Page 77 of Haunt Me, Maybe

My words landed like a punch to the gut. Because Wes could defend this attic, but he couldn’t defend every street. Every porch. Every sleeping neighbor.

Fenn cleared his throat. Then we must practice.

I remained where I was, staring into a pair of amber eyes and waiting to see if they were in this with me. When Wes nodded, I let out a slow breath. The plan arranged itself in my head, and I shared it out loud. Both Fenn and Wes added their own ideas until we had the outline of a trap and a schedule to get me ready.

“Decoys,” I said, counting on my fingers. “Layered shielding. One strong ass pulse. And no reckless flares.”

And practice, Fenn added. Every night.

Wes nodded once. “We start tomorrow.”

Tomorrow felt too far away. So much could happen in the hours we were sleeping, and there was no way I’d get any rest tonight without at least attempting to conquer something on the list.

“No.” They both looked at me. “Tonight.”

I laid the spellbook on the desk and settled a hand upon it. The attic seemed to lean closer, old magic stirring in anticipation. I still felt fear. It was definitely there, but I wouldn’t let it control me anymore. Wes watched cautiously.

“Alright,” he agreed, and gave my hand a final squeeze before letting it go.

I unwrapped the linen to reveal the worn leather beneath, etched with sigils that prickled under my fingertips. The book sprang open, and a silent wind fluttered the pages. Whispered chants rose over shifting ink as I hovered a palm above it all.

“Show me stabilization.”

The spellbook’s pages settled, its ink shimmering once before forming neat, curling script across the open spread.

Stabilization:

To smooth the edges of power without diminishing its strength. The flame that does not gutter, the river that does not flood its banks.

Beneath the heading was a simple instruction, written in a hand that looked older than the attic itself:

Hold your magic in the palm of your mind. Let it rest as water rests in a cupped hand—contained, yet free to move. When it tries to spill, do not dam it. Guide it. Round the excess until the surface is still.

I read it twice. Then a third time. The words felt less like instructions and more like poetry I was supposed to solve with my body instead of my brain. Fenn hopped above the open book, careful not to crease the pages.

Read it aloud. Magic listens when you name what you intend.

I swallowed and gave it a try, my voice soft in the hush of the attic.

“Hold my magic in the palm of my mind. Let it rest…contained, yet free.”

Wes stood a few feet away, arms crossed and expression unreadable. He hadn’t spoken since I agreed to take on the role as bait, but I could feel the weight of his attention. I closed my eyes.

My magic was still restless, coiled beneath my ribs with jagged edges from the earlier banter and the fear that had been simmering since the orchard. When I reached for it mentally, it lashed out like a startled animal.

I waited to feel Wes’s hand on my arm, helping me to wrangle the out-of-control currents, but then remembered that he couldn’t. I had to learn to do this myself.

Fine.

I pictured the book’s words: a cupped hand.

I imagined opening my palms and letting the magic pool there. It resisted at first, spilling over in erratic sparks. Each time it tried to leap, I didn’t clamp down. I simply pictured my palms gently curving inward, rounding the overflow until the spill became a slow, controlled ripple. The sparks dimmed, and the jagged points softened to gentle waves.

A small, surprised sound escaped me. Holy shit, that worked!

Better, Fenn said quietly. Again.

So I did it again.