Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Naomi has been quiet, brow furrowed, fingers tapping absently against her knee.
“There might be something,” she says slowly.
Every head snaps toward her.
“The Tampa Museum just received a private donation—a collection of occult texts,” she continues. “Mostly ceremonial stuff. Folklore and ritual theory. It’s all nonsense to most people, but…” She hesitates, then shrugs. “After what you told us, I’m not so sure anymore.”
My pulse starts to race.
“Do you think there’s something in the collection that could help?.”
“I was looking through them—helping the curators—and one of the books references cross-realm sympathetic anchors,” she says. “Objects that can act as bridges when there’s an emotional or magical bond.”
My hand tightens around the token in my pocket.
“I can’t take the book home,” she adds quickly. “But I can photograph a few relevant pages. There’s a spell—more like a guide—for activating artifacts tied to another realm.”
“When?” I ask, barely breathing. “When can you do it?”
“Tomorrow night,” she says. “I’ll bring everything I can, but I might need some help gathering the necessary ingredients for the spell.”
“Just let us know what we need to bring,” Yelena says.
“Yes—text it to all of us,” Sophia says eagerly. “I’m sure working together we can get everything we need.”
Hope blooms in my chest—sharp and bright and for the first time since I came home, I feel like I’m not just waiting for something terrible to happen. I might actually be able to do something to stop it.
“Thank you.” I look around the circle of my friends faces. “Y’all are the best.”
“We’ll do anything we can to help you, Jules,” Tasha says simply.
“But are you really sure you want to go back?” Mari asks.
I nod my head firmly.
“Yes—he saved me several times and he was good to Hanna. I have to at least try to save him.”
“We might never see each other again if you do this,” Hanna whispers. “You know how hard it is to get back from there.”
“I know,” I say. I take a deep breath. “And I’m sorry about that. I just…I can’t help myself.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” Lucia says softly. “Of course you have to go, Jules.”
“That’s if this spell works.” Naomi sounds worried.
“It’ll work,” I say, hoping I’m right.
“All right then, darlings,” Yelena says. “We’re on for tomorrow night and Naomi will tell everyone what to bring.”
We have a group hug and I feel all the love of my friends pouring into me and I know—I know—I’m doing the right thing.
If I can get it done.
That night, I dream of Lucian again—but this time, he turns when I call his name.
“Hold on,” I whisper into the dark when I wake. “Hold on—I’m coming.”
71
Jules
Yelena’s backyard looks nothing like it usually does.
Normally it’s all manicured hedges and discreet landscape lighting and the faint scent of expensive candles drifting out from the open French doors. Tonight, it feels… different. Charged. Like the air itself is holding its breath.
The pentagram drawn in flour takes up most of the lawn, stark white against the dark grass. Naomi insisted it had to be exactly measured—angles precise and points sharp. She paced it off twice, muttering to herself, before finally nodding in satisfaction.
Everyone has brought something from the list she texted all of us.
Yelena sets a heavy silver chalice at the northern point of the pentagram. It looks old—ornate, engraved with symbols I don’t recognize.
“Family heirloom,” she says quietly. “For intention.”
Tasha places a thick beeswax candle beside it, already lit. It smells faintly of honey and smoke.
“For protection,” she says.
Lucia kneels and puts down a cracked hand mirror, the glass fractured but still reflective.
“For truth,” she says dryly. “Even when it’s ugly.”
Mari lays out a length of red silk ribbon embroidered with tiny metallic moons.
“For crossing to the other side,” she whispers, almost reverently.
Sophia sets down a small vial of salt mixed with crushed rosemary.
“For grounding,” she says. “And courage.”
Naomi stands last, the book already open in her hands. At the last moment she asked if she could borrow it and was given permission. The pages are yellowed and crowded with handwritten notes in different inks—some careful, some cramped and spiky. She smoothes the paper carefully, like it might bite her.
Hanna never leaves my side.
She stands so close I can feel her warmth, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go. I don’t blame her—I’m afraid of that too…but it’s also what I’m hoping for.
I hold the token Whistler left in my palm. It looks small and unassuming—dark metal etched with symbols that seem to shift if I stare too long. It’s cool, heavier than it should be, and it hums faintly against my skin, like it knows where it wants to go.
Naomi looks up at me. Her voice is steady, but I see the tension in her jaw.
“Everyone knows where their artifacts go,” she says. “No one crosses the lines once we start. And if anything feels wrong—anything at all—we stop.”