Chapter 5
The Hot Guy Problem
Eveningfindsmeinmy kitchen making pasta, because despite everything, despite the shadow king trapped in my living room and the impending sense of doom hanging over my entire existence, I still have to eat.
I renewed the runes earlier. Added more magic to the bindings. Reinforced every weak point I could find. Brian helped, which was unexpected and oddly touching. He knew a surprising amount about protective crystals and herbs from his time in the cult. Apparently High Priestess Magdalene was very into warding off negative energy, which makes sense when you’re running a doomsday commune.
He also knew a lot about chakra realignment. That was not at all relevant to binding a shadow king, but he explained it anyway with such enthusiasm that I didn’t have the heart to stop him. Something about the root chakra and grounding energy and the importance of breathing through your solar plexus.
I just nodded and let him talk.
He bounced off about an hour ago with promises to bring more herbs and crystals to work tomorrow. His exact words were, “Don’t worry, Felix! We’ve got this! High Priestess Magdalene always said that teamwork makes the dream work!”
I’m fairly certain High Priestess Magdalene never said that, but I appreciated the sentiment.
Now he’s gone and I’m alone with a pot of boiling water and the uncomfortable realisation that I’ve dragged someone else into this mess.
Guilt tries to surface. I squish it down immediately.
I’m an emo. A goth. Guilt is neither edgy nor dark. Guilt is for people who wear pastel colours and believe in the inherent goodness of humanity. I believe in black eyeliner and the inevitability of disappointment.
The pasta water bubbles. I dump in the penne and stir it with more force than necessary.
Then I realise something else.
It’s been quiet from the living room. Suspiciously quiet. No crashing. No reality-tearing sounds. No ominous thuds or temperature drops or whispered threats carried on shadows.
Just silence.
That’s somehow worse than the noise.
I turn off the heat under the pasta and walk slowly toward the living room. My heart is doing something uncomfortable in my chest. My hands are clenched into fists at my sides.
I push open the door.
And stop.
Dis has materialised.
He’s sitting, eyes closed, cross-legged on the floor, back leaning against the invisible wall of the summoning circle. The shadows around him have coalesced into something solid. Something shaped like a person.
He has long, dark hair that falls past his shoulders in waves that look like they belong in a shampoo commercial. Sharp cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass. Aquiline nose. Long legs, a trim waist, and broad shoulders.
I know he’s possibly older than the stars, but he looks my age. Definitely no older than thirty. Extremely age appropriate.
He’s wearing clothes that look medieval, princely, all dark fabric and intricate embroidery that seems to shift and move in the ugly light of my bare, pathetic lightbulb. He even has knee-high leather boots. Everything perfectly tailored, perfectly arranged, perfectly designed to make him look like he stepped out of a throne room.
He’s still shadowy. Wispy at the edges. Shadows coil around him like living things, curling over his shoulders and through his hair and around his wrists. He and his clothes seem made of darker shadows pressed into the shape of something almost human.
But he’s here. Solid. Real.
And very, very hot.
No.
No, absolutely not.
I was braced for a lot of things. Rage. Violence. Attempts to manipulate me or threaten me, or tear through the bindings with brute force.
