Chapter 5 Something Hallowed, Something Dark

5

Something Hallowed, Something Dark

For Friday launch, the planning committee had agreed that we'd each attend all four of the events in case anything needed tweaking. I slunk into Tomes a framed map of Thistle Grove in a poppy neon palette from our paper goods store; and three scoops of witch-themed green-and-black gelato from Hell Frozen Over. I had an irresistible sweet tooth at the best of times—something about sugar-triggered dopamine dulled the call of the other side—but never worse than on a day when I was already afire with nerves.

When I finally homed in on Ivy, I'd worked up a sugar rush that at least tasted like courage.

She stood a few rows back from the stage erected in front of Honeycake's towering hedge maze, its flower-strewn walls a riot of unseasonable color against the brilliant blue of the sky. Her gaze slid to me before I'd even elbowed my way over to her through the crowd of tourists waiting for the spectacle to start. So she had been on the lookout for me, too, I thought, satisfaction spreading through me like warmed oil.

She wore a fitted and flared double-breasted peacoat, clearly vintage, the black fabric printed with cabbage roses. Silver earrings like elongated teardrops hung from her ears, and her lips were glossed a dusky violet to match some of the floral print's darker blooms. Ivy's ensembles were always like that, a seamlessly elegant blend of thrifted and modern. It made me feel drab in my simple black trench and gray infinity scarf, and also like the only thing I wanted was to pop those oversized buttons and peel the coat right off her like a rind, expose all the gorgeous softness beneath.

"Hey," she said coolly, gaze flicking down to the paper bag slung over my elbow. "What's all that?"

"Souvenirs?" I offered, feeling a flush creep into my cheeks. I blushed at the slightest provocation, like any other nearly translucent person, and I knew Ivy liked to see me color. Predictably, her eyes drifted to my cheeks, lips parting a little before she remembered herself. We stood close enough that even against the powerful perfume of sun-warmed grass and apples that wafted across the orchard, I could smell her. Shea butter and vanilla and sweet pea, even the fruity tang of the lip gloss. "I went to check in on our vendors. Possibly got a little carried away during my inspection of the goods."

"You always were the worst magpie," she said, smirking. "Zero impulse control."

In front of us, the normie dance troupe began assembling onstage, filing into graceful lines. They wore layers of gauze and feathers in mauve and dusty rose, their hair loose beneath floral wreaths. When they turned in unison to face the crowd, lifting up their arms, their dolman sleeves flared wide like wings. Behind them, the magically animated flowers twining through the maze's leaves—freesia, iris, and eglantine, alongside morning glory and pale anemone—perked up and burst into an ethereal three-part melody. A ribbon of delighted laughter wove through the crowd, underpinned by the hum of curious chatter as the more skeptical spectators among them began speculating on how this effect could possibly be achieved.

"Guilty," I admitted, my heart speeding up at the trace of fondness in Ivy's voice that she hadn't managed to conceal. "I do have a notorious weakness for color. And glitter. And sugar."

"And spice," she added, this time with an edge in her tone, dangerous as a glass shard half-buried in sand. "Can't forget that, can we? Variety , the spice of life."

I bit the inside of my lip, my shoulders hunching as the dart hit home, sinking right into the guiltiest, most tender part of me.

When Ivy and I had met a year ago, I'd been fresh off another in a series of relationships that I'd torpedoed into shipwrecks. Even before my near-deadly stint of obsession with the other side, I'd been shit at sustaining healthy relationships. Committing to another person made me feel trapped and panicky, a fox with its paw caught in a snare. If you loved someone completely, you could always lose them—and that kind of pain never fully waned, no matter what the platitudes would have you believe.

But after my mother died, and the dark days that came after, I'd been so much worse. Because by then, I'd discovered that there was an antidote, something that felt nearly as intoxicating as the other side—and luckily for me, it wasn't mundane drugs. Instead, it was the outermost edge of falling in love, its event horizon. Butterflies swarming in your stomach; the electric zing of anticipating every touch; the feral, insatiable quality of that initial lust. It drove away the temptation of encroaching darkness, forcefully infusing you with light. It was dizzying and gorgeous and all-consuming—and while it lasted, I was virtually untouchable, shielded from the dark that nipped at me like some ravenous temptation. Safely anchored to the shores of the mundane world, immune to the riptide that otherwise drew me inexorably toward the other side.

And then, inevitably, the first hot blush would fade. Those thrilling touches and tokens of affection would become familiar, commonplace—and the desire to tumble headlong into the dark would come rushing back. When that happened, I had to move on. I couldn't risk seeing what might happen if I stayed.

But being with Ivy had made me desperately want to try.

"It wasn't like that," I replied, low and intent. Onstage, the dancers had risen en pointe in their mauve ballet shoes, weaving around one another in hypnotic patterns. Sleeve-wings and loose hair whirling as they shifted into a formation that resembled a flock of birds aloft. "I know what it must have seemed like to you, but I swear I was trying to make things work."

Incredulity flashed over her face, followed by a wash of outrage. "You were trying to make things work?" she demanded, soft lips thinning. "Is that what you're telling yourself these days? Dasha, come the fuck on. You dumped me seven months in because I was boring you. Because things weren't zesty and spontaneous and wildly romantic one thousand percent of the time, or however the hell you put it. All I know is, you flat-out hated it as soon as we got anywhere near comfortable."

That last part was true, though not for the reasons she thought. Not even close. "Ivy, that's not what happened. I—"

She held out a hand stacked with antique rings, forestalling me. "And I understood , right? It hurt like a bitch, but I didn't even give you all that much shit because I got it, that maybe you weren't ready for something real. That maybe you'd never be ready because you weren't even capable, given…everything. Your dad, your mom, your whole terrible ordeal. Or at least the part of it you felt comfortable sharing with me, which I'm still pretty sure wasn't the full extent of it."

It hadn't been, I thought, shame welling up my throat like blood. Almost no one outside of my immediate family knew exactly what I'd been through, and telling someone like Ivy—such a naturally overflowing font of light, and a practitioner of green magic to boot—about the allure of the other side, what it had done to me, had felt so daunting as to be impossible. What she knew were only the most palatable bits. The more easily digestible, sanitized version of events I could stand to give.

And if I couldn't even bring myself to share that full truth with her, how could I have told her that once we'd settled into each other, once the passion had dampened enough to allow for true closeness and comfort, once I'd felt the happiest I'd ever been—and the most terrified? As soon as those initial sparks between us faded, I'd begun to feel the delicious drone of darkness at my periphery, the haunting siren song of the other side. If I gave in to it, I knew exactly what would happen. I'd lose myself to it again, and by abandoning my life on this side of the veil, I'd lose Ivy, too.

Hells, I would probably lose her anyway in the long run, because if I'd learned anything in the wake of both my parents' deaths, it was that nothing and no one ever stuck around for good. This world simply wasn't made that way.

So I'd run from her like I had from the others, thinking it would be better, cleaner, if I were the one to cut the tether. Easier for us both.

What I hadn't accounted for was how different Ivy was, how much more I loved her than I'd ever loved anyone before. The way I'd open my eyes every morning feeling like I was waking into the miserable, endless nightmare of her absence, an aching pit of yearning in my stomach that wouldn't dull. That had never happened, not with anyone else. Being with her had broken down some essential ramparts inside me, defenses I hadn't even known were there. And once they were gone, I hadn't known how to build them back.

"Then you came crawling back a few weeks later," Ivy went on, lips quivering with hurt. "Groveled for all you were worth, begged me for another chance. And like the worst kind of trusting, oblivious asshole, I gave it to you. So let's not forget I swallowed my pride—and that shit went down bitter for me, Dash, you know it did—and I took you back. I did that for you, for us. And then what happens, huh, not two months after that?"

I gritted my teeth and looked away, knowing where this was going, the inevitable condemnation.

Just then, a gasp raced through the crowd—the clear sky above had begun darkening with birds. A slow, stately procession of them, dozens if not hundreds, falling into a precise murmuration that swirled to the rhythm of the flowers' song, subtly echoing the intricate movements of the dancers that still wheeled beneath them in their own rapturous circles.

It was a nod to Alastair Thorn, the Thorn family founder, who'd commemorated the founding of Thistle Grove by calling down birds as witnesses to the momentous event. And judging by the audience's sudden awestruck silence—most of them overcome by the visual splendor, the more dubious few likely wondering how so many birds could have been trained to fly in such complex tandem—it inspired exactly the kind of reverence that must have marked that original moment so many years ago.

Beside me, Ivy cocked her head and swept an imaginary length of hair over one shoulder, drawing my gaze back to her just as she widened her eyes in what was clearly meant to be mimicry of me.

"?‘Ivy, I've been thinking. What would you say about, you know, maybe, opening things up a little?'?" she said, imitating my cadences, the high lilt of my voice, with searing accuracy. "?‘I'm not saying I want us to be poly or anything, if you don't want to try that. Obviously I wouldn't want to do anything you're not comfortable with. But maybe it could be…interesting. More long-term sustainable, if we both had a little freedom.'?"

"There's nothing wrong with open relationships," I said on a harsh exhale, even though I knew full well that in this instance, that was a completely bullshit take. My cheeks were blazing now, fueled by some incandescent alchemy of regret and guilt. I hadn't said those exact words, and certainly not in that sweetly scheming way. But it had been damningly close. I truly hadn't meant to hurt her with the suggestion, though part of me must have known Ivy would never accept anything less than a fully monogamous commitment. It simply wasn't what she wanted, and if I'd been thinking more clearly, I could have predicted the pain it would cause, the way she'd immediately leap to the conclusion that our relationship wasn't enough for me.

But on my end, once the darkness resumed its inevitable incursion, the suggestion had been a desperate, terrified attempt to splice together a solution. A path that would let me love Ivy even past infatuation, while allowing me the prospect of dating more casual partners, if I ever needed them for those newness endorphins that helped keep the darkness at bay. I'd thought of it as a safety net, not something I actively wanted to pursue.

Of course, I hadn't explained my intentions to her in those words, hadn't been anywhere near vulnerable enough with her to admit what I was trying to solve for. There'd been no way to tell her how afraid I was—of losing her, myself, this world at large—when I'd always been too ashamed to admit how bad things had been before we'd met. How close I'd come to never returning to this world, how much I'd hurt my family at every step.

By the time I understood what I'd done, the trust had broken between us. There was no way to take the words back, to make her believe that she mattered more to me than anyone else.

"Of course there's nothing wrong with it!" she tossed back. "That is not the point, and you know it. The point is, you were trying to have your cake and eat it, too. Because you use people, Dasha. Yes, you do, don't shake your head at me. As ridiculously sweet and fucking delightful as you can be…" Her eyes glittered, and she pressed her lips together hard, her chin bunching like a little girl's. "That's still what it's called when you throw people away like that. It's why you're so damn confusing. At first you're all in, so passionate and warm and sexy, an incredible partner. But then as soon as someone's not ticking off exactly the right boxes for you? Off with their head. Because your health, your sanity, your journey is more important."

"You're right," I forced out, licking my lips, my heart beating so hard it felt like a hummingbird lodged in my throat. This kind of confrontation was very much not my speed, but if there was ever a time to explain to Ivy how I'd actually felt, this was it. Even if it ended in an aneurysm. "It was terrible of me to suggest it in the first place. Horribly selfish, even. But I've been doing better, working on myself. I'm going back onstage with Amrita; you know I haven't wanted to do that in years. And I've been meditating, just like you taught me."

It was true. The yoga flows and breathing techniques she'd shared with me back when we were together were helpful, keeping me grounded in a more stable way even if I still wasn't very skilled at either. They weren't nearly as good as a love high, but they worked in a way I could control, and I'd been making a real effort to integrate them into my life.

Her face softened a touch, the raw flare of hope in those dark eyes impossibly inviting. "Every day?"

"Yeah. Every day." Emboldened, I reached for her hand, just a grazing touch. When she didn't pull back immediately, I tucked my fingers under hers, light as a shallow breath. "And I…Ivy, I miss you so much . I miss you all the fucking time. And I know asking for a third shot is way, way more than I deserve, but it was different with us. We both know it was. And I swear to you, I won't be fucking things up again."

She paused for a long moment, that lucent gaze shifting between my eyes, boring into me as if auguring for truth. Against the beautiful backdrop of wheeling birds and dancers set to the flowers' chorus, the moment seemed rendered in a palette of infinite possibility. Hope expanded inside me with such force that it almost hurt, straining against the confines of my ribs—driven through with just the faintest, sparkling seam of panic. What if she actually said yes this time? What then? Could I truly be trusted to handle her with the care she deserved, to not run away from her again when the darkness came knocking?

Then a frightened yelp from one of the spectators jolted us both.

My eyes flew skyward, where a handful of birds had drawn together into a clump that disrupted the harmony of the whole. Even worse, they were being openly aggressive, wings thrashing at one another, talons clawing. One of them a small bird of prey, tearing viciously at another's fanning tail with its beak. Their screeching was so loud it overwhelmed the flowers' song, turning it into an unnerving cacophony.

"What the fuck?" I breathed, a funnel of cold roiling in my gut, as if a chill wind had blown its way inside me. "That—that's not part of the spectacle, is it?"

"Definitely not," Ivy replied, sounding as disconcerted as I felt. Despite everything, my heart leapt when her fingers tightened around mine; she still hadn't let go of me. "We've practiced dozens of times, with Rowan and Linden communing with and directing the flock. Nothing like this ever happened during the trial runs. They never… went at each other like that. So violent, for no reason."

As I watched them battle, a familiar sensation began nudging at my ribs—the part of my magic that intuited the intrusion of the other side. The taste of iron began twanging on the back of my tongue, tiny hairs prickling on my neck. I could feel the urge to summon ectoplasm tingling in my fingers, the inbred Avramov instinct to defend, to meet dark with dark.

But a sweeping glance around me confirmed that nothing had manifested anywhere in my field of vision. No shades, no entities, nothing that snared my attention. Except those feuding birds, still so intent on drawing blood in the skies. Their frantic, flitting shadows fell over the dancers, who'd paused their own rotations and craned their necks to watch. Even the flowers had trailed off into an uncertain, stuttering echo of melody, as feathers drifted down from the battle raging overhead.

I glanced over to see Rowan Thorn, the family scion, his twin sister, Linden, and his partner, Isidora Avramov, peel off from the crowd, gathering beneath one of the fruit-heavy apple trees a dozen feet away from the stage. The grim expression on Issa's pretty, freckled face, the way her black-polished hands were spread by her sides—as if primed to summon ectoplasm at any moment, just as I was—set my gut to an even more nauseating churn.

Something was amiss here. Something malevolent that Issa felt brewing, too.

Rowan reached for Linden's hand, and they lifted their free arms to shoulder height, palms up to the sky. Their eyelids drifted closed in tandem as they began to murmur some cantrip, their faces setting in concentration. Both went so still that their only movement was the breeze-stirred sway of Rowan's locs, the fluttering tassels of Linden's tawny scarf, the synchronized movement of their lips. As far as I could tell, no one in the crowd was even looking their way, captivated by the bloodthirsty spectacle above.

Issa had gone dangerously quiet, too, her green eyes flicking intently between Rowan, Linden, and the birds, as if gauging when to intervene. Even in the starkly modern teal wrap coat she'd likely designed herself, her auburn hair woven into a playful coronet braid, she looked like a necromantic warrior queen torn from the pages of one of our Old World storybooks. An energy vortex trapped within that deceptively quirky exterior.

Issa might not have been the Avramov heir apparent like her older sister, Talia, but she was still a powerhouse unlike any our family had seen in centuries.

Our gazes snapped together, blood singing to blood as we nodded silent agreement at each other. Ready when you are, sister.

"Dasha?" Ivy said questingly. "You…you don't feel right. You're scaring me."

Before I could respond, the aggression in the skies began to wane.

In response to the green magic that Rowan and Linden were weaving with their combined will, the feuding birds drew reluctantly apart, wheeling away from the rest of the flock and off toward the horizon. The apprehension inside me abruptly deflated, too, that feeling of imminent invasion dissipating like a vanishing shade. I glanced over at Issa for confirmation, and she gave me a nod and a relieved smile, her shoulders sagging with relief.

Whatever had been edging its way over onto our plane, infecting the birds with malice, had beaten a retreat. Dispatched by Rowan and Linden's joint mastery over the flock, and likely the green magic that permeated every leaf, petal, and blade of grass in this entire orchard.

But as the spectacle resumed, the flowers taking their chorus back up and the dancers and remaining birds realigning with their delicate rhythms, the thought continued to peck at me. If something had managed to leak over into a place as inhospitable to deathly magic as the Honeycake Orchards naturally were—enough to momentarily wrest control of the birds from the Thorn scion and his twin—how powerful would that unknown something have to be?

The last time any necromantic working had happened at the orchards, it had been a curse cast by one of my family, under extenuating circumstances. But this…this hadn't felt like any spell I knew.

This had felt like something more, and worse.

With a shudder, I pried myself loose from the thought. "I think we're fine now," I said to Ivy, who was still peering nervously at the sky. The familiar swoops and flourishes of her profile, so delicately sketched against the dazzling blue, made my breath catch in my throat. "Must have been some kind of fluke."

"Yeah," she said reluctantly. "Must've been."

I cleared my throat, giving her hand a careful squeeze. "We still have time, before I have to head over to The Bitters," I said. "Do you…Maybe you'd like to get coffee or something? Talk a little more?"

She looked over at me, her eyes pensive, dark pools beneath her winging brows. And with a sinking heart, I could pinpoint the exact moment she changed her mind. As if those feuding birds had registered as a symbol of doom and ruination, a reminder of the way something beautiful could turn on you, grow savagely unpredictable. Sink its talons directly into the soft flesh of your heart.

When we'd been together, she'd been the dance and I had been those birds. Not once, but twice.

"What is it that you want from me, Dash?" she said, her face hardening like setting clay, her voice devastatingly soft. "For me to just gamble my heart on you again, hoping you've finally figured things out for yourself? Because any roll of the dice, any risk I might have to take is worth it, for the chance to be with the incomparable Starshine Avramov again?"

I swallowed hot tears, salt in my mouth. "You know that's not what I think. I'm not—between the two of us, I'm not the incomparable one. You are, Ivy. And you'll always be. And that's why…that's why I keep asking."

"Even if I said yes, what would be the point?" She snatched her hand away, cradling it against her stomach, where I knew she kept her hurt. "You'd just get tired of me, eventually. And then you'd run away, and I'd be ruined again."

"You don't know that."

"And neither do you, not really." She reached out and gently traced the outline of my face, regret and longing swimming in her beautiful eyes. "And that's the point. You broke my heart, Dash. Two whole times. I can't trust you, no matter how much I want to let myself be that person again. That naive, that open…That willing to throw caution to the winds just to have you back. Because it's my responsibility to keep that from happening again. Do you understand?"

"I do," I whispered, quashing the urge to nuzzle my cheek into her palm. I didn't deserve the comfort—just as much as she didn't deserve having to say no to me over and over, when rejecting me clearly only hurt her more. "I'm sorry I asked, I really am. And I won't…I promise I won't ask you again."

"Thank you," she whispered, her own eyes glossed bright with tears. "I would really appreciate that, Dasha."