He squeezes my fingers, tail curling around my ankle in a gesture that’s become familiar over the past weeks.
“Three days,” he says.
“Three days,” I agree. “The showcase is in four. We practice the dance until it’s perfect. I figure out exactly what the seventh invitation needs to be. And then we break that contract and tell Azrael exactly where he can shove his ‘impossible’ escape clause.”
A real smile crosses Mal’s face—the first genuine one since Azrael’s visit.
“You’re magnificent when you’re determined.”
“I know.” I pick up my chopsticks again. “Now eat your food. We’ve got a lot of rehearsing to do tomorrow, and you’ll need your strength.”
We finish dinner in comfortable silence, the weight of the day’s revelations slowly settling into something manageable.
It’s not fine. Nothing about this is fine. I’m still processing centuries of horror, still grappling with questions that have no easy answers, still uncertain whether I can truly achieve the kind of acceptance the contract demands.
But I’m not alone anymore.
And neither is he.
As I watch Mal steal my last spring roll—predictable, really—something settles in my chest. Not certainty. Not even peace, exactly.
Just the quiet conviction that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
That has to count for something.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The costume rack crashes to the floor with a sound like a small explosion.
Twenty-three tutus—hand-sewn, carefully pressed, each one representing hours of painstaking work—sprawl across the studio floor in a tangle of pink tulle and sequins. Three of them land directly in the puddle of mysterious liquid that definitely wasn’t there five minutes ago.
“No, no, no, no, no.” I drop to my knees, grabbing the nearest tutu and holding it up to the light. The bodice is soaked through with something dark and acrid-smelling. Coffee, maybe. Or motor oil. Or the tears of everyone who’s ever tried to run a dance studio three days before a major showcase.
“Miss Izzie?” A small voice from the doorway. Emma, one of my junior ballerinas, peers in with wide eyes. “Are we still having class?”
I force a smile. “Give me five minutes, sweetie. Go warm up at the barre in studio B.”
She scampers off, and I let the smile drop.
This is the fourth incident this morning.
First, the scheduling software crashed and erased three weeks of carefully organized lesson times. When I tried to restore from backup, I discovered the backup files had been corrupted too—not deleted, just... scrambled, like someone had taken each file and run it through a blender.
Then the speaker system started playing music backwards. Not just any music—the specific piece we’ve been rehearsing for the showcase. Hearing “Waltz of the Flowers” in reverse at seven in the morning is a special kind of psychological torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
Then the mirrors in Studio A fogged over. All of them, simultaneously, despite the climate control running perfectly. The fog didn’t dissipate for forty-five minutes, and when it finally did, someone had drawn a smiley face in the condensation. A smiley face with too many teeth.
And now this.
I pull out my phone and text Mal: Something’s wrong. Get here when you can.
The response comes immediately: Already on my way. Nix is acting strange.
Fantastic. Because what this morning really needs is an agitated imp adding to the chaos.
I’m salvaging what I can from the tutu wreckage—eleven are definitely ruined, eight are questionable, four might be salvageable with aggressive spot-cleaning—when Bianca bursts through the front door.
“We have a problem.”
