I check the clock—ninety minutes until midnight. Rianne is becoming more translucent by the minute. The shadow creatures are becoming more solid. The temperature continues dropping, though neither of us feels it.
“We should prepare,” I say.
“We should.” But she doesn’t move. “Stenrik? I’m scared.”
“Of the transformation?”
“Of losing myself. Of becoming something that isn’t me anymore.”
I wrap my arms around her, and she’s cool to the touch, exactly my temperature. Through her back, I can feel the faint outline of her spine, the shadow of her ribs. She’s fading even as I hold her.
“You won’t lose yourself,” I tell her, though I’m not certain. “Even Keith is still Keith.”
“Corporate Keith.”
“Still Keith.”
She laughs, but it’s shaky. “Your comfort skills need work.”
“Noted.”
She pulls back to look at me, and in the emergency lighting, she’s almost ghostly—there but not quite. “We’re really doing this. In ninety minutes.”
“We are.”
“And we’re going to hold on. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” I agree, even though something in my chest tightens at the words.
“Midnight,” I say.
“Midnight,” she agrees.
Ninety minutes to complete the ceremony before her transformation becomes irreversible. Ninety minutes to hold the connection steady, to be strong enough to anchor each other through whatever the magic throws at us.
The temperature drops another degree. Rianne’s form grows more spectral, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s focused, determined.
Ready to grip tight and not let go.
And I can’t shake the feeling that we’re missing something.
“Please no PowerPoints in whatever comes next,” Rianne mutters against my chest.
“Agreed. Anything but PowerPoints.”
RIANNE
Midnight barrels toward us, an unstoppable glacier of consequence.
We stand in our salt circle, and this time everything starts smoothly. Too smoothly. Our bodies remember the rhythm from practice—his hands find mine without hesitation, our breathing syncs on the first try. The magical connection snaps into place like it’s been waiting.
“Stage one,” Stenrik murmurs. I can see his relief that we’ve gotten this far without issue.
The Chronicle glows between us, pages turning on their own. Around us, Keith has arranged the shadow creatures in what he calls “an audience formation for optimal viewing angles.” Several are taking notes. One appears to be livestreaming to other shadows outside.
“Is Carl recording this?” I whisper.
“Focus,” Stenrik says, but I catch the corner of his mouth twitching.
