near the garage opening.

"Juan, I'm taking my break!" she announces, peeling off her helmet completely and shaking her head. Her short-cropped hair is damp with sweat. Her high cheekbones catch the light, and her sharp, almond-shaped eyes seem to cut through the space between us as she saunters toward us, a cigarette pack in her hand that seems to materialize out of nowhere.

As she approaches, I notice something strange. Or rather, I see the absence of something. Her emotions. They're completely unreadable, like a blank wall where there should be color and texture. Normally, I'd catch hints—confidence, irritation, maybe even curiosity—but from her? Nothing. It's unsettling, and I find myself stiffening under her sharp gaze.

"Rosaline," she says, her voice low but warm. A faint smirk curves her full lips. "You brought friends? That's new. Usually, you just ring when you're passing through."

Rose steps forward, a practiced smile smoothing over her face. "Salut, Fleur. Ça va?"

Fleur leans in to exchange kisses on both cheeks, her hand resting lightly on Rose's shoulder.

"Ça va comme ci comme ça," she replies with a shrug. Her French is less polished and more fluid as she switches back to English seamlessly. "You know how it is—rent is high, men are cheap, and life keeps moving. Who are these ones?"

Rose gestures toward us. "This is Gabriel, and this is Adrian. They're with me."

Fleur studies me, her eyes narrowing slightly. She doesn't smile, doesn't say a word, just looks. I force myself not to fidget under her scrutiny, but my stomach churns. Her unreadable nature unnerves me more than I want to admit.

Finally, she shifts her attention back to Rose, her smirk returning. "So, what brings you to my part of town, cher? This don't feel like no casual visit."

Rose's expression hardens just enough to show she means business. "We need your insight. Something about House Sagittarius."

Fleur stills, her movements slowing as she pulls a cigarette pack from her pocket. With a flick of her fingers, a spark of magic ignites the tip, and she takes a long, deliberate drag. The air between us feels heavy, like the moment before a storm.

"You are diggin' in a graveyard," she says flatly, exhaling a plume of smoke that curls into the air. "Nothin' left of Sagittarius but ashes."

Gabriel steps forward, crossing his arms. "We're not looking for ashes. We're looking for answers."

Fleur laughs softly, the sound low and bitter.

"Answers," she repeats, shaking her head. "You bold, I give you that. But lemme tell you somethin'. The dead don't speak. And your questions? They won't bring back what's gone."

She moves toward Rose's car, popping the hood with one hand while taking another drag of her cigarette. "Still beatin' on this poor girl, Rose?" she mutters, pulling out the oil dipstick. "She's a beautiful machine, not some Friday night plaything."

Rose rolls her eyes. "Can we focus, Fleur?"

Fleur chuckles softly, wiping the dipstick clean with a rag from her pocket before sliding it back into place. Her sharp gaze flicks to me again.

"You. Quiet one," she says, tilting her head. "You stick like death."

My stomach churns. "What do you mean?"

Fleur's smirk fades, her tone dropping an octave. "Magic leaves a scent. Yours? Sweet, like honey. But it's laced with somethin' rotten. Like flowers left too long in a vase."

Rose stiffens beside me as Fleur gives her a pointed look, closing her hood. "Does this have to do with what I heard about House Libra?"

Gabriel steps closer. "What did you hear?"

Fleur takes her time responding, as if weighing her words. "It's all over the airwaves. An inquisition into dark magic and rough witches. High Table orders."

Rose's jaw tightens. "Fleur, you know I wouldn't drag you into this if it wasn't important."

Fleur takes a long breath, flicking her cigarette to the ground and grinding it under her boot. "Empty barrels make the most noise, Rose."

I blink. "What does that mean?"

Fleur smirks again, a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "It means those who have nothin' to offer are the loudest ones in the room."

Rose sighs. "What's the cost, Fleur?"

Fleur exhales slowly, leaning back against the car with a faint smile. "If you're absolutus a vinculis, your money's no good here." Her eyes flicked to Rose's purse nestled on her shoulder. "Louis Vuitton?"

Rose eyes the mechanic cautiously. "Spring line. Limited release."

Fleur's smirk deepens. "Would look good with my Chanel blazer."

"Goddess, Rose," Gabriel mutters, shaking his head. "Just give her the purse."

With a groan, Rose pulls her wallet and phone out of the bag before handing it over. Fleur takes it with a satisfied smile, tapping the leather. "Thank you for your down payment. I'll let you know the cost later."

"Wait," I say, confused. "That wasn't enough?"

Fleur grins, tossing the purse onto her workbench. "Information's expensive, cher. You want answers, you pay the price." Without waiting for a response, she turns back toward the garage. "Keep your spirits busy. I'm off in an hour. We'll talk then."

And with that, she's gone, leaving the three of us standing there, the scent of cigarette smoke and magic lingering in the air.

After an hour, Fleur leads us down the block to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall Chinese spot nestled between a laundromat and a shuttered pawn shop. The red paper lanterns above the entrance give off a dim, inviting glow. Fleur strides inside first, murmuring something low in Mandarin to the elderly man behind the counter. He nods without hesitation and waves her toward the back with a knowing smile.

We follow her to a booth in the farthest corner of the restaurant, hidden behind a folding screen painted with koi fish swimming in a serene pond. Moments later, a young girl arrives, setting down an ornate jade-green tea kettle and four delicate saucers. The floral aroma wafts up, mixing with the faint tang of soy sauce and chili oil from the kitchen.

Fleur pours herself a cup with deliberate movements, her gaze unwavering as it lands on Rose.

"So," she starts, her accent thick with undertones, "tell me. Why are you diggin' for graveyards? What is it you're lookin' for that you think you'll find among the dead?"

Rose leans forward slightly, her composure unshaken. "House Sagittarius had a witch who could access multiple zodiac facets. We need to know more about her."

Fleur's lips quirk into a knowing smirk as she lifts her teacup. "And what will you do with what you find?" she asks, taking a long, unhurried sip.

Rose exchanges glances with Gabriel before meeting Fleur's sharp gaze. "We believe they were studying the Orionis."

The laugh that escapes Fleur is bitter and sharp, her teacup clicking against the saucer as she sets it down.

"That's where you're wrong," she says, leaning forward, her elbows resting on the table. Her brown eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and warning. "House Sagittarius wasn't studyin' the Orionis. They were makin' them."

The words sit heavily in the space between our breaths. I glance at Rose, whose usually unshakable exterior falters for just a moment. Gabriel's jaw tightens, his arms crossing defensively.

"You're saying they created them?" Gabriel asks, his tone low, edged with disbelief.

Fleur's smirk deepens, her eyes narrowing. "I ain't sayin'. I'm tellin'. House Sagittarius had witches who could do things the High Table don't want the world to remember. Things that made even them nervous."

"Are you saying they killed them because of the Orionis?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Fleur's expression doesn't change, but her words cut like a blade. "Is a black cat not black?"

Gabriel frowns. "That makes no sense. We were told the house was destroyed because of failed magical experiments."

Fleur leans back in her seat, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "Lies fall easy from the lips of people you trust, cher. You think they'd tell you the truth? They burned Sagittarius to the ground to cover their own fears."

Rose's voice tightens. "How were they doing it? How were they creating the Orionis?"

Fleur shrugs, the gesture almost dismissive. "Answers like that are left with the dead."

The young girl from earlier returns, setting down three platters of steaming dumplings. Fleur snatches one with her chopsticks, dipping it into chili sauce before popping it into her mouth.

"Mm," she hums, savoring the bite. "I'm supposed to be on a diet, but I have an appetite for food." She gestures toward the platters in front of us. "Eat, before my waistband suffers."

I'm not terribly hungry as I hesitantly take one, the spicy pork filling bursting with flavor. Fleur's sharp eyes never leave me, and I can't shake the feeling that this isn't just a casual lunch.

As I reach for another dumpling, Fleur's gaze locks on me. "But tell me, quiet one," she says, her voice soft but probing. "Why all this interest in the Orionis?"

I glanced at Rose and Gabriel, unsure how much to reveal. Rose clears her throat, sipping her tea as if to buy time. "Because I'm an Orionis," she says smoothly.

Fleur bursts into laughter, the sound echoing in the small booth. "And I'm Mariah Carey with her summer tan," she retorts, her eyes glinting with amusement.

Her gaze slides back to me, narrowing slightly.

"No. It's not her." She leans closer, her tone dropping. "It's you, isn't it? Always the quiet ones. Which signs can you use?"

I hesitate, but Fleur's unrelenting stare forces the truth from me.

"All of them," I admit. "Well, six that I know of."

Her smirk vanishes instantly, replaced by something colder.

"Mon dieu," she mutters, leaning back as if to create distance between us. Her movements are slow, deliberate, as she grabs her purse and starts to rise. "I don't come into this world just to suffer."

"Fleur—" Rose starts, but I interrupt her, flicking my wrist. Fleur's body jerks back into the booth, held firm by an invisible force like a seatbelt.

"Adrian, what are you doing?" Rose hisses.

"It's because you're Asha, isn't it?" I say, my voice trembling but steady.

The air around us grows heavy, charged with Fleur's emotions—a storm of grief, anger, and resignation. She leans back in her seat, her eyes burning into mine. "Asha died with House Sagittarius," she says evenly. "I go by Fleur now."

Gabriel stares at her, his expression softening. "I thought I recognized you," he murmurs.

"Shorter hair," Fleur says flatly. "Plus, my aunties are Nigerian. Their flavor rubbed off on me."

Rose starts to speak, but Fleur cuts her off with a raised hand. "I don't need your pity. I've left that life behind. If you have any respect for me, you'll let me go."

I take a shaky breath, releasing the magic holding her in place. Fleur stands, brushing off her pants. As she passes me to leave, I call out, "Don't you want to know why they killed your people?"

She pauses, her back still to us.

"I already know," she says softly. "It was because of me."

And with that, she pushes past the doorway, leaving us in heavy silence.

Rose exhales slowly, her gaze distant. "How did you know she was Asha?"

I shrug, still shaken. "I guessed. I couldn't sense anything from her. It was like her emotions were locked away. That kind of wall takes practice."

Gabriel leans forward, his voice grim. "So, what now? Our only lead just walked out."

Rose sets her teacup down, her expression hardening. "We'll figure something out. We always do."

I hesitate, then ask, "Why are we even looking into Sagittarius?"

Rose's jaw tightens. "I think the Orionis might be connected to the Scarlet Witch. If we can figure out how they created the Orionis, it might give us a way to pull her out of you."

I shake my head. "She said I was a vessel. Like a container."

"Exactly," Rose replies. "If she can be contained in a body, maybe we can find something else to hold her."

"That's a dangerous assumption," Gabriel mutters.

"It's the best lead we have," Rose says firmly.

Gabriel exhales sharply, leaning back in his chair. He is clearly unconvinced but unwilling to argue further. The tension between them settles into the air, heavy and stifling, wrapping around me like a second skin.

I should feel reassured by Rose's confidence, by her determination to fix this mess I've somehow become the center of. But I don't. Her words swirled in my mind, colliding with my own doubts, each one louder and sharper than the last. A vessel. A container. A hollow thing meant to hold something far darker and more dangerous than I'll ever be able to control.

The feeling presses on my chest, suffocating, until even breathing feels like a battle. I glanced at Gabriel. His jaw tight, and his concern is clear despite his silence. And then at Rose, who wears her determination like armor. I wish I could borrow some of that certainty, but all I feel is this yawning void in the pit of my stomach, the creeping realization that I might not come out of this intact—or at all.

It's 7 PM when Rose texts me to sneak out of my room. Thankfully, after dinner, my mom washed down an Ambien with a glass of Chardonnay, setting five alarms to wake herself from her medicated slumber. Within half an hour, she's out cold, leaving me free to slip on my jacket and slide quietly out the door.

The elevator hums softly as I step inside, my phone buzzing in my pocket. I don't even bother looking at the screen before pressing it to my ear. "I'm on my w—"

"Adrian! We have a big problem." Stiles' frantic voice cuts me off mid-sentence.

"What are you talking about?" I sigh, already regretting answering.

"We need your help," he says, his tone rising with every word. "The Alpha—Peter—is taking Melissa on a date."

The elevator dings as I step into the hotel's reception area, where Rose and Gabriel are lounging on one of the plush couches. The valet pulls up Rose's Audi to the curb as I pause, processing what I just heard. "While that's… concerning, I'm not even in Beacon Hills. What about Derek?"

"Scott says Derek is working with Peter," Stiles huffs, exasperated.

I freeze mid-step, my brows furrowing as Rose gives me a pointed look. Derek—working with Peter? The man who murdered his sister? Werewolves really do excel at making the worst decisions imaginable.

"Didn't Peter kill Derek's sister?" I ask, sliding into the backseat of Rose's car.

Rose raises an eyebrow at me through the rearview mirror as she starts the ignition. "Wait. When did you find that out?"

"The hospital," I reply flatly. "The night of the game."

"Yeah," Stiles interjects over the speaker. "It's a pretty messed-up family dynamic."

"And what does Melissa have to do with this?" I ask, already bracing for an infuriating answer.

"Peter's using her as leverage to recruit Scott into his pack."

Rose lets out a derisive laugh as she speeds out of the parking lot. "Maybe he'll take her to a dog park."

Gabriel chuckles from the passenger seat. I roll my eyes, but a traitorous smile tugs at my lips.

"That's not funny!" Stiles snaps. "I don't think you grasp how serious this is."

I let out a frustrated sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I don't know what you want me to do, Stiles. I'm not even—"

"You're a witch, Adrian! I don't know, cast a spell or something!"

His clipped tone sends a spark of irritation through me. "Tell you what, Stiles. Try hitting him with your Jeep, because this sounds like a personal problem."

I hung up before he could respond, shoving my phone back into my jacket pocket. Rose bursts out laughing, her hands briefly tightening on the steering wheel as Gabriel grins beside her.

"Goddess, that was brilliant," Gabriel says, his voice warm with amusement.

"'Hit him with your Jeep,'" Rose echoes between laughs. "Adrian, you're my hero."

I shrugged, exhaling sharply. "It's just so annoying. Ever since I got dragged into this werewolf mess, it feels like I'm constantly cleaning up after them. Meanwhile, we have our own shit to deal with."

"You're not wrong," Gabriel agrees, his tone thoughtful. "They don't realize how much they lean on you because they're too wrapped up in their own problems."

"That's the thing!" I snap. "Stiles acts like I'm his personal magician, and Scott—" I stop, shaking my head. "Scott's too busy playing hero to notice the messes he leaves behind. I get it, they're dealing with a lot, but so am I. And honestly? Our friendship is starting to feel like a one-way street. I have enough on my plate without being their magical janitor."

Gabriel nods, his expression softening. "It's selfish of them, but they probably don't realize it. Doesn't make it fair, though."

"Exactly," I mutter. "If I get asked to fix another one of their problems, I'm gonna need you to teach me how to turn Stiles into a teapot."

Rose snorts as she takes a sharp turn, her cigarette dangling from her lips. "We didn't even get a thank-you card for helping them the other night. Derek especially. And now he's working with Peter? I swear, I'm burning down his house when we get back."

"Rosaline," Gabriel warns gently. "What have we said about committing arson?"

"Don't you dare defend him," Rose snaps, her voice hard as steel. "Derek's a grown-ass man, and he's making grown-ass decisions. Loyalty is loyalty. You don't team up with someone who murdered your blood. Period."

Gabriel doesn't argue, and Rose flicks her cigarette ash out the window with a sharp sigh. "He's such a disappointment," she mutters. "All that broodiness and self-pity, but when it's time to take a stand, he folds like wet paper."

As we pulled into the parking lot of a brick building, I let out a long breath. "We'll figure out what to do with them when we get back. Right now, let's focus on our own problems."

Rose extinguishes her cigarette with a sharp twist of her wrist, the acrid scent of smoke curling into the night air. Gabriel steps out first, opening the back door for me. His hand brushes mine as he helps me out.

"Where are we?" I ask, looking around as we step onto the bustling downtown sidewalk. The air buzzes with energy—conversation and laughter spill out from street-side bars and restaurants, mingling with the hum of music and the tempting scent of fried food. Groups of college kids sit at outdoor tables, drinking and smoking, their chatter blending into the night.

"Midtown," Rose replies, her heels clicking confidently on the pavement. "Fleur frequents a bar here. After today, I wouldn't be surprised if she's drowning her sorrows in a bottle."

I followed her lead, navigating the narrow sidewalk with Gabriel walking beside me. His hand brushes against mine—just enough to send a soft flutter through my stomach, a moment of warmth cutting through the day's stress. Between Stiles' frantic call, the weight of the court date looming tomorrow, and the suffocating tension that seems to cling to me, his touch is comforting. It's nothing serious between us, and yet, in this moment, it feels like enough. I'm a glorious wreck, and he's just here, steady and present, his fingers grazing mine.

We stop in front of a building, radiating light and sound. Strobing lights flash behind a glass-paneled facade, and the pounding bass of a Nicki Minaj anthem spills onto the street. A large rainbow flag hangs above the entrance, fluttering proudly in the evening breeze.

I arch a brow at the bold neon sign above the door that reads Faces. "Fleur hangs out at a gay club?"

Rose smirks, her pink lips pulling into a knowing grin. "They've got cute go-go dancers."

The bouncer barely glances at us before stepping aside and letting us in without a word. Gabriel takes my hand, his grip firm yet casual, as we push through a sea of dancing bodies. The air inside is heavy with the scent of sweat, cologne, and something sweetly intoxicating. Multicolored lights pulse to the beat of the music, illuminating the crowd in bursts of electric pinks, blues, and greens.

Rose leads us toward the back corner, where Fleur is perched in a plush velvet booth. She's as relaxed as I've ever seen her, leaning back with a hookah pipe in one hand and a tall, neon-colored drink in the other. A handsome man with short-cropped hair and deeply tanned skin—dressed in nothing but a glittery pink thong that leaves very little to the imagination—is grinding up against her. Fleur's laugh cuts through the music as she trails her fingers down his chest, her long nails sparkling under the club lights. She slips a 10 bill into his waistband with an unapologetically pleased grin.

But the moment Fleur's eyes land on Rose, her smile vanishes like smoke in the air. She lets out a long sigh, exhaling a plume of hookah smoke before muttering, "Why has the goddess forsaken me?"

Rose strides forward, utterly unfazed by Fleur's irritation, sliding into the booth across from her.

"Nice to see you too, Fleur," Rose quips, resting her arms on the table as if this is just another friendly chat.

Fleur doesn't bother masking her annoyance, waving off the dancer beside her with a flick of her wrist. The man gives a mock pout before slipping back into the crowd, leaving Fleur to glare at Rose. "And here I thought I'd get through one night without the drama you drag into my life."

"Oh, come on," Rose says with a smirk, leaning casually on the table. "You look like you're having fun."

"Fun," Fleur echoes dryly, her sharp eyes locking onto Gabriel and me as we slide into the booth beside Rose. Her gaze feels like it's peeling me apart layer by layer, sharp and unrelenting. "You think I come here for fun? No. I come here to forget."

"And yet here we are," Rose counters, her tone as sweet as it is pointed. Without asking, she picks up the hookah pipe from Fleur and takes a long pull, exhaling a perfect plume of smoke. "Let's talk."

Fleur groans, sinking deeper into the booth as she picks up her drink. "You know I could turn that smoke into ice in your lungs," she mutters darkly.

A small spark dances on the coals of the hookah as Rose takes another puff, completely unbothered. "And I could singe off your eyebrows, but let's not forget—we're all friends here."

The tension between them is electric, like the quiet hum before a storm breaks. I can feel the animosity simmering between them.

The go-go dancer returns briefly, dropping off another drink for Fleur, and Rose waves down a server to order a round of vodka shots for the table. Fleur raises an eyebrow as the drinks arrive, her smirk growing sharper.

"You have until my drink is gone," she says coolly, lifting her glass to her lips. "Then I go back to my sanctuary of thongs and thots."

"Then we'll make it quick," Rose replies, her confidence unwavering.

I exhale slowly, letting my magic seep into the space between us. The tension eases, Rose and Fleur's shoulders relaxing as the air around us lightens. Fleur, however, is quick to call me out.

"A bit unfair," she says, her accent dripping with sarcasm. "Easing my mood to get what you want? Smart, but cheap."

"You wouldn't listen if you were upset," I reply evenly, holding her sharp gaze. "At least this way, your mind isn't already made up."

Fleur's smirk deepens, but there's something almost amused in her eyes. "Non, non. You eased the knot in my shoulder, but my spirit? My spirit knows your tomfoolery."

"Why not just tell us what we need to know and be done with it?" I ask, frustration bubbling just beneath my words.

Fleur leans forward slightly, the smirk on her lips sharp as a blade. "Are you trying to kill me before my time?"

I blink, caught off guard. "No, we're just trying to learn more about the Orionis. That's all. Then we'll leave you in peace."

She takes a slow drag from her hookah, exhaling a curl of smoke that seems to linger in the air between us. "Sense has pursued you your whole life, but you've always been faster."

I groan, running a hand through my hair. "Are you always this poetic, or is it just when you're avoiding my questions?"

Fleur doesn't answer immediately. She sets down the hookah pipe, taking a sip of her drink. She lets the silence stretch before she speaks again. "You ask for my help but offer nothing in return."

Rose cuts in, her tone clipped. "I asked you what you wanted—"

"And I told you," Fleur interrupts, her voice cold and deliberate. "You cannot afford it."

I glance between them before holding up a hand. "Can we have a minute?"

Rose and Gabriel exchange looks but slide out of the booth, disappearing toward the dance floor. It's just Fleur and me now.

I lean in, lowering my voice. "Why did you transfer to House Sagittarius?"

Her fingers tap the edge of her glass, her shoulders tensing slightly. "What does it matter?"

"It matters to me," I say, keeping my tone steady. "You've built walls so high it's like you've sealed yourself in a tomb. Why?"

"To protect myself," she snaps, her voice sharp and defensive.

"From what?" I press gently. "From feeling?"

"Yes," she says, her tone clipped but resolute.

I pause, studying her carefully. "Why?"

She exhales slowly, her gaze distant. "Why does a child call for its mother? Because she makes them feel safe. I have no desire to relive my past life."

"So, you'd rather run from it?" I say, soft but unrelenting.

Her sharp gaze snaps back to mine. "What gives you the right to disturb the peace I've made?"

The go-go dancer reappears, setting down the shots before disappearing into the crowd. I pick one up, my fingers curling around the glass. "You're right. I don't have any right to tell you what to do. But sealing yourself away isn't peace, Fleur. It's rotting."

Fleur observes me carefully, her expression unreadable. Finally, she exhales another puff of smoke, setting the hookah aside. "For someone so young," she says quietly, "you have wisdom beyond your years."

"Thanks?" I reply, unsure if it's a compliment or an insult.

She gestures for Rose and Gabriel to rejoin us, finishing her drink in one smooth motion. When they return, she gives Rose a pointed look.

"The price I ask is simple—you lose me. Whatever bond we shared? Whatever camaraderie you think exists between us? It ends here."

The weight of her words settles over the table like a heavy fog. Rose doesn't argue, she simply picks up her glass, her expression tight.

Fleur lifts her glass in a mock toast. "To bonds broken, and the peace found in their absence."

We all raise our glasses, the vodka burn searing my throat as Fleur slings Rose's Louis Vuitton over her shoulder. She pauses as she stands. "Palace of Fine Arts."

And just like that, she's gone, leaving behind the faint scent of her perfume and the lingering weight of her parting words. Rose sets her glass down with a sigh. "C'mon. We got what we came for."

The drive to the Palace of Fine Arts is quick, though it feels like an eternity with Rose at the wheel. Every sharp turn and sudden acceleration keeps my anxiety at a steady simmer, even as Gabriel mutters curses under his breath. The car finally pulls up along the road near the reflective pond. The streetlights cast an orange glow across the water, and the grand rotunda looms ahead, its ornate columns glowing softly under the moonlight.

Stepping out into the cool night air, I take a moment to steady myself, brushing off the tension from the drive. The gravel crunches beneath our feet as we walk toward the colonnade. The arches above seem impossibly tall, their shadows stretching across the stone path in intricate patterns. The central pergola rises ahead, its circular design framed by towering fluted columns that reach toward the stars.

I glance at Rose as we step into the heart of the rotunda. The soft light filtering through the open space illuminates her figure.

"Are you okay with everything that happened with Fleur?" I ask, keeping my voice low enough that only she can hear.

Rose runs her fingers along one of the weathered pillars, her expression distant. "Our relationship was always… transactional," she says after a pause. "We worked on a favor system—this for that. Sometimes we'd grab food or drinks, but she was always reserved. I guess I know why now."

I hesitate, then ask, "How did you meet her?"

Rose's lips twitch into a faint smirk, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "By chance. I came here with Aurora not long after the fall of House Sagittarius to negotiate the terms of dividing territory. My car broke down, and hers was the closest shop to tow to. The rest is history."

There's something unspoken in her tone, a lingering sadness or regret. I don't push further, but it's clear there's more to their story than she's letting on.

As we reach the center of the pergola, I run my fingers along one of the ornate columns, studying the faint carvings etched into the stone. "What was the favor you owed her?" I ask, glancing at Rose.

She furrows her brow. "What do you mean?"

"When you left last week," I remind her, "you said you had a Taurus who owed you a favor. What did you do to have Fleur fix your car?"

Rose huffs a small laugh, her smirk returning. "I stole a copy of a report from House Gemini."

Gabriel raises an eyebrow, leaning against a nearby column. "Let me guess—she wanted to see if they'd noticed her."

"Most likely," Rose replies, shrugging.

I frown, running my fingers over the weathered grooves in the stone. "How would they track her?"

"Ley lines," Rose explains, sighing when she catches my confused expression. "Don't tell me you haven't been doing your reading."

"I skim," I admit, shrugging.

Rose rolls her eyes. "Ley lines are veins of magic that crisscross the globe. They span oceans, hills, and valleys. Covens build their strongholds on them to draw strength from their energy."

Gabriel nods, his voice even as he adds, "Night creatures are drawn to ley lines, especially where they converge. Our Houses are built near them—to protect the mundane world from the magical one."

Rose picks up where he leaves off. "When magic is cast, it ripples through the ley lines like a drop of water in a pond. House Gemini monitors these ripples, reports them to the High Table, and they dispatch orders to the appropriate House to investigate."

"Do they investigate every single instance?" I ask, tilting my head.

Rose shrugs, brushing her fingers along the pillar. "We're witches, not gods. We make mistakes, and the whole world can't be covered at once. We focus on areas with the most impact."

"So… what about me and my magic?" I ask hesitantly.

Rose and Gabriel exchange a glance. Rose exhales, her tone measured. "Just don't go burning down acres of land again, and we should be fine. At least we can be thankful for our werewolves."

"Why's that?" I ask, my gaze shifting to Gabriel.

"They act as a buffer," Gabriel explains. "Their presence dulls the ripple effect of magic. That's why rogue witches are harder to find."

"Like us?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Gabriel nods. "We're unaligned. It's… different."

Rose smirks faintly. "A black cat is still a cat."

I pause, absorbing their explanations. "Can hunters read ley lines?"

"Thankfully, no," Rose says, her tone light but firm. "They rely on archaic methods to track witches. If they could, it'd be like The Wizard of Oz—follow the yellow brick road."

"Follow the yellow brick road," I echo, trailing off as something catches my eye. My fingers freeze over a faint motif etched into the stone—a bow and arrow, subtle but unmistakable, worn by time but still visible in the moonlight.

"Rose," I call softly, gesturing toward the carving.

She steps closer, her eyes narrowing as she studies it. "House Sagittarius," she murmurs.

Gabriel joins us, his brow furrowing. "Great. How do we open it? Only House witches can unlock their own doors."

Without thinking, I place my hand over the carving. A faint pulse of light shimmers beneath my palm, spreading outward in intricate patterns that ripple across the stone like veins of magic. The ground beneath us trembles, the air vibrating with energy as the center of the rotunda shifts. Slowly, the stone reveals a spiral staircase descending into the darkness below.

Gabriel lets out a low whistle, stepping back. "Well, that's one way to do it."

Rose glances at me, her lips quirking into a small, approving smile. "Looks like you're full of surprises."

I take a deep breath, the cool air from below rushing up to meet us. "Guess we're about to find out just how many."

The hallway stretches on forever, the air thick with mildew and something sharp, like the metallic tang of blood long dried. Every step feels heavier than the last, the sound of our boots echoing against the crumbling stone walls. I don't know how long we've been walking, but it's enough to make my legs ache and my stomach twists with unease.

We pass room after room, each one more broken than the last. Bunkhouses with rotting cots, chambers that look like they once held some purpose, now just hollow shells. It's haunting, but nothing prepares me for what we find next.

The corridor opens into a massive chamber, and for a second, I just stop and stare. The place is huge—two floors with towering shelves lining the walls, their books slumped and decaying like the ghosts of knowledge. The floor is a mess of scattered pages, curling at the edges, some torn completely apart. In the center is a large circular table covered in notes, quills snapped in half, and ink bottles tipped over and dried into black pools.

Rose steps forward, her boots crunching over loose paper. With a flick of her wrist, the candles scattered throughout the room flared to life, throwing flickering shadows across the ruined space. It feels eerie, like the room itself is waking up after being dead for who knows how long.

"Looks like a good place to start," she says, her voice low, almost cautious.

Gabriel tilts his head toward the upper level. "I'll check upstairs," he says, already heading for a staircase that looks like it might crumble beneath him.

"I'll search around here," Rose says, her fingers already brushing over the spines of books on the shelves. "Adrian, take the center. See if you find anything useful."

I nodded, swallowing hard as I stepped toward the table. My hands are shaking as I sift through the mess of papers. The writing is dense and academic, mixed with magical terminology that makes my head spin. Diagrams of lunar cycles, notes about ley lines, theories on magic that feel way above my level—it's overwhelming. I shove aside a few pages, frustration bubbling in my chest until something catches my eye.

A leather-bound journal, tucked beneath a pile of torn notes. It feels heavy when I pick it up, the cover cracked and worn with age. I flip it open, my eyes scanning the pages inside. The writing is almost poetic, cryptic in a way that makes me feel like it's teasing me with something I'm just not smart enough to understand. But then I see it—Orionis. The word jumps out at me from several pages, scattered among the strange, flowing text.

I barely have time to process it before I see something move out of the corner of my eye.

My head snaps up, and my heart stops. Three figures stand in the doorway, motionless and silent. Their faces are hidden behind black masks etched with golden markings, symbols that seem to glow faintly in the candlelight. Heavy cloaks drape over their shoulders, the edges tattered like they've been dragged through hell. Their eyes—or what should be their eyes—are empty, hollow voids that seem to pierce straight through me.

I stumble back, the journal slipping from my fingers and hitting the floor with a dull thud. A stack of books topples over, crashing loudly and breaking the silence like a gunshot. My stomach flips as I struggle to catch my breath.

"Adrian?" Rose's voice is sharp as she hurries over, her eyes narrowing as she spots the figures. Her hand hovers near her waist, where I know she keeps her blade. "Stay behind me."

The tallest figure steps forward, his movements slow and deliberate, like he knows he has all the time in the world. The gold on his mask catches the light, and when he speaks, his voice is deep and gravelly, sending a chill down my spine.

"Secure them."

I hear Gabriel's footsteps on the upper level. "What's going on?" he calls down, his voice tense.

The figures don't respond. They just stand there, like death-given form, their presence pressing down on me like a weight I can't shake. My knees feel weak, but Rose doesn't move.

"Adrian," she says, her voice low but steady, "don't panic."

Too late. My chest tightens, and I can't tear my eyes away from those hollow masks. This place isn't just abandoned—it's cursed. Whatever happened here, it left more than ruins behind.

This isn't just a graveyard.

It's a trap.

The guy on the left moves first, his body splitting into six identical copies that dart toward us like shadows breaking free. My stomach twists as they close in, their movements quick and synchronized.

Rose steps in front of me, her hands outstretched, her voice steady and sharp. "Adurere!"

Flames burst from her fingers, a wild, searing fan of fire that lights up the chamber. The heat is instant, almost suffocating, but before it can even touch the clones, the figure on the right rushes forward, his hand cutting through the air. The fire twists unnaturally, spiraling up toward the ceiling before snuffing out completely, leaving nothing but the smell of scorched air.

"Shit," Rose hisses, stepping back, her eyes flicking toward the advancing clones.

The ground shudders, and a wall of stone explodes from the marble floor, cutting off the clones' path. Gabriel's shout rings out. "Munio!"

I look up just in time to see him sprinting along the top of the stone. His hand dives into the marble, pulling out a blade. The clones meet him mid-run, scaling the wall like it's flat ground, their forms flickering as they close in. Gabriel doesn't hesitate. His blade cuts through them one by one, each swing clean and deliberate, but every time he takes one down, it reforms a few feet away, good as new.

"Move!" Rose grabs my arm, dragging me toward the staircase. My legs feel like lead, but I stumble along, the heat of another blast of magic making the back of my neck prickle. My instincts scream a warning before I even see it—a fireball. Without thinking, I throw up a barrier, and the fire slams into it with a deafening crack, sending us tumbling forward.

I hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air out of me. Rose is already back on her feet, her hand flicking out as she deflects another fireball, spiking it back at the Aries witch like she's playing volleyball. The explosion sends him staggering, but he's not down. Not even close.

"Up the stairs, Adrian!" Rose yells, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Find us a way out!"

I don't argue. I can't. My chest is heaving as I scramble up the stairs, my hands gripping the rail for balance. Behind me, the room is pure chaos. The sound of Gabriel's blade slicing through the air, the roar of fire colliding with stone, Rose's sharp, controlled commands—it's all a blur. I glance back for half a second and see Gabriel leaping off the wall, his blade clashing against one of the clones mid-air. Sparks fly, and for a moment, it's like everything freezes.

I frantically scan the upper level for an exit, my eyes darting between the endless rows of bookshelves. There's nothing. Just more dusty shelves and crumbling walls. The only way out is the entrance we came through—and that witch is still guarding it.

Wait. Where the hell did he go?

"Submit to the authority of the High Table, and your lives will be spared."

The voice comes from beside me, calm and unnervingly close. My head snaps around, and there he is—the witch from the center of the room, now standing a few feet away. His dark hood shrouds most of his face, but the air around him crackles with static electricity, like a storm building just beneath his skin. I can feel it tingling against my arms, crawling over my scalp.

"What do you want with us?" I demand, forcing the words out past the lump of fear in my throat.

"As an Adjudicator, I am charged with investigating those who violate the rules of the Concord of the Arcane," he replies, his voice cold and authoritative. "I will bring you in for questioning."

His hand raises, and sparks dance across his fingertips like snakes ready to strike. "Willing or not."

"We didn't do anything wrong!" I shout, my voice cracking.

The Adjudicator tilts his head, almost like he's amused. "That is for the High Table to decide."

Before I can respond, a bolt of lightning bursts from his outstretched hand, streaking straight toward me. I barely have time to throw up a shield of magic. The bolt collides with it, the impact shaking me to my core and lighting up the entire space with a blinding flash. The force sends me stumbling back, my shield faltering as the static in the air raises every hair on my body.

The Adjudicator doesn't give me a moment to recover. He's on me in an instant, his movements fluid and inhumanly fast. Another strike of lightning shoots toward me, and I twist, deflecting it just enough to avoid a direct hit. The edges of my jacket catch the brunt of it, the acrid smell of burnt fabric filling my nose.

"Stop!" I shout, summoning a wave of energy and shoving it toward him with all the force I can muster. The blast catches him off guard, pushing him back a few steps, but his footing is solid.

His eyes narrow. "Weak."

He charges at me, electricity trailing from his fingertips like glowing threads. He strikes, and I block again, the impact jolting through my entire body. It feels like my nerves are being set on fire. Every blow is faster and heavier, and I can feel my magic waning under the onslaught. My legs are trembling, my breaths coming out in short, shallow gasps.

Desperation takes over, and I lunge forward, slamming my knee into his side. He staggers, just barely, and I take the opportunity to kick him square in the chest. It sends him toppling backward into a pile of books. But before I can savor the small victory, his retaliation comes in the form of a blinding surge of lightning. It slams into me like a freight train, and I'm thrown back.

My body crashes into the railing, and for one horrifying moment, I'm weightless, falling. My magic surges instinctively, forming a weak cushion before I hit the ground below. Even so, the impact knocks the wind out of me, and pain radiates through every nerve. My body shakes uncontrollably, the residual electricity zipping through my muscles like sharp needles.

"Adrian!" Gabriel's voice cuts through the haze, and a moment later, he's at my side. He looks worse for wear, his face bloodied, his clothes singed. Behind him, a massive dome of stone encases the Gemini witch. He glances at me, his eyes scanning for injuries. "Can you move?"

I nod weakly, though every joint in my body protests. "I'll live."

A groan draws both of our attention, and we turn to see Rose sprawled nearby. Her arms are red and blistered, the skin raw from the heat of the Aries witch's flames. She's barely holding herself up, her breathing labored.

The stone dome around the Gemini witch trembles, cracks splintering across its surface. It collapses with a thunderous crash, and the Gemini witch emerges, his clones reforming around him like a swarm. He moves to rejoin the Aries, who stands poised, flames licking at his fingertips. The Adjudicator descends the stairs, calm and composed as ever, the sparks at his hands dimming.

"Your defiance is noted," the Adjudicator says, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. "You have chosen the hard way."

I force myself to sit up, every movement sending waves of pain through my body. My chest heaves as I look up at the three witches, their silhouettes framed by the dim, flickering light of the room. My heart pounds in my ears, drowning out the sound of Gabriel's voice as he says something to me.

I barely register it. All I can think about is how outmatched we are—and how this might be the end.

Then, there's a rush of water out of nowhere—a tidal wave roaring through the chamber. It slams into the witches like a freight train, sweeping them off their feet and pinning them against the far wall. The sound is deafening, the sheer force of it rattling the air.

"Come on!"

I snap my head toward the doorway, where Fleur stands with her arms raised in a fluid, commanding motion. Her fingers twist and curve like a conductor orchestrating a symphony, the water moving in perfect synchronization with her gestures.

I try to stand, my body screaming in protest. Gabriel moves to help me, but I shake my head, gritting my teeth. "Get Rose!"

He hesitates, glancing between me and Rose, then rushes to her side. She's still struggling to get to her feet, her face twisted in pain. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stand despite the ache in my body, the adrenaline numbing just enough of the pain to keep me moving.

As Gabriel helps Rose steady herself, I stagger toward the doorway. My eyes catch the journal lying on the ground near the center table. Without thinking, I grab it, shoving it into my jacket as we break for the exit.

Behind us, the Gemini witch rises first, his clones reforming from the water like shadows splitting off in all directions. They race toward us, their movements erratic but terrifyingly fast.

Fleur snarls, her hands weaving through the air as she casts again. "Unda!"

Another massive wave crashes forward, sweeping the Gemini witch and his clones off their feet. The water surges like a living creature, tossing the copies into walls and columns, shattering what remains of the room.

But then, the Adjudicator extends his hand, a jagged bolt of lightning slicing through the wave. It cracks like a whip, the electricity breaking the water apart in a violent explosion of steam and sparks.

Before I can think, I step in front of Fleur, raising my hands. The lightning slams into me like a freight train, searing pain shooting through my body as the energy wraps around my fingers. My arms shake violently, and a guttural groan escapes my lips.

I let my body flow with the magic, twisting into the motion. I let my hand guide the energy down my arm, across my chest, and into my right hand, where I push it forward with every ounce of strength I can muster. The bolt reverses direction, arcing back toward the Adjudicator in a blinding flash of light.

The blast hits him square in the chest, the force sending him skidding back into the flooded chamber. The water beneath him crackles and surges, electricity rippling through the surface and shocking the witches caught in its grasp.

"Move!" Fleur shouts, her voice strained as she raises her arms again. The ground beneath her trembles, a torrent of water and earth erupting from the walls. The rushing flood sweeps through the corridor behind us, forcing the witches to scatter as we race toward the entrance.

The cool night air greets us like a lifeline as we sprint toward Rose's car, our breaths ragged and desperate. Fleur is already throwing open the passenger door as Rose collapses into the driver's seat. Gabriel and I piled into the back, my chest still trembling from the lightning.

"Where are we going?" Rose asks, her voice hoarse as she turns the ignition.

Fleur rattles off an address, her tone sharp. "A safe house near the shop. Move it."

Without hesitation, Rose slams her foot on the gas, the tires screeching as we peel away from the ruined Palace of Fine Arts. I slump back against the seat, my head finding Gabriel's shoulder as if it's the only solid thing left in my spinning world. Every nerve in my body still buzzes, the adrenaline surging through me like static electricity. His hand finds mine, trembling from the residual magic, his thumb brushing softly over my knuckles. My chest heaves as I finally release the breath I've been holding, the sound of my pounding heart drowning out everything else.

In the rearview mirror, the grand rotunda grows smaller and smaller, fading into the darkness until it's just another shadow on the horizon.

Fleur failed to mention that the "safe house" near Paul's Automotive was actually her auntie's house. Nothing beats a midnight welcome like an older Nigerian woman yelling at us in rapid-fire Yoruba for disturbing her slumber. Fleur doesn't even flinch, brushing her auntie off with a wave of her hand and a dismissive, "Aunty, go back to bed." The woman glares at all of us, muttering something under her breath before retreating down the hall, her slippers smacking the hardwood floors.

The house is cozy, a mix of warm browns and gold with faint floral patterns on the curtains. Fleur gestures for us to settle on the living room floor, throwing a blanket at Gabriel and me as she lights a few candles.

My limbs ache and shake as I press my hand to Gabriel's cheek, letting my magic pour into him. As the warmth spreads through him, he exhales a long, relieved sigh and leans into my touch. "Thank you," he murmurs. You don't have to do this, Adrian."

I offer him a small smile, my lips tugging upward despite the exhaustion clawing at me. "I want to," I reply softly. His hand covers mine, holding it gently against his face. His gaze is heavy, shadows lingering behind his dark eyes, and for a moment, I wonder how much he's carrying behind his gaze.

Fleur joins us not long after, balancing a bundle of sage in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. She lights the sage first, surrounding us in a circle of rock salt before dropping into a crouch beside Rose. "A barrier," she explains, her tone clipped. "Keeps witches from sensing our magic."

Rose raises an eyebrow as Fleur hands her the bottle of vodka. "Drink," Fleur orders, her voice as blunt as ever. "I need to separate the fabric from your flesh. This will not be pleasant."

Rose takes a few heavy swigs, wincing as the alcohol burns its way down. Fleur doesn't wait, pressing her hands against Rose's arm as a soft magic glow envelops them. Rose hisses through her teeth, letting out a sharp groan as Fleur works.

"What were you doing there?" Rose grits out, her voice tight with pain.

Fleur doesn't look up, her focus fixed on the magic. "I wanted answers. When I arrived, I saw those three witches entering."

"Fucking hell," Rose hisses, flinching as Fleur moves to her other arm. "You sure you weren't just selling us out for a quick buck?"

Fleur's expression remains stoic. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have sealed you in there," she replies coolly.

Rose groans, leaning her head back against the couch. "We should be so lucky."

"This," Fleur says, her voice firm as she finishes her work, "is my final act of kindness. Whatever mess you've stirred up, take it far from here."

Rose doesn't respond, just takes another long pull from the vodka bottle, her face pale and drawn. Fleur heals the last of our wounds, her magic precise but impersonal, before mending our clothes. When she's finished, she stands, dusting off her hands as if to physically rid herself of us.

We leave without another word.

Gabriel drives because Rose is too drunk to function, her head lolling against the window as she mutters incoherent complaints. The ride is quiet, save for the hum of the engine and my own erratic thoughts. When we get back to their suite, Gabriel carries Rose inside, tucking her beneath the covers like it's second nature. She's out within seconds.

I linger awkwardly in the living room, frozen on the couch as I pull the journal from my jacket and toss it onto Rose's suitcase. My body feels like lead, every ounce of energy drained.

Gabriel glances at the journal before looking back at me. "What did you find?"

"Probably nothing," I admit, running a hand through my hair. "Maybe something. I don't understand it."

He leans against the doorway, watching me with that quiet intensity of his. "You need to get some rest," he says finally.

"I need to go down to my room," I mumble, though the thought of moving feels like too much.

"Stay," he offers, sitting down beside me. "It's late. I'll wake you before your mom gets up."

I glanced at him, hesitating. "You sure?"

He gives me a small smile. "Yeah. You look like you're about to collapse."

I don't have the energy to argue, so I let out a soft sigh and nod. He grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over us before settling in beside me.

He pulls me close, his chest solid and warm against my back. His arm drapes over me, his hand brushing against mine, and I let myself sink into the comfort of his presence. His lips pressed softly against my forehead. The tension in my body melts away, and my heart finally slows for the first time in what feels like forever.

I find myself clutching his hand, trying to calm my racing thoughts as sleep pulls me under.

The next day is absolute hell. I'm running on fumes, the Brightwake potion I chugged in the bathroom earlier barely masking the exhaustion clawing at my bones. Sneaking back into my room at dawn had been its own nightmare, and now I'm here, sitting outside a courtroom, feeling drained and raw from the fight last night. The adrenaline's gone, leaving nothing but the ache of overused magic and restless nerves.

My foot bounces anxiously against the linoleum floor, the dull rhythm the only thing grounding me as my mom talks quietly with her lawyer. They're hunched over a stack of documents, her face tight with worry she's trying to hide. Down the hall, my father stands with his lawyer, arms crossed, his smug expression making my stomach churn. I hate how calm he looks.

The tension in the air is suffocating, pressing down on my chest. When the court officer finally steps out to call us inside, the sound of the door creaking open feels louder than it should, scraping against my nerves.

The judge is an older man, bald with beady eyes that cut through the room like he's already made up his mind. He barely looks at my mom or dad, but his gaze lingers on me, sharp and assessing, like he's trying to piece me apart. It's the same look people give something fragile—something broken. I loathe him for it.

The arguments start, but they barely register. It's nothing like the courtroom drama you see on TV—just two lawyers trading carefully measured words while the judge listens with the kind of detachment that makes me feel invisible. My father's lawyer goes first, painting him as the wronged father: child support without visitation, the injustice of my mom taking me across the country without his consent.

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood, as my mom's lawyer pushes back. He lays it all out—the conversion therapy camp, my father's signature, the text messages proving he took me without her permission. He even pulls up the Michigan ruling that gave her sole custody.

The tension grows thicker with every word, but the judge's face never changes. He just watches and listens, glancing at me like I'm an exhibit in the case. My mom grips my hand under the table, but it doesn't help. Nothing does.

And then I smell it—the sharp sting of sulfur and the acrid tang of burnt flesh. It creeps in slowly, wrapping around me like smoke. As the scent grows stronger, my chest tightens. My throat feels dry, and my skin pricks with unease. I glance around, but no one else seems to notice.

And then I see her.

She's perched atop the judge's podium, her body wrapped in bloodied, burned bandages that cling to her like a second skin. The fabric is scorched and torn, barely holding her together. Smoke rises in lazy tendrils from her body, curling into the air like it has a mind of its own.

Her eyes, glowing embers set into the shadows of her face, lock onto mine. Her smirk is cruel and mocking like she's savoring my discomfort—feeding off my pain. She doesn't move or speak, but her presence fills the room. The faint crackle of smoldering fire hums in my ears, blending with the judge's monotone voice.

The gavel comes down, breaking the haze. The judge rules in favor of my dad. He says the lack of evidence of physical abuse makes the Michigan court's decision to deny visitation unjust. He calls the conversion therapy "despicable" but shrugs it off as legal under Michigan and Ohio law. He says my dad's remorse is reason enough to grant supervised visitation.

No one asks me what I think. No one even looks at me as the decision is made.

The room feels colder. My mom hugs me, holding me tight, but her embrace feels hollow. The Scarlet Witch is still perched on the podium, watching with that smirk as if she's won something. The sulfur burns in my nose, making my eyes water.

As we leave, my mom grips my hand tightly, her fingers trembling against mine. The hallway feels endless, the air heavy, but I keep walking. I don't know what else to do. I feel hollow, detached, like I'm floating outside my body. The witch's mocking gaze lingers in the back of my mind; her presence is stuck on me like a leech feeding from a body.