In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 9 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

Starting in the middle? You can find episode 1 here.

Vika pushed through the low branches and stepped into the corner of the orchard where the land sloped toward the old boundary fence. Ben stood before the large apple tree at the corner of the boundary marker, hands on his hips staring at it. Fallen petals lay at his feet.

The tree was in two pieces, split down the middle as if struck by lightning. The two halves twisted away from each other like something had forced its way through from the inside. The exposed wood was pale and clean.

“Can you feel that?” Ben asked.

Vika stilled, searching for whatever it was she was supposed to feel. She crouched and touched the splintered wood. The surface was warm.

“There is magic here,” Ben said. “It’s like when Marcus opened the rifts.”

“What?” Vika said, alarmed.

“No, no,” Ben held up his hand. “It’s not a rift, but the magic feels similar. It’s smoky.”

Vika nodded as though that made sense. “Dahlia’s magic?”

Ben ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe. That tree is one of the original boundary markers.”

“The ones tied to the binding spell holding Dahlia here? It’s holding the knot in place?”

He nodded.

Vika frowned.

A gust of wind pushed through the orchard. The petals on the ground lifted and swirled into the air.

Vika thought she heard shouting, faint as if carried on the breeze.

Ben stiffened.

Between the broken rows of trees, figures flickered, blurred shapes of men moving through the branches. They weren’t solid. They looked like shadows or images thrown from a projector.

The smell of woodsmoke drifted through the air. A figure stepped forward through the trees. Tall, in a worn brown suit, he didn’t flicker. He looked almost solid, and when he spoke, he looked right at Vika.

“Witch.” His face twisted with fury.

“Ben,” she breathed.

“I see him.”

The man’s eyes scanned the orchard as if looking for someone, and Vika couldn’t tell if he was seeing the past or the present.

“Cunningham.” Ben’s voice dropped to a whisper.

The figure spun toward Ben, surprise sharpening his features.

The ground beneath their feet trembled as the ghost vanished into the split tree.

When he was gone, the orchard snapped back to stillness. There wasn’t even the hint of a breeze.

Ben exhaled slowly, looking at the broken boundary marker. “The knot is slipping. We don’t have much time before it unravels and more of the past seeps through.”

They waited, and when there was no further activity at the boundary marker, they walked back through the orchard, each in their own thoughts.

Cunningham’s ghost had called her a witch. Though Vika wasn’t a witch, Dahlia most certainly was. She was more witch than orchard bride, and that distinction felt important to Vika. She wanted to give Dahlia her identity back.

Back at the wyrd knot, the blossoms from the early bloom were falling like snowflakes, the air thick with the faint, sweet scent of apple blossom.

A burst of laughter floated across the orchard. A group of tourists wandered between the rows, phones raised, snapping pictures of the falling petals.

One woman spun slowly in place. “It’s just like the legend! The Orchard Bride blessing the trees.”

Vika scowled at them.

As the group made its way through, saying they were headed to the barn for snacks. Something tugged at the edge of her thoughts.

“That’s the problem,” she said quietly.

Ben glanced at her. “The tourists?”

“Yes, always. But I meant the story.”

She gestured toward the orchard.

“Everyone thinks Dahlia’s some tragic bride wandering around looking for a lost lover. It’s not true.”

Ben shrugged slightly. “Most ghost stories have gaps.”

Vika walked slowly around the wyrd knot, studying the fallen petals scattered across the ground.

“Dahlia wasn’t a bride,” she said. “She was a witch. A land witch, probably. Someone who knew how to work with the magic here and probably bound herself to the orchard to protect it. She was a victim, her sister too. Those men took everything from her. If the knot is tied to her magic… then it’s tied to her story too.”

Ben frowned.

“What are you getting at?”

“I think we need to squash this Orchard Bride nonsense and give Dahlia her story back. I think part of healing the wyrd knot is healing Dahlia, and that means telling the truth about what happened to her.”

A breeze moved through the branches. Ben’s head snapped up. “Wait.”

He pressed his palm to the twisted roots.

“Say it again,” he said.

Vika put her hand next to his. “I think we need to tell the truth about what happened to her.”

The wood hummed faintly under her hand.

Ben stared at her. “Do you feel that? That…helped.”

Vika’s widened. “The knot agrees with me?”

Ben grinned. “Looks like it.”

They both turned at the crunch of footsteps. The Falks were coming down the row.

Mrs. Falk wringed her hands. “Something strange just happened up near the barn,” she said breathlessly. “People said they smelled smoke, and one man swears he saw someone standing in the trees. I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Ben and Vika exchanged a glance.

Mr. Falk gestured helplessly at the orchard around them. “I know we’ve been leaning into the ghost story a bit, but this is getting out of hand.”

“You understand this land better than anyone around here,” Mrs. Falk said to Ben. “Can you tell us what’s going on?”

Ben hesitated.

“The orchard houses something called a wyrd knot,” he said carefully. “A place where… older forces in the land intersect.”

Mr. Falk blinked. “Is that bad?”

“No,” Ben said. “But, this knot is unraveling, which explains the odd things happening around here. We need to heal the knot.”

Mr. Falk rubbed the back of his neck. “So what happens if it… unravels?”

“More of the past will seep through. It could get dangerous.”

Silence fell over the small group.

Finally Mrs. Falk spoke. “Can you fix it?”

Ben glanced at Vika. “Yes, I think so.”

Vika nodded.

Relief washed across Mrs. Falk’s face. “Do whatever you need to.”

Ben crouched beside the knot, thinking. “If the knot was bound with Dahlia’s magic originally, we’ll need to work with that same thread,” he said slowly.

“A restoration spell,” Vika said.

“Something like that.”

Ben stood again.

“But spells like that need anchors.”

“Anchors?” Mr. Falk repeated.

“Objects tied to the original magic,” Ben said.

Vika thought of Dahlia standing among these trees a century ago, speaking words that tied the land together.

“We need something of hers,” she said.

As if hearing her name, a faint shimmer moved between the rows of blossoms.

Dahlia stood there for only a moment, pale and uncertain, watching them. Then she was gone again.

Ben exhaled slowly.

“Something of Dahlia’s,” he repeated.

“And I have a feeling I know where we might find it.”

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 8 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

Starting in the middle? You can find episode 1 here.

Hecate’s ire pinned Vika in place at the crossroads under the swirling purple sky of the Underworld. Misha moved closer to the goddess of witchcraft, clearly choosing her side.

“I offer a third path,” Hecate said. “You accept my protection.”

Hecate proposed it as if her acceptance was a foregone conclusion, but Vika looked for the catch. “And what does that look like?”

“I can shield you from the immediate consequences, hide you from the Furies long enough for you and your friend to repair the knot.”

“And the price?” Vika asked warily.

Hecate shrugged as if it were inconsequential. “I have no use for you now. But, when I call, you will come. Immediately. No questions. Whatever task I set before you, you will complete it.”

Nothing ominous about that, Vika thought. Still, she didn’t have many options. She thought of Ben, alone in the orchard with this little book of spells, trying to hold back the unraveling. And Dahlia, alone and afraid. All the times she’d encountered Hecate, the witch had never been unfair. Frightening, yes. She was protective of those who were hers.

“Agreed,” Vika said. There were worse things down here than Hecate.

A smile stretched across Hecate’s lips as she extended a hand. “Wise.”

Vika took her hand. As she did, burning pain singed her wrist as power sealed their agreement. A triple moon mark appeared on Vika’s wrist, raised like a burn.

“There,” Hecate said. “You are under my aegis now.”

“Thank you,” Vika said, though the relief was short-lived. She was exchanging one binding for another.

“However,” Hecate continued, turning to Misha. “I cannot let you take her. The laws that govern death are not mine to break, even for one of my witches.”

“Then what,” Vika started to protest, but Hecate held up her hand.

“But I will give you something that will serve your purpose.” Hecate gestured at the knife and held out her hand.

Vika reluctantly handed it over. The cord wrapped around Misha’s grafting knife unwound, and Hecate handed it back to Misha.

“This can be a message between sisters,” Hecate said.

Misha turned the knife over in her hand, now able to hold it. Her fingers worked around the knife, deftly wrapping and retying it. Vika failed to see how this would help her.

“This knot,” Misha said, her voice clear. “She’ll recognize it.”

Misha handed the knife back to Vika. The handle was warm, the cord securely tied.

Hecate put an affectionate arm around Misha. “Go back to your trees, daughter. Your work here is done.”

Misha’s form flickered, already fading back toward the grove.

Hecate stepped aside, and the path to the river shimmered back into existence. “Your way is clear, Kere. But remember, you have a debt. When I call, you will answer.”

“I understand,” Vika said, though she couldn’t help but feel that Hecate had taken the one thing she needed and hadn’t given her anything.

“One more thing.” Hecate’s voice stopped her as she turned toward the path. “The knot you seek to mend is more than just a tangle of time and violence. You cannot bind a wound that is still bleeding. You must heal it.”

“How?”

A cryptic smile spread across Hecate’s face. “You have more in common with the witch who guards it than you think.” She paused, her ancient eyes softening slightly. “You both chose duty over rest. You both carry deaths that are not yours to carry. Perhaps that is why the Fates sent you to her.”

Hecate’s parting shot washed over Vika like cold water. Vika always thought that she’d picked her out of the way Northwoods town to get away from the Fates and the drama of the gods. It seemed like the furthest place from them. Had the Fates put her here? Had they sent her to Dahlia?

Before Vika could ask, Hecate dissolved into shadow, her dogs melting into the darkness with her. The crossroads faded, leaving only the single path to the river.

Vika clutched the knife, feeling the warmth of Misha’s knot against her palm and the sting of failure in her belly, though it wasn’t failure exactly.

Not only had she been caught like a child doing something she shouldn’t, but she’d bound herself to a powerful goddess in the process. Hopefully, it wasn’t for nothing.

* * *

Sunlight assaulted Vika as she emerged from the cave in the state forest. Her phone sprang to life. Message after message rolled in from Ben, along with several missed calls.

Where are you?

A picture of his burned hand.

I know what Dahlia did. When are you coming back?

She quickly typed out a reply asking him where to meet him.

As she drove past the orchard, she slowed and rolled down her window, scanning the clusters of people gathered along the road. The air smelled sharp and ashy. No sign of Ben.

Bright orange tape roped off the orchard. Inside, the trees around the wyrd knot circle were black. The pink blossoms on the early tree were bright and untouched against the charred bark. It looked as though a campfire had gotten out of hand, but Vika suspected it was far worse.

She hurried to Ben’s bar and spotted him at a booth in the back, surrounded by books and papers. Millie was curled up at his feet. Vika waved to the bartender, and Millie bounded toward her, nearly knocking her over. After greeting Millie properly, with belly rubs and apologies for being away, Vika slid into the booth across from Ben. Millie rested her head on Vika’s feet, her tail thumping the ground.

“What’s going on?” Vika asked without preamble and then, noticing his hands, which were crisscrossed in angry red welts, added, “What happened?”

Ben drew his palm over the burns. “It looks worse than it is. I thought if I could temporarily anchor it, it would buy us some time,” he said. “But it didn’t work. When I touched the knot, I saw Dahlia use blood magic to kill the man who shot her sister. She used the trees. That complicates things.” He glanced at Vika’s hands on the table. “What’s that?” He pointed to Hecate’s mark. “Is that why you left? To get a tattoo?”

Vika covered the mark with her hand, then slipped both hands under the table. “Not exactly...”

The lie was ready on her tongue. Instead, she let out a breath. “I was trying to get something that would help Dahlia trust me, but… I ran into Hecate.”

Ben’s hands stilled on the papers. “Hecate,” he repeated, carefully neutral. “The goddess?”

Vika nodded, watching him. She noted the flicker of surprise he wiped from his face, the questions he wanted to ask.

“Okay,” he said instead and waited for her to continue.

She took a steadying breath. “Hecate said that we can’t just redo the binding. We need to heal the wound in the land left by the violence here.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Did she say how?”

Vika shook her head. “Of course not. The gods are rarely that helpful. Or helpful at all.” She gestured to the papers. “What’s all this?”

“Well,” Ben said. “After seeing the vision of Dahlia, I came to a similar conclusion. I was looking for anything that would shed light on how to secure the knot.”

“Find anything?”

“No, but I know several cleansing spells. So, we can start there. I think we also need to help Dahlia find peace. She’s protecting the orchard, but I think she’s also using it to punish herself.”

Hecate’s words echoed in Vika’s mind. You both carry deaths that are not yours to carry.

“I agree,” Vika said. “I’m going back tonight to try to talk to her. I hope she will trust me.”

“Good,” Ben said. “I’m coming with you.”

* * *

There was no dissuading Ben, even though it was after eleven by the time the tourists dispersed. As they walked up the path, Millie snuffled behind. Vika hoped the knife would be enough to gain Dahlia’s trust. Otherwise, she didn’t know what the next move was. They needed Dahlia to provide the missing piece of the puzzle.

Once they reached the stillness of the orchard, she was surprised to find she was glad to have Ben’s steady footsteps crunching beside hers. His flashlight swept the shadows between the trees before he stopped at the edge of the burned circle.

Ben’s brow creased in concentration as he studied the damage. It was worse up close. The charred bark on the trees was split open and the moss at the foot of the wyrd knot was black and crispy. The acrid scent of smoke still clung to the air.

He kneeled and opened his bag, bringing out a bundle of dried sage and other herbs. “I don’t know if this is enough to cleanse this mess,” he muttered.

“Can’t hurt,” Vika said as she left him to it.

Millie was already sniffing her way around the trees.

“Dahlia,” Vika called in her best non-threatening, sing-songy voice. “Come out, come out. I have something for you.”

Her feet crunched on the gravel as she wove between the trees. Behind her, Ben chanted as he wafted the smoking sage bundle inside the knot. Vika made a wide circle and turned back toward him. Maybe Dahlia would be drawn to his magic. Or his trustworthiness.

A flicker of white flitted between the charred trunks.

The temperature dropped. Frost spread in intricate patterns over the rough bark.

“No need for theatrics, Dahlia. I can see you, remember?” Vika’s voice came out in cloudy puffs.

The ghost materialized across from Vika.

“There, that’s better,” Vika said. “Was that so difficult?”

When Dahlia didn’t answer and only stared at her warily, Vika continued. “I know why you’re still here. I saw what happened.”

No response.

“You used blood magic. The trees obeyed because they knew you. Your family tended to them for ages, and when you needed them, they were there. Now, they need you. We need to heal this orchard before it gets worse.”

“Misha,” Dahlia said.

Vika pulled the grafting knife out of her jacket and unwrapped it. She held it out.

Dahlia’s eyes grew wide as her hand reached out. It passed through the handle once, and she brought it back, hovering over the knot Misha had made. “You found her?”

Vika nodded.

“I know this knot. I taught her how to make it. She couldn’t get it at first. We tried over and over, and she got so frustrated. I kept telling her she was fine, to let go and let her hands do the work.” Dahlia swallowed hard and looked up at Vika. “She is at peace?”

Vika nodded again. “You should be at peace too.”

“You saw what I did and why I cannot. Dark magic is forbidden. I killed him with magic.” Her voice faltered, as if it hurt to say the words out loud.

Vika took a cautious step toward her. “You defended your family and your land. That man brought violence here, and you answered it.”

“When he saw what I did, his brother burned everything. All the trees we tended.”

“You have paid the price for what you did,” Vika said gently. “His death is not yours to carry. The violence is in the land, the theft, the deaths, the betrayal, the fire, all of it. It’s all tangled together, and it’s why everything is coming undone. The wound has never healed. Help us heal it and then rest with your sister.”

Vika caught a waft of sage and Ben walked out of the trees. Dahlia jumped back, whether from Ben or the burning bundle, Vika wasn’t sure.

“Can you come look at this? There’s some crazy energy over here,” Ben said.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 7 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

Starting in the middle? You can find episode 1 here.

Ben’s grandmother taught him how to see the light pulsing through nature.

“You have the sight, Benán. Don’t waste it.”

That was before he understood that not everybody saw the current of magic breathing through the world. Her voice was always in his head, and he tried to honor her every time he used his gift. He conjured her memory now as he took out the packs of dried herbs and the leather journal he’d been compiling since childhood, which still held his grandmother’s handwritten recipes.

He pressed his hand to the soft ground before the braided roots of the wyrd knot, feeling for the ley lines that ran underneath. They jolted under his hand. Whatever Vika was doing on her “errand”, he hoped she was quick. They needed to get the knot stabilized before it tore open.

If only she would trust him. After all, he had secrets too. They could help each other.

He couldn’t think of that now. Ben dropped to the ground and got to work.

Speaking the ancient words his grandmother had taught him, Ben started slowly, grounding himself in the space. He traced the sigils in salt around the knot, hoping to buy a little time.

Holding the apple branch as a temporary anchor, he kept chanting. He drove the branch into the earth inside the knot. As soon as it touched the soil, the world lurched. Sounds of the forest swam. Ben tried to pull back, but his fingers were locked around the branch.

The vision hit him like a truck.

A young girl was running, her dark hair trailing behind, whipping her face. She looked over her shoulder at the man closing in on her.

The crack of gunfire. A thud.

The pounding of bare feet on the grass. Dahlia. He recognized her from the picture. Her hands danced, weaving pictures in the air. Power dripped from her words, her eyes lightning flashes in the darkness.

The apple tree bent toward the man, its branches like knives.

The ripping of a branch through flesh.

The man’s wild eyes locked onto Ben’s.

Ben jerked back, gasping as the vision released him. Pain ripped through his palm. An angry burn marked his hand where he’d been gripping the branch. He stumbled away from the knot, cradling his hand.

Dahlia had killed the man. With magic.

No wonder the knot was unstable. Dahlia had channeled its magic, twisted it and the knot absorbed the violence done here. The knot and Dahlia’s magic were tangled together, along with the guilt, rage and blood magic.

The thick, acrid tang of smoke and copper hit the back of his throat. Shadows deepened between the branches, seeping out from the knot and spreading throughout the orchard.

* * *

The thing about the Underworld was that it was always changing, like a Rubik’s Cube that never solved itself. As Vika and Misha made their way to the river, the landscape shifted. The lavender fields slowly melted into an aged forest with white asphodel flowers clustered at the base of towering, leafless trees.

Misha trailed behind, sometimes mumbling about Dahlia, but never answering any questions and she wouldn’t even look at Vika. After a while, Vika stopped trying to question her about the orchard.

Though Vika was a creature of the Underworld, she spent little time here. As a Kere, she haunted the battlefields, and when she escorted souls, she took them to the crossroads. She didn’t linger.

There were no familiar markers, no sun to show which direction they were going and it looked the same in every direction. They’d been walking for a while and when they passed a familiar tree, Vika was sure they were going in circles.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’m just going to fly up and take a look.”

Misha stopped walking, but didn’t turn toward her.

Vika shook out her dark wings and jumped into the air, hovering just over the trees. The calm of air under her wings washed over her and she breathed it in. From this height, she was struck by the ethereal beauty of the Underworld.

The asphodel blooms glowed softly in the purplish light, creating paths of luminescence through the shadowed groves. The Styx, a silver ribbon, cut through the landscape. They weren’t too far off track.

Relieved, Vika dropped back down, tucking her wings in.

Misha was gone.

She was only gone for a moment. How had she gotten away? Vika spun in a slow circle, scanning the grove, the thick trees skeletal against the perpetual twilight.

“Misha?”

Nothing.

“Misha!” Vika called louder, her voice swallowed by the dense air.

A flicker of movement caught her eye, white fabric disappearing between two trees ahead.

Vika broke into a run. The trees closed in around her, their trunks pressing closer together with each step. She burst through a tangle of low branches into a clearing and stumbled to a halt.

It wasn’t a clearing. It was a crossroads, and Misha stood at the center, talking to someone Vika couldn’t yet see.

Three paths diverged from where she stood, each one bleeding into different landscapes. One led to a thinning of trees, where the glimmer of the Styx peeked through. Vika inhaled the mineral tang of the Styx, relieved to see the way out. The other two paths disappeared into the thick darkness of the forest.

As Vika got closer to Misha, a figure materialized at the center of the crossroads. Tall, draped in layers of dark fabric that seemed woven from midnight, with keys hanging from her belt. Two enormous black dogs flanked her, their eyes glowing ember-red.

Hecate, goddess of witchcraft, older than the Olympians and loyal to nobody except her witches, blocked the crossroads.

The goddess’s gaze swept over them both, lingering on Misha with an expression that softened into something maternal.

When she spoke, her voice resonated with a power that hummed through Vika’s bones.

“Daughter.”

Hecate’s face was ageless and sharp, framed by untamed dark hair. But it was her eyes that made Vika’s chest tighten, as their ancient, knowing gaze locked onto her. The warmth in them evaporated.

“You walk dangerous paths, little Kere. Stealing spirits under my protection.”

“I’m not stealing her,” Vika said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “I’m borrowing her. Temporarily.”

“Though you walk between, the dead do not return to the world above.” Hecate gestured, and the path to the river shimmered and faded. “Especially not my witches.”

Her witches. Of course. Misha and Dahlia had obviously practiced witchcraft. It should have occurred to Vika to seek out Hecate first. Now, that careless mistake was going to cost her.

“I mean no disrespect,” Vika said, trying to recover. “Her sister needs her. There’s a wyrd knot unraveling. If we don’t stop it—”

“I know of the knot.” Hecate’s expression didn’t change.

“The wyrd knot is coming undone,” Vika said. “Violent memories are bleeding through. People are getting hurt. Dahlia is trapped, unable to rest, and to help her, we need her to trust me. She needs to know Misha is at peace.”

“Dahlia.” Misha’s voice was stronger than it had been since Vika found her. “I can’t find her. Where is she?”

Hecate’s expression softened, and she reached out, gently brushing Misha’s translucent cheek. “Your sister has been holding vigil for a very long time. She stayed to protect what you both loved.” Hecate’s gaze hardened as she looked back at Vika. “And now you want to drag this soul back to the site of her death? For what? To satisfy a whim?”

Vika’s hands clenched. “To give Dahlia peace. She deserves to know Misha is safe, and she won’t help secure the wyrd knot without proof.”

“She is at peace.” Hecate gestured to Misha. “Look at her.”

Vika did. Misha stood quiet, her carved stick still in her ghostly hands, her eyes distant but calm. Safe in Hecate’s domain, tending her impossible apple trees. Alone.

“Peace is relative. She’s been worried for her sister. They should be together,” Vika said.

“If you bring Dahlia here, where do you think she would go?” Hecate said. “She’s killed someone.”

The truth of her words ricocheted through Vika.

Vika had thought she could convince Dahlia to join her sister, but that was probably not an option. If Vika brought Dahlia to the Underworld, the Furies would take her to Tartarus to atone. It didn’t matter that she’d been defending herself. If it was self-defense.

Hecate watched Vika process that realization. When she continued, Hecate’s tone was softer. “A death by magic, fueled by rage and grief, leaves a mark. Dahlia knows this. Even if she hadn’t bound herself, she wouldn’t cross over.”

Death by magic. What did you do, Dahlia?

“Then help me,” Vika said. “There has to be another way. The knot is unstable. If it comes undone.”

“Watch yourself,” Hecate snapped. “I know well what will happen. Time will fold. The violence will continue to bleed through.”

“Then help me.” Vika issued it as a challenge. If witchcraft was needed to fix it, there was nobody better to ask than Hecate.

“You are not as you once were, little Kere,” Hecate said after a moment. “You’ve walked among the living too long. You forget the laws that bind us. Or perhaps you just ignore them.”

Vika bristled at that. “I know the rules.”

“And yet, here you are, trying to steal one of my souls.”

Vika sighed. “I told you. I was going to bring her back.”

Hecate moved closer, her presence pressing into Vika’s space. Vika refused to back up.

“So you said,” Hecate responded. “Imagine if it wasn’t me that found you, but the Fates or the Furies. How do you think the Furies would react to this little scene?”

Vika flinched. She did not want to think about trying to explain this to the Underworld’s enforcers. They were ones for action, not talk.

“The Fates have given you a long leash,” Hecate continued. “You are at a crossroads. The Furies on one side. The Fates on the other. I offer a third path.”

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

The sun has set, but I don’t remember seeing it dip below the horizon. Muddy light drips through the vents overhead, which means Will should be getting off work soon. Every Saturday night, we meet by the row of barrels, but he hasn’t come yet. It seems like I’ve been waiting for a while.

Long enough that most of the people seem to have left already. I pace in front of the barrels. Sometimes he’s late because he doesn’t like to leave work unfinished, but when that happens, he sends word. He should be here by now. The clock has already chimed.

I reach out to lean against the ask, expecting the rough grain of the wood, but my hand feels strange. It’s as if a layer of cold mist sits between my palm and the oak. I pull my hand back and peer into the darkness of the tunnel, waiting for the familiar scuff of his leather soles against the floor. He never picks up his feet properly.

It’s so quiet. Usually, men weave through these brewery tunnels delivering or retrieving barrels, but I haven’t seen a single person.

I smooth the wool of my skirt. He’ll be along soon, as soon as he can get off work. Of course, he will. To occupy myself, I walk further into the tunnel, following the bend to the left. The path is so familiar. I follow it without thinking, my feet soundless on the stone floor. Left and then right, down the straight bend, and then circle back before I reach the path to the stairs. I never go that way. I don’t like the stairs.

When he gets off work, Will smells of hops and wood smoke. I take a deep breath, but I don’t smell anything. Not even the sawdust and hay that they use to insulate the ice to keep the beer cool.

The edges of the days blur together, but I know it’s Saturday and Will should be here. Where is he? He wouldn’t leave me here alone. He just wouldn’t.

As I wind my well-worn path through the tunnels, the wall flickers. Out of the corner of my eye, a shock of color flashes, as if someone has painted a picture on the wall, but when I look again, it’s empty. Just the same creamy brick.

In the distance, someone laughs, a deep, hearty laugh that invites mischief. Though people always meet in the caves after shifts, I’m not supposed to be here and I don’t want to get Will in trouble. More laughter and voices, and I can’t help but lean in. The music of their laughter tickles my chest. They sound so happy, so comfortable with each other. It makes my hand, which should be holding Will’s, feel even more empty. Why has he left me down here alone? He knows I don’t like the dark.

The voices fade, and it’s too quiet. The song, “After the Ball,” drifts into my head, and I begin to hum the melody as my feet move in time to a waltz. We danced to it once.

It’s such a sad song, but I remember his arms around me, steady and warm. The words of the song keep slipping away. I catch fragments of them, lose them again, then hum through the empty spaces. It feels like trying to hold onto the tail end of a dream.

“Did you hear that?” a woman’s voice asks.

It sounds like she’s close. Maybe she’s waiting for someone too. The thought eases the ache in my chest, and I drift closer. We can wait together.

“OOOh,” a man answers, the spooky quiver in his voice freezing me in place. “It must be the ghost. One of the lovers. Come closer. I’ll protect you.”

The woman giggles, and I recoil. Their voices are unfamiliar, their words stranger still. People whisper about ghosts in these tunnels all the time, but the word still sends a cold ripple through me. I’ve never seen one, and I’m here all the time.

I duck under the arch and turn down the path leading back toward the meeting barrels hoping Will’s already there, waiting for me. My chest tightens, the pain sharp and insistent. I push it down and start humming again to distract myself.

When I reach our meeting place, he’s not there. Why wouldn’t he at least send word?

The church bell chimes again. I count the strokes, but I lose my place. How long have I been waiting?

“There! I saw something! Down that corridor!”

The voice bounces off the stone with a strange, sharp clarity. A quick shuffle of footsteps follows. Panic flares in my chest. If the foreman finds me here, Will’s job is gone, and our future with it. I have to leave. Turning away from the barrels, I head for the main entrance like I have countless times before, but I’m turned around. Everything looks different. Feels different.

The footsteps are getting closer, and I keep moving, despite the tightness in my lungs. My feet are quick, my shoes gliding across the floor as I go deeper into the tunnels, turning down an unfamiliar hall. I’m definitely not supposed to be this far in. Looking around wildly, I search for the exit like a frantic bird caught in a mine.

A rectangle of gray light glows in the distance. The way out at last. The door is right there, just ahead. I can see the silhouette of the hill outside, but there are no horses, no gas lamps. Perhaps it is a different exit.

“Do you feel that? The temperature plummeted!”

I’m almost to the threshold when a beam of light cuts through the darkness. The violent, harsh white pins me in place. The light is too bright, too cold, like a blade. I can’t see anything else.

My hand flies to protect my face, and I stumble out of the beam. I blink; stars swim in my eyes.

Two shadowy figures come into focus. They aren’t wearing work clothes. One holds a silver torch, the beam pointed right at my heart. The other raises a small black object toward me like a weapon. I stumble backwards, terror ripping through me.

“Look at the lens!” the woman says, her voice cracking with a mix of terror and triumph. “She’s right there! Look at the dress!”

The beam flicks to my face, and it’s all I see. My hands work in and out of fists as I muster the courage to tell them to let me pass, to warn them that Will is coming, but no sound comes out.

“Will,” I try to whisper. My voice is a rasp, choked with fear.

The woman gasps, the device trembling in her grip. “She’s trying to say something. Will…. Will, what? We’re listening.”

Finally, my legs start working and I rip myself away from the beam of light. Needing to get away from them, I bolt in the other direction. I tear through the tunnels. When I get to the stairwell, I skid to a stop.

The realization doesn’t hit me like a blow; it seeps in like damp on the walls. The reason I don’t like the stairs.

Will slumped at the bottom of the steps, a puddle of blood growing beneath him.

My vigil beside his hospital bed. The smell of medicine and wilted flowers. Coughing fits that shook my body, stealing my strength. The crushing weight in my lungs.

I wasn’t waiting for Will to finish his shift. I was waiting for him to join me in the dark.

Where is he?

Retracing my steps, I head back to the barrels where we meet every Saturday night.

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! The historic Miller caves are one of the more notoriously haunted places in Milwaukee. The brewery used underground caves to keep the beer cold and when Fredrick Miller bought the brewery, he expanded them. In 1908, after refrigeration made them unnecessary, the caves were sealed.

However, they were still used by workers seeking somewhere to cool off and according to legend, a meeting place for trysts. One story revolved around a couple who met every Saturday. When he didn’t show up one Saturday, she waited and waited and later found out he’d fallen down the stairs. While she rushed to his side, he didn’t recover and she died not long after from a “lung ailment”.

Shortly after, workers claimed to see the ghosts of the couple and others have heard footsteps and laughter in the tunnels. There are also plenty of ghost stories swirling about the brewery itself with people seeing flickering lights and hearing piano music and other strange things.

Parts of the caves were updated and reopened in the 1950s and are still open. You can rent them out for weddings and events, and they’re a stop on the Miller Brewing tour.

Want more ghost stories? Here’s another story about another famously haunted places in Milwaukee.

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In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 6 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

Starting in the middle? You can find episode 1 here.

Going to the Underworld was a terrible idea. Even if she found Misha, the odds of her getting her back here were slim, and if she’s caught…well, she didn’t want to think about that.

First, she needed to talk to Ben.

The Phoenix was closed, but the lights were on. Vika knocked on the door.

Ben pulled open the door. “Vika. You’re up early.” He raked a hand through his messy dark hair, which did not tame it. He stepped aside. “Come in.”

“Thanks,” she said. As she stepped into the bar, the smell of fresh bread engulfed her. “You were baking.”

He nodded. “I was making pretzel buns. How’s it going with our ghost?”

“Getting better,” she said holding up the blade.

His eyes widened. “Is that her ceremonial blade?”

Vika shook her head. “Her sister’s. Dahlia led us to it. Sort of. She was scattered, like she couldn’t remember. Millie found it, actually, near the broken boundary marker.”

She slid into a booth, and Ben sat across from her. “That’s not surprising. She’s been stuck there for a long time, going through her routine.”

“Yeah. When I touched it, I saw flashes of what I think was the binding ceremony.” Vika began to tell him about the images she’d seen when she touched the blade.

Ben listened without interrupting. When she was finished, he steepled his fingers. “I’m not sure if what you saw was the binding ceremony, but this blade will certainly help us recreate it more accurately. We really need the details from Dahlia. Did she talk to you at all?”

Vika shifted in her seat. “I’m working on it.”

Ben studied her before taking a sharp breath. “Okay.”

“That’s actually why I’m here. I need to run an errand for her, and I was wondering if you would watch Millie. Just for a day or so.” Vika traced the grain of the wood table, wishing she could tell him everything.

His eyes narrowed. “What kind of errand?”

“Can you watch her?”

“Of course, but what kind of errand?” Ben repeated, his stormy eyes searching hers.

She looked away. “One that will help with the knot.” That hung between them for a beat and she changed the subject. “Have you figured out the spell?”

“Someday you are going to have to trust me,” Ben said.

“I do trust you, and if I could tell you, I would.” The lie tasted sour on her tongue, but she couldn’t tell him that her errand was popping down to the Underworld, even though she had the sneaking suspicion that he would understand.

Ben sighed as he leaned back in the booth. “Well, to answer your obvious change of subject, yes, I think I’ve figured out the ingredients. Most of them I have, like an applewood branch. It’s pretty standard. The spell is sealed with freely given, fresh blood, and bound with spoken truth. It’s the last part we need. We need the words of their spell.”

“Fresh blood?” Vika repeated, though she’d seen plenty of blood, the thought of creating a spell with it was slightly horrifying.

He shrugged. “It’s pretty common for binding spells. We don’t need a lot. I’ll just cut my thumb. No big deal. The blade you found will help anchor it.”

Unease twisted in her belly. “I wonder if we’re looking at this wrong. Dahlia shouldn’t be here. Just because we can recreate her binding spell doesn’t mean we should. There has to be a way to secure the knot and set her free.”

Dahlia should be with her family.

Ben tapped his chin, thinking. “I will look into it while you are on your mysterious errand.”

Vika needed to get in and out of the Underworld as quietly as possible, which meant sneaking in through the entrance in the state forest. She’d found the entrance by accident ages ago when she’d chased a wayward shade into the forest. Now, as she walked the deer path through the thick pines, she hoped it was still there and that Charon would take her across discreetly.

They normally got on, but that didn’t mean he’d cooperate.

The mouth of the cave was narrow and mostly hidden by a fallen oak and leggy, thorny bushes. Vika ducked under a branch, and the air shifted, the familiar pull of the In Between tugging her forward. Inside, it was completely dark, the damp air thick with the smell of dirt and old water. With one hand on the cold stone, she felt her way along the narrow passage as it wound its way down into the darkness.

Any mortal stumbling this far down the tunnel wouldn’t have marked the threshold. There was no X marks the spot or glowing fairy circle. It was a section of the rock that seemed to drink the darkness. If a mortal came upon it, they would turn around without thinking too much about it and then quickly forget they’d been here.

As she crossed it, the temperature plummeted, a cold that went right to her bones. A pearly river cut through the darkness, revealing a wider cavern. The milky water swirled with whispers and memories. Though she was drawn to it, Vika stayed back.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, little Kere.” The voice came from a figure leaning on a pole near the bank.

“Charon,” Vika said. The ferryman looked the same, somehow ageless and weathered together. “Can you take me to the Asphodel Fields?”

“Mmmm.” He pushed off from the shore, the small boat beneath him rocking gently. “You know the rules. Passage requires payment.”

Vika held out a silver drachma, one from the collection in her shop.

Charon held out a knotty hand. “That’ll do.”

The coin disappeared into his robes. Vika climbed aboard, the boat steady under her weight.

They glided across the water in silence. Vika watched the changing shapes of the shores, the mouths of caves, and other tributaries. Occasionally, she glimpsed other figures, but they shrank when they saw her, and nobody else got on or off.

The boat bumped against a shore Vika didn’t see coming. Gray fields with swaying grasses, strange white flowers, and lavender stretched as far as she could see, the gray of the sky dipping into the gray landscape.

“Be careful,” Charon said. “Even the favorites of the Fates can fall from grace. I hope whoever you’re looking for hasn’t forgotten themselves.”

“Me too,” Vika muttered. “Please don’t tell—“

“I’m just the ferryman,” Charon said, thumping his staff on the floor. “I carry the souls and I see nothing.”

“Thank you.”

Then she was alone on the shore. Vika took out the blade, gripping it as she walked into the fields. She missed the comforting presence of Millie at her side, but this was no place for her. Though Millie was a failed hellhound, she was a perfect dog. She was safer at home with Ben.

At the thought of Ben, she gripped the blade tighter. If he knew what she was, would he still smile at her? Bring her favorite coffee? If she succeeds with Dahlia, he will understand. He had to.

Spirits dotted the fields, translucent and wandering, acting out scenes from plays only they knew. Others drank from the milky white flowers that grew among the grasses. In this part of the Underworld, there was no suffering, but there was no luxury either.

The calm here was the quiet of forgetting, of time passing without purpose. If Misha were here, Vika hoped she remembered enough to want to help her sister.

She concentrated on the blade, focusing on the magic that still clung to it as she imagined the smell of apple blossoms and the way sunshine made the red of the ripe apples stand out against the blue sky. “Come on, Misha. Where are you?”

Vika wove between the spirits, careful not to touch them, and in return, they didn’t seem to notice her. At first, it was strange that they weren’t afraid of her, but Keres weren’t an uncommon sight here, and these spirits had nothing to fear now.

She walked along, searching their faces for Misha’s, which was burned into her memory from the visions.

The blade warmed in her hands, and she trusted it to find its owner. Time passed oddly in the Underworld, and she didn’t know how long she’d been searching. Hours? Days? Hours she thought. As she was about to give up and beg the Fates for help, she saw craggy branches dripping with blood-red apples.

The girl sat beneath a twisted tree in a small grove of four apple trees, her long dark hair hanging over her face. She was humming as her fingers carved symbols on a fallen branch. When Vika got closer, she noticed that all the trunks were covered in carvings.

“Misha?” Vika said.

The girl’s head shot up. She didn’t say anything, just watched Vika with wary distrust.

Vika held up the blade. “I think this is yours.”

Misha’s fingers twitched.

“Your sister needs your help,” Vika said softly. “She’s still there, Misha. She’s still protecting the orchard, but the binding is loosening. Dahlia needs to know you’re at peace. Will you help?”

Misha’s gaze drifted to Vika’s. Her eyes were distant, cloudy, but at the mention of her sister, recognition flickered.

“Dahlia,” Misha whispered. “Dahlia. I can’t find her.”

“Is that why you grew these trees? So she’d find you?”

Misha looked from Vika to the blade in her hand. Vika held it out.

Misha’s fingers reached out and brushed the wooden handle. She couldn’t hold it, but as her fingers passed through, sharpness returned to her features. Her eyes cleared. Misha’s ghostly fingers wrapped around the handle.

“They killed her,” Misha said. “They burned—“

“I know,” Vika interrupted. “Will you come with me? Will you help her?”

Misha nodded.

Vika tried to look confident as she led Misha through the fields toward the bank of the Styx. She had coins for passage, but it was no guarantee. Vika could pass through, but Cerberus, Hades’ three-headed dog, prevented souls from leaving.

They pressed on. She would think of something.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

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In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 5 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

Starting in the middle? You can find episode 1 here.

Vika pushed through a cluster of people filming on their phones to where a young woman sat on the ground cradling her arm.

Three parallel burns, red and angry, ran from her wrist to her elbow.

“The tree,” she gasped, her voice shaky. “I just touched the tree and—”

The tree she was pointing at had no low branches and nothing sharp enough to cause those marks. Vika breathed in the scent of sulfur in the air, noting how time felt slippery.

Ben crouched down. “Did you see anything? Before you got …scratched?”

Vika’s gaze snapped to him. Surely, he could see those were burns.

The woman shook her head, brushed tears from her eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe? There was this weird shimmer and then I thought someone grabbed my arm and—”

Officer Rivera and the firefighter burst into the clearing, pushing Vika and Ben aside to tend to the girl’s wounds.

“Everyone needs to leave now.” Officer Rivera’s voice brokered no argument. “The orchard is closed until further notice.”

A chorus of protests erupted.

“You can’t…”

“…drove two hours…”

“It’s public property…”

“It’s private property,” the officer corrected. “And you’re all trespassing. Move along, or I will start writing citations.”

That got people moving. Vika watched the crowd disperse, searching among them for traces of Dahlia. She had to be here watching this.

“That goes for you two as well,” Officer Rivera said, gesturing to Vika and Ben.

“But—,” Vika protested, but the officer cut her off.

“Go.”

Ben pulled Vika away before she could argue. “It’s fine,” he said into her ear. We got what we needed.”

* * *

That night, Vika slipped past the barricades into the orchard again, with Millie bouncing along behind her. The officers had done their jobs. It was quiet, almost eerily quiet. The marks of the day’s events showed in the broken branches, empty soda cans, and gum wrappers littering the ground.

Unbelievable. Why would the Falks encourage this? At least there were already footprints everywhere. Nobody would know she was even here.

Vika spread her blanket out in the clearing near the wyrd knot, and Millie immediately fluffed the majority of it underneath her like a pillow. Vika sat on the tiny sliver of blanket that was left and hugged her knees in, tilting her face up toward the stars glinting through the trees.

“Dahlia,” she said, listening for signs of the spirit. “If I wanted to take you, I would have. Please talk to me.”

A flicker of white skittered between the trees.

Vika didn’t move, didn’t even turn her head. She wouldn’t go chasing a ghost all over the orchard again. Dahlia would need to come to her. Vika sat in the silence, her hand scratching Millie automatically.

Insects chirped.

“A woman was burned today,” Vika said softly. “I think you tried to stop it, but the spell holding you here is weakening. Ben thinks he can rebuild it, but he needs your help. He needs the words you used to bind yourself. You did it, right? When the Cunninghams tried to take it. You wanted to protect the orchard so they wouldn’t raze it.”

A breeze wafted through, the sound like a gentle exhale. Millie’s ears perked up.

“Unless you no longer want to be bound. If you want to rest, I can help with that too.”

“I don’t deserve to rest,” Dahlia said, her voice coming from all around Vika. “Besides, this is my land. My grandmother tended it. My mother tended it. Nobody will take it from me.”

“Everyone deserves to rest,” Vika said.

“You took Misha.” Dahlia’s pale finger pointed at Vika.

Vika remembered the Keres she’d seen in the vision from the past. “There was violence here.”

“They said we cursed the Cunningham’s trees. Hexed the land. All we ever did was take care of it.” Dahlia’s voice was soft, shaky. “I told her to run, that I would protect her. They shot Misha like cowards as she was running away.”

Her voice rose in a fury. “And then you took her.”

Vika held up her hands. “I didn’t take her. A Kere, yes. Most likely, a Kere set her free and escorted her to the fields to rest, but it wasn’t me, Dahlia. Misha is at peace.”

Dahlia’s hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. “No.”

“She is, Dahlia. You should be at peace too.”

“Prove it,” Dahlia said, her expression a challenge.

Prove it? What did she mean? How could Vika prove such a thing? She stared at the frowning ghost, trying to come up with a response to that challenge. It wasn’t as if she could waltz into the Underworld and pluck Misha from the fields…

Actually.

She could. Maybe. It was frowned upon. Well, it was more like forbidden, but it could be done if she could get in and out quickly without attracting any attention. It would be easier to bring Dahlia to her sister, but forcing her wouldn’t help Vika gain her trust. And they needed Dahlia to help fix the spell.

“Dahlia,” Vika said. “To prove it, I need something of your sister’s. She’s been gone a long time. Is there anything left?”

Dahlia’s form flickered, the edges of her form bleeding into the darkness. She was so still and silent, Vika wondered if she was going to disappear again.

“Or,” Vika prompted. “I could take you to her. You could see for yourself.”

Dahlia’s eyes widened as she stared at Vika with a ferocity that made Vika take a step back. Dahlia’s fingers clasped and unclasped. “No! I can’t… I don’t…”

“It’s all right,” Vika said gently. “Try to remember. Where can I find something of Misha’s?”

Dahlia lifted a shaky hand to her temple, pressing as if she could hold her thoughts in place. “Misha…her knife…for grafting.”

Vika leaned forward. “Where is it?”

Dahlia’s form wavered as her eyes darted wildly between the trees. “Everything looks different. The tree line… I don’t… Misha was wearing her blue dress, the one Mama made, or did I make it? I don’t remember. It runs together sometimes.” Her voice rose. “Why can’t I remember? I should remember.”

“It’s all right,” Vika said, trying to keep the impatience out of her voice.

Dahlia’s form scattered, reforming several yards away, then closer and further, as if she couldn’t decide where she should be. She pressed both hands to her face. When she lowered them, her eyes were filled with confusion and grief.

Vika held out her hand. “Show me.”

Dahlia stared at it, and for a moment, Vika thought she might actually take her hand. Instead, Dahlia backed up, away from Vika. She turned and drifted toward the edge of the orchard, her movements uncertain, pausing and checking back. Vika followed with Millie at her heels, keeping a respectful distance.

They went in circles, veering left and then right and doubling back as if the landscape shifted under her feet. All the while, Vika quietly followed without a word. They moved toward the edge of the property, near the broken fence post with the boundary marker. Her hand hovered above it without touching. She glanced back at Vika, her eyes wide. Her shadowy form flickered and then it was gone.

“Dahlia,” Vika called into the darkness.

It was no use. The ghost was gone.

Vika kicked at the dirt, stifling a scream. She was so close. What happened?

A soft snuffling sound interrupted her thoughts.

“Millie?”

The dog snuffled several feet away, nose buried near the broken fence, her tail wagging.

“Millie, this isn’t the time to hunt mice. We’re going home.” Maybe tomorrow she would think of something.

Millie kept digging, her paws sending dirt flying behind her.

“Millie, come on.” Vika moved closer, but Millie ignored her, totally focused on digging.

Vika took out her phone and shined the flashlight on the ground in front of Millie. Something glinted in the beam. Millie chuffed, dirt flying.

Vika dropped to her knees next to Millie and scooped some of the dirt out of the hole. She pulled out a wood-handled blade wrapped in a braided cord made of flax, horsehair, and something else.

Vika sat back on her heels, staring in disbelief at the blade in her hands. It was darkened with age, but still sharp, the applewood handle smooth from years of use. This had to be Misha’s grafting blade. Dahlia led her to it after all. Or led Millie to it.

Maybe Dahlia was starting to trust her a little.

The blade thrummed with energy, warming in Vika’s hand. Images flashed through her mind of hands smaller than Dahlia’s carefully pruning branches, binding grafts and carving symbols in wood. The images were disjointed, sliding into one another. Was it the binding ceremony? Ben might know.

The copper smell of blood filled her senses, and an image of Dahlia dropping the knife faded to black.

Millie’s nose nudged her hand, tail thumping the ground.

Vika took a deep breath to clear her mind and gave Millie a hearty scratch. “Good girl, Millie. How did you know?”

Millie leaned into Vika’s hand, wiggling with joy, clearly pleased with herself.

You wouldn’t be so excited if you knew where I was going. Vika pocketed the blade, steeling herself for what she had to do.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

In this story, Vika helps a cursed oracle reconnect with herself and save her village. It first appeared in the charity anthology, Four Names of Fortune. This is part 2 of 4.

(Note: If you are reading Divine Curiosities, this story takes place before those stories.)

Denys, from the bread stall, walked past. When Tyche passed him, flowers appeared in his hand. While he gaped at the blossoms, Tyche winked at Vika and disappeared.

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In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 4 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

Starting in the middle? You can find episode 1 here.

Several days later, Vika was in the shop shelving the week’s new releases when Ben burst through the door.

“Have you seen this?” He thrust out his phone.

Vika came around the aisle and peered at the flickering images on the screen. Unnatural, reaching shadows, the billow of a white veil, and unsteady camera work as feet pounded the ground running away played beneath eerie music.

“What is this?” she asked, though with each frame, it became more familiar.

“It has half a million views already,” Ben said. “The comments are full of people saying it’s the best footage since the Blair Witch Project. In the comments, people are debating whether it’s fake.”

“I knew I should have taken their phones,” Vika grumbled. She looked closer at the video caption. “They tagged the location.”

Ben put his phone away. “The Falks are thrilled. They announced moonlight orchard tours.”

That wasn’t good. Not only would more tourists be trampling through the orchard, but the extra commotion would make it more difficult for Vika to sit with Dahlia at night. All she needed was for someone to stick a camera in her face while she was trying to coax Dahlia out of hiding.

“I wonder if Eileen found anything on Dahlia and why she might still be here,” Vika said.

“Let’s go check.”

The library was quiet when they arrived. Eileen’s face brightened as they approached the desk.

“Vika, I was hoping you’d come by. I found some information.” Eileen’s voice dropped as she added, “and some of it is quite troubling.”

Eileen didn’t waste any time herding them to a small conference room. An old map was spread out on the table.

Vika stepped closer.

Two parcels sat side by side, labeled in careful script. Vale Farm and Cunningham Timber Holdings.

“Those property lines are different,” Ben said, taking a closer look.

“Right. The Vales owned that orchard for three generations before the Carsons,” Eileen explained. She opened a manila folder and laid it over the map. Inside was a plastic sleeve containing a brittle advertisement clipped from a local circular.

Vale Orchard — Heirloom Apples & Tinctures Available. Remedies Prepared Upon Request.

Ben glanced up. “Tinctures.”

Eileen nodded. “There are a few mentions like that. Nothing explicit. What’s odd was that it seems the farm was fun by Prudence Vale and her two daughters, no husband. I found a fleeting mention of a Mr. Vale who died, but Prudence seemed to run the farm. Never remarried from what I can find. That alone is enough to make folks uneasy, but the mention of tinctures…”

“Witches,” Vika said quietly.

Eileen nodded. “But the Cunninghams...” She pulled out a newspaper clipping from 1915. “They wanted that land. Badly.”

Ben skimmed it. “Cunningham claim… boundary misdrawn… petition to reassign acreage…They wanted half the orchard,” he said.

“Seems so,” Eileen said.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she pulled out another clipping, this one from October 1918. The headline read, “Tragic Fire Claims Three Lives at Orchard.”

Vika and Ben bent over the article, their shoulders touching.

Ben read over her shoulder. “Lantern accident. Barn fire spread to house—”

“It wasn’t a fire,” Vika said. “Someone was shot.”

Ben and Eileen both gaped at her.

“I… um… heard that,” Vika added lamely.

In her vision, she saw men coming with torches, their flames bouncing through the trees. Maybe the flames weren’t just from torches.

“Dahlia and her sister Misha were both killed in the fire…” Eileen paused, consulting her notes.

Anger rose hot into her throat. No wonder Dahlia was skittish. It was easy to call someone a witch when you wanted to take something they owned. In one night, she lost her sister. Twice.

“Wait,” Ben said. “You said three people died in the fire. Who was the third?”

Eileen tapped the newspaper. “John Cunningham. He was the older son.”

“So, Prudence was left alone,” Ben mused.

“I couldn’t find anything on Prudence Vale, but…” Eileen slid over another document, an auction notice from six months later.

Ben read it aloud. “Vale property abandoned…sold to Cunningham Timber Holdings…”

He looked up. “For that price?”

“Even back then, that was a fraction of its value,” Eileen said.

Vika frowned. “If they fought that hard for it, why not use it?”

No one answered right away.

Eileen shook her head. “No records of development. No logging permits filed for that parcel, not that apple trees generate much timber.”

Ben tapped the ledger lightly. “Maybe they tried.”

Vika’s gaze drifted back to the map, to where the orchard sat between the two properties. Her eyes met Ben’s and the same thought passed between them. Maybe Dahlia didn’t let them.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. I have some things to check on it. If you need anything, come find me.” Eileen moved to the door and shut it softly behind her.

When she was gone, Vika pulled out her phone and showed Ben the photo she’d taken of the boundary marker. “This makes more sense now. Maybe Dahlia was trying to tell me about the Cunningham’s stealing their land.”

Ben frowned. “There should be more boundary markers. At least three more. We know Dahlia is tied to the orchard. What if the binding spell is tied to the boundary markers? The Falks have been doing some work there. If some of the markers are missing, that could weaken the spell. It could be why we are seeing…. activity now.”

After taking pictures of the map, Vika picked up Millie and met Ben to walk the old property line of the orchard and find the rest of the boundary markers. As they approached, Vika could see at least a dozen cars parked haphazardly along the shoulder. People wandered between the apple trees with their phones out, some filming, others taking selfies near the blooming tree.

“Let’s go this way,” Ben said, pointing in the opposite direction of the crowd.

“This is a circus,” Vika muttered.

“Let’s just find what we came for and get out of here,” Ben said, pulling out his phone.

“Agreed.”

They headed out to the back of the property where the trees grew wilder, Ben checking the map on his phone and Vika checking her compass.

Millie plunged ahead, nose to the ground, tail in the air.

Ben looked up from his phone. “I think the edge of the property should be near that cluster of birch trees. That seems like a good place to check for a marker.”

Vika liked this part of the orchard better, with the ungroomed undergrowth and haphazard trees. Millie huffed and pounced into the tall grass. Only the white tip of her tail peeked out over the brush. She seemed happier, too.

Outside the birch trees, the broken, half-rotted wood of a former fence marked the edge of the orchard.

“Look,” Vika said, pointing to the same carved symbol she had seen the night before. The post was cracked clean through; the two halves had fallen in opposite directions.

Ben bent down and ran his fingers along the split. “That can’t be good. This looks pretty recent. Should be easy to fix though.”

They marked the location and continued on. The next marker took longer to locate, hidden beneath years of leaf litter and encroaching brambles. This one was intact, the symbol carved on a rock, though it was barely visible beneath moss and lichen.

“Three down,” Vika said. “One to go.”

They continued following along the best they could with the map on Ben’s phone. The last marker should have been near the creek that formed the eastern boundary, but when they reached it, there was nothing but mud and tilled earth.

Ben examined the hole. “I bet it was here, but it was removed.”

“The Falks have been doing landscaping,” Vika said. “I saw equipment here last week. The timing works if that was what weakened the binding spell.”

“Hmm. Who knows what they did with it. We can recreate the spell, but I’m going to need to gather supplies.” He gave Vika a pointed look. “Also, we need to know the exact words that were spoken originally. This means you’re going to have to get Dahlia to talk to you. We’ll need her help.”

The hope that bubbled when he said he could fix it plummeted. “All right,” she said, forcing a smile and sounding more confident than she felt. “I can do that.”

They walked back to the heart of the orchard in companionable silence, Ben most likely thinking about how he was going to rebuild the spell and Vika worrying about how she was going to get Dahlia to talk to her.

When they passed the main barn, she was surprised to see Sheriff Rivera near the entrance, his normally jovial face looking stern, almost irritated. Mrs. Falk was pacing out front.

“Everything all right?” Ben asked.

Rivera looked up from his notebook. “A couple from Milwaukee got locked in the root cellar. Took the fire department twenty minutes to get them out.”

“Everything’s fine now,” Mrs. Falk said, though her face was pale.

“There’s too many people and too little structure,” the officer said. “It’s getting out of hand.”

“It’s under control,” Mrs. Falk assured him, though her hands were restless.

Rivera’s expression darkened. “Mrs. Falk, you called 911 to report intruders. Besides the one locked in the cellar, you thought someone was in the house. When I got here, there was no one, but there could have been. There are people all over, you said yourself you didn’t know how the doors to the cellar got unlocked.”

Vika exchanged a glance with Ben.

“It’s probably just a silly prank,” Mrs. Falk said. “I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“It doesn’t sound like a prank,” Vika said. “I think Officer Rivera is right. I know you want tourists, but all this ghost hunting is probably harming the apple trees. Without them, you won’t have apples to sell to all the tourists.”

Mrs. Falk pressed her lips together in a tight line. “Robert is roping off the section that bloomed early and some other areas to contain it.”

“Maybe the officers can help clear the area,” Ben suggested. “Give Robert time to finish.”

Mrs. Falk bit her lip, thinking about it, her eyes darting to the line of cars on the side of the road and then back at the barn. Finally, she nodded her agreement.

Officer Rivera closed his notebook. “We will disperse the crowd. Mrs. Falk, make sure you have all the necessary permits for whatever you plan to do here.”

With that, he got on his comm and gave orders to the other officer, and the one remaining firefighter.

A scream erupted from deeper in the orchard.

Ben pulled Vika toward the sound.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

In this story, Vika helps a cursed oracle reconnect with herself and save her village. It first appeared in the charity anthology, Four Names of Fortune. This is part 1 of 4.

(Note: If you are reading Divine Curiosities, this story takes place before those stories.)

This was bizarre behavior for an oracle, even an exiled one. Sneaking around a farm field in the dead of night, sprinkling ash and burying charms. Intrigued, Vika moved in for a closer look. Moonlight lit up the tendril of copper hair that escaped the oracle’s black hood as she bent over and inspected a wilting seedling. The plant looked better than it had the previous night.

As a Kere, a spirit of violent death, Vika spent her life haunting battlefields until the Fates changed her path and sent her on a journey to learn about the mortals, to see what brings them to the battlefield. So far, Vika had learned one thing.

Mortals were complicated.

They made battlefields out of everything, and it was better to give them space. However, this lone woman in a barley field in the middle of the night made Vika curious. Vika moved closer. The light of Apollo marked this woman as a true oracle, but her light differed from the others at Delphi. It was twisted somehow. Still, that didn’t explain why she wouldn’t just warn the farmers of the blight instead of sneaking around. Vika was intrigued.

Read more

In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 3 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

Starting in the middle? You can find episode 1 here.

Vika inhaled a whiff of sulfur and sharp charcoal. Ben was crouched over the tangled roots in the orchard, oblivious, running his hands over them as if he were looking for a secret compartment.

“Didn’t you hear that?” Vika said, trying not to be irritated.

Ben looked up. “What? Hear what?”

Vika touched the moss again, but it was quiet. “Something happened here. Something violent. I heard a scream and a gunshot when I touched the tree. I think it was a death echo.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, his gray eyes piercing. “Are you sure?”

“I know what death sounds like,” Vika replied flatly.

“Of course,” Ben said quickly. “I only meant… Wow. That would make sense. If someone died violently here, it could be tied to Dahlia, which would explain why she’s afraid.”

When Vika didn’t respond, he continued, “especially if it happened here, at a wyrd knot, where time is all tangled up. That moment could push through… especially if the knot is weakening.” Ben studied the knot. “There’s definitely a binding spell here. See right here?”

He pointed to an empty spot near the tangle of roots. Vika focused, trying to see the threads, but that’s all she saw. Threads, tangled and woven, but nothing that looked like a spell. It made her wonder again what Ben was hiding. He wasn’t just a bar owner. There was something older about him, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

She wasn’t exactly giving him her life story either, but it was curious. Pushing that thought away, her gaze flicked from the bright purple violets to the people taking selfies in the orchard.

“We need to find out what happened here,” Vika said. “The real story. Not whatever those two are selling on t-shirts.”

“Agreed. Let’s get out of here,” Ben said, standing up and wiping his hands on his pants. “I want to check something. The land records. Who owned this property before the Carsons?”

“I thought the Carsons were the original owners?”

“That’s what everyone thinks. But if Dahlia’s last name was Vale...” He trailed off, already pulling something up on his phone.

“Maybe Eileen can find something,” Vika said. “Come on, Millie.”

Millie made a sound that oddly resembled “harumph” as she got to her feet.

Later that night, Vika went back to the orchard. While she agreed it was important to learn its history, if Dahlia didn’t trust her, they wouldn’t get anywhere. For that, she needed to come alone. Well, not completely alone. She brought Millie because those basset hound eyes could break through anyone’s defenses.

Her boots crunched on the gravel path cutting between rows of apple trees. It was a still, clear night, and silver moonlight dripped between the branches. But the air hung heavy. Vika spread a blanket under the oak tree in the clearing near the wyrd knot and sat down. Millie cocked her head, turned three times, and flopped down next to her, taking up most of the blanket.

“Dahlia,” Vika said softly. “I came to sit with you. I’m not here to take you anywhere. Please talk to me.”

Nothing.

The air stirred. Vika pulled her jacket tighter, settling herself on the blanket. If Dahlia was stubborn, she needed to know that Vika could be even more so. She couldn’t ignore Vika forever.

Soon, Millie was fast asleep, snoring softly. The quiet thickened, sending an icy chill up Vika’s neck. She was being watched.

“Dahlia,” she said gently. “I know you’re there. Let’s talk.”

The ghost appeared, peeking out from behind a tree, close enough but not too close. Her pale hands were splayed across the tree bark, and her dark eyes were wide, watching Vika.

“I saw a picture today of you and Misha,” Vika said. “You looked happy. Help me understand what happened.”

Pain flickered across Dahlia’s face, but she didn’t speak.

“If you won’t tell me, show me.” Vika held out her hands.

Dahlia stilled, but she didn’t come closer. Her eyes flicked to the tangled roots of the wyrd knot and back to Vika.

Not wanting to spook her with sudden movement, Vika slowly stood. Dahlia flinched, like she was about to run.

Vika hesitated and placed her hands on the knot. Instantly, the acrid smell of gunpowder filled her senses.

Torches bounced on the horizon, coming closer.

Shouts. “Witch.”

Fear.

The pounding of footsteps. Misha running away. Winged creatures circling. Keres. A bang of a gun firing. Vika yanked her hand away.

The dark shadows overhead bled into a clear sky as the current time slid back into place.

Dahlia was gone.

Someone giggled, and Vika caught a flash of white between rows of trees. Thinking it was Dahlia, Vika moved to investigate. Millie growled low. Instinctively, Vika reached down to reassure her.

Three teenagers darted between the trees, their faces lit by the glow of their phones. One wore a long makeshift veil, cheap tulle from a craft store, and pale makeup with black around her eyes.

“Did you guys see that?” a young teenage girl asked. “I swore I saw a man with a lantern. Just over there. But now he’s gone.”

“There’s nothing there. This is so stupid,” a tall boy in a blue hoodie said. No jacket.

“It’s not stupid. It’s content,” the girl in the veil said. She leaned dramatically against a tree trunk. “Okay. How’s this? Do I look like a ghost bride?”

The third teenager, a girl with dark hair falling out of a messy bun, sighed heavily. “This is super disrespectful. I’ve heard this ghost has given people heart attacks. That she squeezes your chest until you can’t breathe.”

“There’s no ghost, Lexi. It’s just a dumb story the owners made up to sell cider,” the girl in the veil said.

Vika stayed in the shadows, debating whether to intervene or just wait for them to get their footage and go. Millie whined, her hackles raised.

The temperature plummeted.

“Did you guys feel that?” Lexi’s voice came out in shaky, cloudy puffs. “We should get out of here.”

“I don’t know about this,” the boy said, lowering his phone.

The girl in the veil spun around. “Keep filming. This is perfect. Super creepy.” She glided through the trees, arms outstretched, the veil billowing.

Dahlia appeared, her jaw clenched as if she were fighting to hold back words.

It was time for these kids to go. Vika stepped forward. “All right. You all are trespassing, and you need to leave.”

The girl in the veil spun around. “Who are you?”

“I’m the one telling you it’s time to leave,” Vika snarled.

“If you’re here, you must be trespassing too.” The girl turned to the boy. “Film me by the flowering tree, the one everyone’s talking about.”

Vika’s hands clenched into fists as the kids pushed past her toward where her blanket was still spread under the oak.

“No,” Dahlia whispered. “No, no, no.”

At the knot, the roots under Vika’s feet vibrated with an unsettling energy. Vika had the fleeting thought that she wished Ben were here. He would probably have a spell or some explanation that these kids would listen to.

Branches rattled as the girl with the veil tried to climb the blossoming apple tree, but the branches were too thin to get very high. She balanced precariously between them.

“Hurry up, take the picture,” she ordered before striking an awkward pose.

A frigid breeze rattled the branches. Shadows lengthened and twisted, reaching out like fingers. The voice came out in a chorus from all around them as if on the breeze.

“Witch.”

One of the girls screamed.

“Dahlia, stop it,” Vika hissed, but she knew it wasn’t Dahlia.

“Come on.” The boy tried to help his friend out of the tree, but the tulle was caught on a branch. He worked it free, and she jumped into his arms.

A loud crack overhead, like the sound of bone shattering, echoed through the orchard. The kids froze. Millie barked a sharp warning as a branch from the top of the oak tree broke free, crashing toward the three teenagers below.

Vika lunged forward, shoving the boy and the veiled girl out of the way, just as the branch hit the ground.

Wide-eyed and terrified, the kids stared at her for a moment before they ran. The white tulle veil snagged on branches before the girl tore it from her head and left it behind. For a moment, Vika wondered if they were still filming.

The shadows had retreated, but the air still held a charge. Millie stood protectively in front of Vika, her eyes with just a hint of the red glow that indicated she was close to changing into her hellhound form.

“It’s all right, Millie. I’m fine. See?” Vika bent down so her face was near Millie’s. An angry hellhound was the last thing this orchard needed. Vika petted Millie’s head until her tail thumped on the ground and her eyes were back to their normal rich amber color.

“Dahlia,” Vika called. “Explain yourself. What is happening here?”

The ghost flickered near the fallen branch, but she wasn’t paying attention to Vika. She was looking in the direction the kids had fled.

“They’re fine,” Vika said. “Please. Tell me what’s happening. Please.”

Dahlia’s head snapped to Vika, as if remembering she was there. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, but she turned and drifted into the forest.

“Wait.” Vika followed, weaving a path through the trees with Millie at her heels.

Dahlia kept moving, once looking back to check if Vika was there, but also careful to keep her distance.

Vika stopped trying to talk to her and followed. They moved through the length of the orchard until Dahlia paused beside a small, scraggly tree. She looked back and then disappeared.

Vika darted forward, but it was too late. The ghost was gone.

This was an older part of the orchard, wilder, less manicured. In the silver moonlight, metal glinted. Vika moved closer, stepping through overgrown brambles to where broken fence rails slumped in the tangle of plants. An iron nail stuck out of a broken fence post. Around it was a carving that matched the symbol they’d seen in the apple blossoms. The boundary marker.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 2 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

You can find episode 1 here.

While Vika tended to avoid places where people gathered, the library was the exception. She loved the smell of it, how the shelves contained layers of stories, and how there wasn’t an expectation to socialize.

Usually.

As she walked past the reception desk, the librarian, Eileen, looked up from her computer, a smile brightening her face.

“Vika! What a surprise. How are you? Keeping busy? How’s the store? I’ve been meaning to stop by the shop.”

Vika arranged her face into an expression she hoped passed for approachable. “The shop is great.” Not a customer in sight. “Actually, I was looking for you. I was wondering if you could tell me about the Orchard Bride ghost.”

Eileen’s eyes widened as she leaned forward conspiratorially and dropped her voice. “Would this have something to do with the early bloom? It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

Vika smiled back at Eileen. “I went to see it this morning, and it is…. something.”

“Indeed, let me just come around so we don’t disturb the other patrons.” Eileen whispered dramatically, glancing around at the three retirees reading newspapers.

She came out from behind the desk, her long flowered skirt swishing as she walked.

Vika followed her to a small conference room and took a seat at the table, folding her hands so she wouldn’t fidget impatiently. “So, what can you tell me about the ghost? Who was it?”

“Well,” Eileen began, clearly delighted, “the most popular story is that she was waiting for her groom on her wedding day when he died in a logging accident.”

“Of course he did,” Vika muttered.

“Tragic,” Eileen agreed happily. “She wandered into the orchard. Apparently, it was their special place, you know, and never left.”

“Hmm.” Vika responded. “But who is she?”

Eileen patted her gray hair, which was wound with a purple scarf. “My personal favorite,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard the question. “Is that she was murdered by a jealous suitor. Can you imagine? Though there is no historical evidence to support that. Another version of the story is that she drowned herself in the lake and haunts the orchard because that was where she was the happiest.”

“That seems unlikely,” Vika said. None of that explained the blood she saw, unless the jealous suitor killed her in the orchard.

“Well, you know how these stories go.” Eileen spread her fingers. “When I was a girl, they said that if you walked backwards through the orchard during a full moon, she’d come to you floating through the trees. That’s silly, of course. People have seen her at all different times. No walking backwards required.”

“People actually believe these things?” Vika asked.

“Well, people love a good mystery. The Falks, you know, the new owners, certainly aren’t discouraging it. I heard they’re planning an Orchard Bride Festival for the summer solstice.”

Vika rolled her eyes. “Is there any history that suggests who she was? Perhaps she was one of the orchard’s previous owners?”

Eileen drummed her manicured nails on the table. “Before the Falks, the Carsons owned the orchard for generations, and they were pretty tight-lipped about her. There are no records that I’m aware of that list her name. That’s the funny thing about ghost stories. They change with the times until they’re more about the person telling the story than the actual ghost. I’m curious, Vika, what are you looking for? Did you see something this morning at the orchard?”

Vika hesitated, not wanting to stoke the fires of gossip. “I saw something. I’m trying to make sense of it.”

Eileen’s expression softened, but her attention sharpened. Librarian curiosity activated.

“I don’t think she was a bride, though,” Vika added. “Are there any town historical records I could go through that might have pictures from that time?”

Eileen scrunched up her mouth, thinking. “Yes, there are newspapers, family records, and even old school yearbooks. Let me see what I can find.”

Several moments later, Eileen returned with a stack of leather-bound books and manila folders. Her bracelets jangled as she set them in front of Vika. “I’ve pulled everything I could find from when the orchard was established in 1892. There isn’t a lot, but some of the local historians kept decent records. I would start here.”

Eileen dug through the stack and pulled out a leather-bound journal that looked like a scrapbook. She flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for. “Here. This is odd. The orchard is mentioned sporadically, but nothing for several years. Then, in 1910, there was an article in the local paper about the ‘miraculous recovery’ of the trees after a blight.”

Miraculous.

Vika leaned forward.

The photo showed twisted trees, bark scarred in unnatural patterns.

Vika wished there were people in it. She was sure this was the time she was looking for, especially if the ghost was somehow protecting the orchard.

“Thank you,” Vika said. “I will start looking through these.”

“I’ll check the microfiche,” Eileen said, already halfway to the door. “You have me invested now.” Eileen practically glowed with excitement.

“Thanks. I just want to give her her name back,” Vika said, flipping to the first page of the scrapbook that held the 1926 article.

“If anyone can,” Eileen said gently, “it’s you. You’ve always had a way with the forgotten things.”

The door clicked shut.

Stunned by the unexpected compliment, Vika stared at it for a moment before shaking it off and digging into the first book. And the next one, and the ones after that.

Over an hour later, Vika pulled out another scrapbook, but this one was more personal, less historian. Inside were newspaper clippings, a pressed flower, and some photographs. Vika wondered who it had belonged to. There was no inscription.

She turned the page and landed on a black-and-white photo of two young women in the orchard, their arms around each other and a bushel of apples at their feet.

One was familiar. The girl on the right was clearly a younger, happier version of the terrified ghost who’d run away from her at the orchard.

The handwritten caption read, “Misha and Dahlia Vale gathering apples for the pies.”

Dahlia Vale.

Her phone buzzed with a message from Ben. “Found something. Meet at the Orchard?”

Vika typed back a thumbs-up emoji, eyes still on the photo.

“Dahlia,” she murmured.

Not a bride.

* * *

Before going to the Phoenix, Vika stopped at home. Millie, her chubby basset hound, was so happy to see her. She nearly wiggled out of her skin when Vika’s hand brushed the leash, and Vika didn’t have the heart to leave her home.

The walk to the orchard took twice as long because Millie needed to smell everything in her meandering way.

When they arrived at the orchard, Ben was talking with Mr. Falk, who was on a ladder with pruning shears tending to the trees which had not started blooming early. His wife had a rake and was cleaning up the fallen leaves.

Millie burst toward Ben, running at a chunky gallop. He crouched down and gave her an equally enthusiastic greeting. “Millie, my favorite girl.”

Millie instantly flopped down onto her back so Ben could scratch her pink, spotted basset hound belly.

After watching this display for several minutes, Vika cleared her throat.

“Right,” Ben said, standing. “Hi Vika. You remember Mr. and Mrs. Falk?”

Vika nodded.

“We were just discussing the Orchard Bride,” Ben said.

“The Early Bloom and the Orchard Bride are all anyone can seem to talk about. We’ve had at least twenty early visitors so far.” Mrs Falk’s eyes shone with excitement.

“I bet,” Vika said dryly.

Mr Falk climbed down the ladder, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I don’t really understand it myself.”

“Well, you started circulating the stories,” Vika started and stopped when Ben shot her a look.

“We were hoping to have a look around,” Ben said.

“Of course,” Mrs. Falk said. “Feel free to wander. If you post pictures, use the hashtag #OrchardBrideBlessing.”

Now Vika did roll her eyes.

“So, have you seen the ghost?” Ben asked cheerfully.

“Pshaw,” Mr. Falk said, waving his hand dismissively. “Bunch of nonsense, but it brings people in. We’re making t-shirts, you know. I’ll save one for you.”

Ben pulled Vika away as she was about to respond. He called over his shoulder, “Thank you! We’ll be sure to use the hashtag if we post pictures.”

They headed off down the dirt driveway with Millie trailing behind. The dog’s ears perked up as they approached the wyrd knot, her nose going into overtime.

The moss covering the roots looked thicker somehow, more green, and tiny violet flowers spread in a circle around the oak tree. How was that possible? They were just here this morning.

Ben crouched down and examined the roots. “Incredible.”

The fur on Millie’s back rose. She whined and backed away from the circle.

“Smart girl,” Vika mumbled, giving her a reassuring pat and turning back to Ben. “So, what did you find?”

“Right,” he said, digging through his backpack. He brought out an old book, opened the tattered cover and turned it toward her.

Vika leaned in.

The page was a mess of lines. Loops over loops, crossing and recrossing until her eyes couldn’t follow where anything began or ended. It reminded her of the Fates’ tapestry.

She blinked. “What am I looking at?”

Ben huffed a quiet laugh, tapping a point on the page. “Look at the pattern.”

“It looks random.”

“It’s not,” he insisted, a little sharper now. He shifted closer, angling the book. “Look here. And here. See how it doubles back?”

Vika squinted. “…Yes?”

Ben dragged a hand down his face, and took a breath. He tried again. “It’s a knot. Powerful magic, especially in places where the veil is thin. Like here.”

Vika’s gaze flicked up. “A spell.”

“Exactly.” Relief softened his voice. “A binding spell, I think. Made to hold something in place or keep something out.”

Her attention dropped back to the page. The lines started to make more sense.

“It could be why our ghost is still there,” Ben said. “I think she’s held here.”

“Or holding it together,” Vika countered.

He tilted his head. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Vika leaned back, arms crossing, gaze drifting to the spaces between the rows of apple trees.

“Who would do that?” she murmured.

Ben shrugged.

Something didn’t feel right. “She didn’t feel trapped,” Vika said. “She felt…” She searched for the word. “Tethered?”

Ben considered that. “…So she did it to herself,” he said.

“Maybe she had to.”

Silence settled between them, heavier now.

Vika’s stomach tightened as she remembered what the spirit had said. From unraveling.

She swallowed. “She’s protecting it. If that knot comes undone…”

“Things slip,” he said. “Time doesn’t stay where it’s supposed to. Maybe it’s already happening. I mean, something is happening there. The early bloom. The ghost appearing to you.” Ben leaned forward, his storm-gray eyes intense.

Vika’s fingers drummed her leg. “Why now? If she is bound to the orchard and has been protecting the knot, why would it unravel now?”

“Either she’s weakening… or the knot is.”

Vika didn’t like either option.

“Can you ask her?” he added. “She reached out to you once. Maybe she—”

“She didn’t reach out,” Vika cut in. She ran away.

“She talked to you or tried to.”

Vika stiffened, conceding the point. “Dahlia Vale,” she said softly. “I know you’re here. We want to help you.”

The air went still. No rustle of leaves or birds calling. A chill rippled over Vika. Millie growled low.

Dahlia materialized between two trees, eyeing Vika warily. Vika started toward her, and the spirit retreated.

Vika stopped. “It’s all right. I won’t come closer.”

“She’s here?” Ben asked.

Vika gestured to the shadow between the trees.

“I found a photograph,” Vika said. “Of you and Misha.”

Surprise flickered across Dahlia’s face, followed quickly by anger. “Stay away from my sister.”

Vika held up her hands and said softly, “Let us help you.”

Ben gave her a curious look before focusing on the space where Vika said Dahlia stood. “Dahlia, we can see the binding. We know you’re protecting something. We want to help.”

The ghost’s gaze snapped to him and then darted to Vika. She shook her head violently. “You can’t. If she takes me…” Her translucent hand waved in Vika’s direction.

“What did she say?” Ben asked.

“Nothing,” Vika said quickly.

Dahlia’s eyes widened in fear. “I know what you are.” She spit it like an accusation.

Then she was gone. Her slippery form flickered and dissolved. Millie pressed herself into Vika’s leg.

“What happened?” Ben asked.

“She’s afraid,” Vika said, giving Millie a scratch.

“Of what?”

Vika shrugged and turned away. “I don’t know.”

A car door slammed in the distance. Voices drifted from the direction of the parking area. More gawkers, probably coming to see the miracle bloom and take selfies.

Vika looked down at the wyrd knot, at the way the roots twisted and held. A binding spell, Ben had said. Powerful magic to keep something contained, or to keep something out.

“The blood I saw,” she whispered. “It was here. At this spot. Someone died here, and Dahlia bound herself to prevent... what?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said. “To prevent it from happening again?”

Millie’s ears perked up, and she let out a single, sharp bark, her warning bark.

A sharp gust of wind scattered apple blossoms from the one blooming tree. They fell in a pattern that made Vika’s skin prickle. Not random.

Ben saw it too. He crouched and traced the pattern with his finger, not quite touching the petals. “A boundary marker,” he said mostly to himself. “She must be trying to tell us something. A marker with this symbol would have been carved into fence posts a century ago to delineate property lines and ward off trespassers.”

Vika crouched before the tree and placed her hand on the soft moss. A scream ripped through the air, followed by the sharp crack of gunfire. Vika jerked her hand away.

Silence.

Ben was studying her, a confused look on his face. How did he not hear it?

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

In this season, an apple tree blossoms a month early and tourists descend to get a glimpse of the famous “Orchard Bride” ghost. Vika must win the ghost’s trust and mend an ancient wyrd knot before the past spills into town and history burns everything she loves.

This is episode 1 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays. Each season is a new story, so dive in, even you missed the 1st season.

Vika normally avoided the orchard, but it wasn’t because of the ghost. The ghost mostly kept to herself. It wasn’t even the apples, although they did remind Vika of her more irritating siblings. A grove should be a wild place, not one where the trees are forced into neat rows and held in place with wire. It was unsettling.

But when Ben showed her the owner’s post on social media of the early blooms with the caption suggesting it was because of “The Orchard Ghost Bride,” she couldn’t say no to having a quick look. It was that time of year when winter slips into spring. There were still patches of snow in the shady parts of town, and everything was a brown, gray, slushy mess of dried brush and mud. There should be no delicate pink flowers like the ones in the picture Ben said was circling the Internet.

Something wasn’t right. The sight of the blossoms gave Vika a hollow feeling in her stomach, the seeds of a drama she would need to deal with. As she walked up the muddy path into the orchard, she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her worn leather jacket, although the bite in the air didn’t bother her. Ben did the same, though Vika suspected it didn’t bother him either.

“Whose idea was it to come out here at dawn?” she asked.

Ben shot her a grin. “I thought you’d want to be here when it was calm. Besides, I brought coffee.”

He held up the thermos and she shook her head. Near the middle of the orchard, they stopped in front of a single twisted apple tree, its pale pink blossoms almost silver in the morning light.

“What is up with you?” Vika mumbled, studying the tree, which was blossoming about a month early. The rest of the trees sported plain branches, barely even a bud. Yet this one was all decked out in pink.

“What do you think is going on?” She turned to Ben, but he was gone.

She found him crouching at the base of a large oak tree in a clearing between rows. The roots of the surrounding trees stuck out of the ground, intertwined in a circular knot around the oak tree. Moss and wild violets gathered at the base of the trees.

“Do you know what this is?” Ben asked as she approached. He was animated, talking fast, almost to himself. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. But the Carsons, who used to own this orchard, didn’t open it to the public. They were closed off. You would have liked them.” He flashed her another smile.

“What are you talking about?” Vika asked, trying to remember if she’d ever met the Carsons. She must have at some point.

Ben’s face was flushed with excitement. “I think this is a wyrd knot.”

“What?” Vika looked closer. She blinked, and a vision of hands planting a sapling flashed through her mind, followed by the echo of someone crying. “It’s been here all this time? How did we not notice?”

Ben shook his head. “You feel it too?”

“Yes,” Vika said, her breath tight in her chest. “Time feels squishy here.”

A wyrd knot was a trick of the Fates, a place where the past, present and future were all interconnected. It was unsettling that she hadn’t known it was here. Worse, Vika could picture Lachesis herding her toward this town specifically to be near it and then teasing her for not noticing a wyrd knot right under her nose.

Ben’s fingers trailed over the braided tree roots. “There’s something else here. A spell. Can you see it?”

Vika shook her head. Her Kere magic didn’t work that way. It was just a part of her. She didn’t pay attention to spells and bindings, or magic grimoires, but Ben seemed to know a lot about them. She looked at him closely again, his storm-gray eyes and angular jaw softened by a hint of stubble, and wondered what he was hiding from her.

Before she could ask, a cold breeze swept through the orchard, rustling the pink blossoms. The feeling of being watched prickled over her. Vika spun around as something darted past.

“Did you see that?” Vika asked.

Ben looked up from the roots. “No, what was it?”

Vika moved closer to the tree. “Hello?”

A flicker of white drifted between two apple trees ahead and slipped behind a tree, which wasn’t big enough to conceal it. Vika could make out the silhouette of a woman, her edges bleeding into the air around her. A ghost.

“You can come out,” Vika said, using her best gentle voice as she moved toward the tree.

The ghost pressed herself unconvincingly into the tree.

“I can see you,” Vika said.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and the ghost peeked around the tree, her gaze meeting Vika’s and then widening in terror.

The ghost shook her head no. When she spoke, it came out in a ragged whisper. “I can’t go yet, Kere. I have to stop it from unraveling.”

Then she vanished in a swirl of fallen leaves.

Vika stared at the empty space where the ghost had been. She was used to being feared. Spirits tended to give Vika a wide berth, which was fine with Vika. She normally liked to avoid their drama.

I have to stop it from unraveling. What did the spirit mean by that? What was she protecting?

“What happened?” Ben asked, coming to stand beside her.

“I think that was the famous Orchard Bride,” Vika said. “But she didn’t look like a bride.”

“Did she say anything?”

Vika told him what she’d said about the unraveling and how she ran away, but she left out the part about the ghost being afraid of her.

Ben considered this, but his attention was on the wyrd knot. He crouched before it as if looking for clues.

Kneeling next to him, Vika reached out a hand to touch the springy moss at the base of the tree. An image of blood soaking the ground flashed through her mind, and she yanked her hand back. “There was violence here,” she said. “Blood.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t question it. “Is it the past you saw or the future?”

His eyes met hers. Vika shook her head. “I don’t know. I just saw blood.”

Ben stood and wiped the dirt from his jeans. “If her fear is that the knot will unravel, this is a bigger problem than a rogue ghost.”

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please subscribe for free so you don’t miss an episode.

Everything comes out eventually. Sometimes, you have to come at it sideways, I guess. Anyway, I’ll get back to mythology next week.

The squirrels are getting bold. I drive one up a tree and pace the sparky boundary, tracking the scratch of claws overhead, their irritating squeaks. They even saunter across the patio now. That fat gray one—especially him. I can smell him all over the stones. It’s a reminder that I’ve been neglecting my duties.

But I’ve been busy. I have to keep my girl’s feet warm. They’re always so cold. Too cold.

Her mate lets me in, and I pick up my bone before hopping onto the living room bed. I show her the toy, but she doesn’t respond. It’s not a real bone. It’s red and doesn’t crunch. Perhaps that’s why she doesn’t want it. I put it with the other toys at the foot of the bed and curl up on her feet. They’re cold through the blanket.

Normally, she would snuggle me or play, but she hasn’t wanted to play with any of the toys I’ve brought. Not even the pink hedgehog with all the crinkly bits. Her breaths are shallow and even. She’s sleeping again. Or still. A wrong, sweet-sour smell hangs around her and doesn’t go away.

If I find the right toy, she’ll want to play.

Perhaps if I brought her the gray squirrel.

She would love that. It would be a comfort to know the yard is secure. That I can provide for our family. That I will keep them safe.

I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep, but I wake when her mate comes by the bed. He scratches my belly and asks me if I want to go outside. I do. I need to address the squirrel problem.

His hand hovers near the leash, and excitement flutters, making my tail thump. For a moment, I think we’re going for a walk, but he clips on my collar, which is an insult. I don’t need it to stay within the sparky boundary. I haven’t run since I was a puppy, and even then, it was just because I was excited. My place is here, at her side.

It’s cool and bright outside, crackly with leaves. My nose leads me around the patio and into the grass, around the trees. A squeak overhead and the flash of a fluffy gray tail make me sit up. He’s there. Watching me. I clock him as he walks across a branch overhead and onto another, chasing him to the back of the yard. My collar buzzes, and I skid to a stop.

The fat gray squirrel jumps to another tree, climbs down the trunk of the oak tree on the other side, and sits in the grass. We look at each other, and I swear to God, he flicks his tail at me. He knows I can’t cross that line.

I bark a warning at him and look back to the porch, and bark again, waiting for the Mate to see the trespass.

He opens the door, and the squirrel runs back up the tree. Instead of addressing our squirrel problem, the Mate calls for me to come inside, as if I’m the one doing something wrong. He seems upset about something. I don’t really understand, but I bark again and look up at the tree. The squirrel chirps, and it sounds like he’s laughing. Bugger.

Reluctantly, I come inside, and the Mate gives me a treat. It’s one of the good ones, so I forgive him and go back to my post. She hasn’t moved. I lay next to her, my head on her chest. It barely moves. Her hand twitches and finds my back, where it rests. I fall asleep dreaming of having that squirrel in my mouth.

Days go by. I watch over the yard, but as soon as I go inside, the squirrels come out. We’ve had some good chases, but they know how far I can go and they always sprint for the oak tree beyond the sparky boundary. The fat gray squirrel is no stranger to the patio.

I watch, waiting for the right time. When it happens, I’m feeling loose, ready. The gray squirrel scurries down the tree, but I don’t chase yet. I wait, head down, perfectly still, one paw up. He comes closer, sniffing the grass, unconcerned. I wait. He turns his back, and I pounce.

He runs. I chase. My feet thunder on the ground as I close the gap. Near the boundary, my collar vibrates, a low warning. Usually, I stop. I should stop.

But her feet are so cold.

I throw myself across the line. Zap!

The bite is a white-hot tooth sinking into my throat. For a moment, there is only the pulse of tingling pain. I shake it off and keep running.

In this moment, I’m free. The squirrel senses it too. He tears for the big oak tree, and I’m right behind. Closer and closer. He jumps for the trunk of the tree, his claws scraping the bark. I lunge. My teeth close around his fat body with a satisfying crunch, and I feel the drum of his heart against my tongue.

I did it.

I trot over to the edge of the lawn. I’m on the other side of the sparky boundary now. My tail thumps the ground and I sit straight, my prize in my mouth, waiting for the Mate to come get me.

She’ll be so pleased.

This story is for everyone who has ever been loved by a dog who was sure their warmth could cure anything. They’re not wrong.

Love to everyone. Thanks for reading!

In this season, Vika must un-shelve an ancient god-blade to help a lovelorn musician rescue his bride from the Underworld before she disappears into the shadows. To bring her home, Vika must trade her quiet bookshop for her Kere wings, bargain with the gods, and learn to trust her pack to help her step into who she once was without losing what she’s built.

This is episode 12 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays.

Joining in the middle? You can find the first one here.

Marcus disappeared through the door, and for a heartbeat, Elena did not move. Her gaze lingered on Erebos, her expression one of tenderness. Vika wondered if she was remembering the quiet moments here, the strange gentleness in Erebos that was threaded through his darkness. Elena lifted a hand as though to reach toward him.

A smile spread across Erebos’s face.

Then Elena dropped her hand. “I hope you find peace.”

Elena crossed the clearing and stepped through the gate without a sound, the shimmer wrapping around her like mist before swallowing her whole.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating.

Erebos stood utterly still, shadow sharpening his features. Gone was the lonely husband from before. Now, he was fully himself, the primordial god of darkness. The shadows stirred at his feet, restless, hungry. Yet, Vika didn’t shrink from him. She held her ground, gripping the shadow cutter blade, unsure what was going to happen next.

“Daughter, that blade is not yours to wield.”

“It is not yours either. You gave it to Nyx. She gave it to me.”

At the mention of Nyx, his jaw tightened. Vika pressed on. “If you love her, go to her. Night can’t be covered with shadow. It’s endless. Meet her where it’s most beautiful.”

“You speak of things you know nothing about,” he growled.

Vika shrugged. “Maybe, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

Erebos studied her for another long, silent beat. Finally, he released a slow breath.

“You have learned much, little Kere, but not everything. You still have lessons to learn.” He turned, dissolving into the deepest fold of the forest.

When the last echo of his presence faded, Vika realized her hands were shaking.

A black feather at the edge of Vika’s wing shimmered, burning into bright green and gold.

She stood alone, looking at the emptiness in the doorway that led home.

Home. It was a strange thought. The quiet life she’d built as a bookseller had imploded. Ben knew she wasn’t who she appeared to be.

How many others knew? How would they react to her after what she’d brought to their doorstep? She might have to move again, start again somewhere else. The thought filled her with dread.

She sheathed Skiatomos at her side, the cool burn of its magic settling.

Vika closed her eyes, thinking of her bookstore and the scent of old paper, of crows in the pines outside her kitchen window, of the golden light that meant home. She let the warmth she’d once considered foreign bloom in her chest, and stepped through the door.

The world twisted. For a heartbeat, she stood on the knife-edge between realms: darkness behind her, warm and comforting; light ahead, blinding and unsure. She did not look back. She stepped forward.

When her feet touched familiar earth, she breathed in the earthy scent of dew and wildflowers as dawn was breaking over the Northwoods. Marcus and Elena were nowhere to be found. She guessed they were on their way home, working to put this behind them.

Vika walked through the woods toward her shop. When she got there, the first thing she noticed was that her door wasn’t hanging open. It was fixed, the new hinge shiny against the worn wood. She turned the knob and found it unlocked.

“Millie, I’m home,” she called, taking a step into the shop.

There was no patter of feat or excited barking. Where was Millie?

Vika tore up the stairs to her apartment. To her surprise, the glass was swept up, the window replaced. A thermos and a note sat on the table next to a loaf of apple cinnamon bread.

She opened the note. “Didn’t know how long you’d be gone. I took Millie to the bar. Ben.”

Had he fixed the window and the door?

She unscrewed the top of the thermos. The contents inside were still warm. She breathed in the familiar scent of cherry and smoky tea, and took a sip of her favorite drink from the local coffee shop. It tasted like home.

The Phoenix bar was closed at this hour, but there was a light on inside.

Vika nudged the door open. “Hello?”

Thundering footsteps greeted her as Millie exploded from the back office, ears flying, nails scrabbling for purchase on the old wood as she barreled into Vika’s shins, tail whipping.

“There you are.” Vika dropped to one knee, letting Millie press a cold nose to her jaw, sniffing her like she was checking for wounds. “I missed you too.”

“She missed you more,” Ben called from behind the bar.

He looked tired, bristle-haired and unshaven, but a grin spread across his face. “That dog is a bed hog. It’s surprising how much room she takes up for a dog with such short legs.”

Vika laughed. “Tell me about it.”

“You want coffee?”

Vika held up the thermos. “I have tea. Thank you. For everything.”

Ben nodded, and looked away, embarrassed.

“How is everything here? Any more…” She wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence.

“It’s quiet. No more strange shadows. Everyone is fine.”

Relief washed over Vika. “Thank gods.”

She couldn’t bring herself to ask what she wanted to know. What do they think about me?

As if reading her mind, Ben said. “People believe what makes sense to them. Most chalked it up to raccoons and the wind.”

Vika raised an eyebrow. “With a little help, maybe.”

The corner of Ben’s mouth curled up. “Maybe. What’s a little more weirdness in a town full of weird? You’re not alone here, Vika.”

She looked away, throat tight, fighting the urge to vanish before anyone could get too close or expect too much. “I should get back to check on the shop. Thank you, again.”

Ben nodded. “See you later?” He reached under the bar and pulled out a dog chew and waggled it in the air. Millie bounded over and took it while he scratched her all over.

“This one is always welcome.”

They headed home, Millie bouncing next to her proudly carrying the large chew. Vika unlocked the shop and stepped inside, while Millie immediately began an enthusiastic survey of every room. Everything appeared to be in its place. The shop smelled of paper and dust and the faintest trace of shadow. For the first time, she didn’t mind the darkness. Some shadows belonged.

Epilogue…

The wedding was quieter than the first attempt. No thundering omens, no rifts in the sky, no shadowy gods lurking behind the guest list. Just garden sunlight, the tangled perfume of summer wildflowers, and the joyful racket of a dozen friends hustling folding chairs across the grass in the garden behind the bed-and-breakfast.

Elena and Marcus had written their own vows, awkward and sincere, their voices clear in the hush after the exchange of rings.

Marcus’s uncle Gerald was noticeably absent.

Now, Vika lingered at the edge of the celebration, content to be on the sidelines and not making awkward small talk. She’d never been in the B&B’s garden before. She never had a reason to.

The night unfolded clear and calm, with a blanket of stars competing against the fairy lights strung through the trees. Marcus strummed his guitar, the soft notes mingling with laughter, while Maeve, the B&B’s owner, handed out slices of cake. She was known for her baking, and Vika suspected she was also responsible for the apple cinnamon bread someone had left in her kitchen last week. It was delicious and nearly gone.

Vika scanned the crowd for Millie. The dog was making her usual rounds, scrounging for attention and scraps. Vika thought she saw the white tip of her tail near the gift table and started toward it.

Something flickered in the attic window.

Vika stilled, watching.

There. Movement again. Then, unmistakably, a face pressed close to the glass, pale and watching.

The crowd whooped and clapped at some antics on the dance floor.

When Vika looked back, the face was gone.

So was Millie.

Grumbling, Vika pushed through the edge of the party, scanning the shadows. A ripple of unease prickled the back of her neck. Near the arch, she spotted a flash of fur and hurried after it.

“Millie,” she called under her breath. “Don’t make me chase you.”

The dog darted around the corner of the house, tail wagging as though playing a game of chase.

Vika followed and stopped short.

The figure from the attic stood at the garden’s edge, between the garden shed and Millie. Translucent, its eyes fixed not on the house or Millie, but on Vika.

Millie growled low, the hair on her back up.

“It’s all right,” Vika soothed, though her shoulders tightened. The air around the spirit shimmered faintly, as if the veil between worlds were thinner than it should be.

Vika edged forward and held out her hand. “You don’t belong here. Let me take you home.”

The spirit’s eyes widened, and then it vanished.

Now that she had Millie, Vika clipped on the leash. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

She straightened her shoulders and set off toward the laughter, the hum of conversation, and the joyful music. On the breeze, she caught the whisper of a second, unfamiliar voice.

Help me.

A distant crow called, deep and knowing, and above, the aurora flickered green, gold and crimson.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please like/share/restack it.

In this season, Vika must un-shelve an ancient god-blade to help a lovelorn musician rescue his bride from the Underworld before she disappears into the shadows. To bring her home, Vika must trade her quiet bookshop for her Kere wings, bargain with the gods, and learn to trust her pack to help her step into who she once was without losing what she’s built.

This is episode 11 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays.

Joining in the middle? You can find the first one here.

When they found Marcus, the scent of his fading life hit Vika like a physical blow. Marcus lay at the foot of a silver tree, his skin pale, his chest rising and falling, but barely.

Elena stumbled toward him, kneeling down and looking into his face. “Marcus?”

Vika could feel death hovering at the edges of Marcus’s life force like a patient vulture. His Orpheus magic had burned through him like wildfire. Without Elena, he couldn’t find his strength.

“Give me your hand,” Vika said, crouching down and unwinding the aurora thread.

Elena thrust out her hand, and Vika wound the thread around her wrist and then Marcus’s limp arm. The starlight pulsed where it touched their skin.

Elena’s shadows recoiled from the aurora thread. As they receded, Elena thawed, repeating Marcus’s name like a prayer. She dropped across his chest, resting her head on his heart. Marcus’s eyes fluttered open, his other hand resting on her back.

“Elena.” His voice shook.

“I remember,” Elena said.

Vika could feel darkness loosen its grip on Marcus. He needed rest, and for that, they needed to go home. The problem was that Vika wasn’t sure how to get them there. Since Eris was off sulking, it was unlikely she would honor their agreement.

The shadow near the trees shivered. Vika gripped the blade, bracing herself.

The forest stilled. From the shadows between the trees, darkness thickened and coalesced into a tall figure cloaked in night itself. Vika’s gaze flicked to the silver streak in his hair. He looked older than the last time she had seen him.

“Daughter,” Erebos said. “You brought my blade, but not my wife.”

“Father, Nyx is not a dog you can summon with tricks.”

A slight smile tugged at his mouth. “We’ll see.”

Erebos’ attention turned to Elena, who was helping Marcus sit. The aurora thread pulsed between them.

“I tried to keep you safe,” Erebos said.

Elena’s gaze shifted from Erebos to Marcus. “I don’t want to be safe from him.”

Doubt flickered over Erebos’s face, and confusion. “You would have grown old, died, left him grieving—”

“That’s not your choice to make,” Marcus said, struggling to his feet with Elena’s help. The aurora thread flared brighter, and his voice gained strength.

Erebos stepped forward, darkness swirling around him like a storm. “You know nothing of loss, boy.”

“Father, you’ve been alone too long,” Vika interrupted. The shadow blade hummed in her grip, but she didn’t raise it as a weapon. “Nyx didn’t abandon you because she stopped loving you. She left because you held on too tightly. She misses you, Father, but she won’t return to a cage, even one built from love.”

The god of darkness went still, vulnerability softening his sharp features. “Where is she?”

The mocking cackle of Eris’s laughter rang through the forest.

“How touching,” the goddess of discord purred, materializing beside Erebos. “But you’re forgetting something, little Kere. Our game isn’t over.” Her eyes fixed on the shadow blade. “You got them both through the forest, yes, but you haven’t won until they’re truly free. And they can’t leave without Erebos’s permission.”

She leaned close to the god of darkness, her voice honey-sweet with poison. “She’s trying to manipulate you, my lord. Just like all the others. Don’t let them leave. Keep what’s yours.”

Erebos’s expression hardened, shadows gathering around him once more. The moment of vulnerability vanished.

“Give me the blade,” Eris growled, lunging for Vika.

Vika doged, barely. She fought to steady herself on ground that wanted to dissolve beneath her. “Not yours.”

Eris lashed out again, anger sharpening her voice. “You are an abomination. A failed Kere, playing pretend in the mortal world. I will unmake you.”

“No.” Vika’s voice cut through, grim and certain. “I’m not yours to unmake and neither are they.” She held the shadow blade low, threads of aurora light spiraling from her wrist and wrapping the hilt, binding weapon to purpose.

Erebos’s eyes locked on the blade. All around them, the last trailing shadows writhed in anticipation of a command.

The aurora thread shimmered, looping from Marcus’s wrist to Elena’s, and, for a heartbeat, to Vika’s own. She felt a surge of something fierce and bright. Protection, resolve, and belonging threaded through all three of them.

“End them,” Eris ordered Erebos.

For a shocking moment, Vika was afraid he might. The shadow blade in her hand flared, and the web surrounding Erebos flashed. Vika could see the hold Eris had on him.

“Father, do you trust me?” Vika asked.

Erebos looked at Vika, her black wings outstretched. The colorful feathers shone brightly in the darkness. He nodded.

She swept the weapon in a broad arc, not as an attack, but as a release. It caught the web of magic holding him to Eris and opened it like a veil. Erebos shrugged it off and stepped forward.

Eris snarled and leaped, her eyes blazing, hands reaching for the blade just as Vika, heart pounding, swept it down in a final, clean cut straight through the tangled web of shadows binding Erebos to Elena, the last scraps of discord clinging to the three of them.

The shadow forest trembled and fell silent as Erebos crumpled to the ground. Elena gasped, as if taking her first true breath in days. Color had returned to Marcus’s cheeks, and he stood straighter, stretching his fingers and shaking out his limbs as if returning to life.

Elena rushed forward. Her hands trembled, but she helped Erebos to stand, keeping him steady.

“You don’t have to—” Vika began.

“I know,” Elena said softly. She met Erebos’s eyes, searching them, and for a heartbeat her expression was something more than pity. Gratitude. Affection. “But he was not unkind to me.”

Erebos said nothing. His gaze lingered on Elena. His shoulders stooped in defeat and while he was always imposing, underneath the ancient power, he was a man who missed his wife.

The shadows snapped back into place and he straightened, shaking off Elena’s supporting touch. The full force of his fury turned to Eris, who hovered at the tree line.

Vika braced herself, ready for a fight.

“This isn’t over,” Eris said, her voice ringing with venom. “You think you’re above the old ways. You’ll learn. You’re just like us.” She spat the last words at Vika, then dissolved into the trees, her laughter echoing with hollow promise.

Erebos’s gaze traveled down Vika’s wings, the ink-black feathers tipped with the colors of everyone she’s helped and everything she’d learned. She bristled under his attention, unsure what to do. She had openly defied him, used his weapon to break into his realm.

“Father,” Vika said, unsure how to continue or what to say.

He held up a hand. “Daughter, Eris was wrong. You have changed from the Kere we brought into the world. And I think that is not a bad thing. I think the Fates were right to change your path. It suits you.”

Elena clung to Marcus, the last strands of shadow lifting from her skin as the aurora thread faded. Marcus touched her face, love flickering through his exhaustion, and for once Vika didn’t look away from the intimacy.

“They need to go home,” Vika said. “They don’t belong here.”

Erebos’s brow furrowed. “Indeed. I will not stop him.” He reached a hand to Elena. “I promised her this realm is hers, and if she chooses, she can stay.”

Elena gasped, turning to Marcus.

“No,”Erebos said. “He cannot make the choice for you. You could be happy here, a queen.” His hand lifted, and with a flicker of his fingers, the air split. A gate of shadow and starlight shimmered into being among the trees, its frame breathing with a faint hum, like the pull of the tide.

Erebos gestured to Marcus. “That will take you home. You may go, but you can’t look back to see if Elena follows.”

Elena paled in the half-light, standing at the line between two worlds.

“Elena.” His voice cracked on her name. For a moment, he looked as if he might drag her though the door.

Elena’s lips parted, but no words came out. Her gaze lingered on Erebos, as if trying to read his intentions.

“Trust her, Marcus,” Vika said gently.

Marcus swallowed hard. Dropping Elena’s hand, he turned toward the door. “Then, I’ll see you at home.”

Without a backward glance, Marcus walked through the door.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please like/share/restack it.

I’ve worked with a basset hound rescue group for over twenty years. I’ve fostered and adopted many basset hounds and currently live with two. When I started writing Divine Curiosities, I kept seeing a basset hound as Vika’s hellhound companion. It sounds like an odd choice but hear me out.

Protectors of Boundaries

In mythology, hellhounds are the guardians of the Underworld. They protect boundaries. Basset hounds are great at this. As long it’s done from the comfort of a cushion in the house, they are happy to guard the boundaries of the yard.

They’re not going to jump off the couch to chase someone, but they will bark to alert the neighborhood of the boundary breach. Like hellhounds, bassets have a bark which comes from deep in their souls.

They also like to lie down in doorways and refuse to move, effectively guarding the space between rooms much like hellhounds guard thresholds. They are also open to bargaining if you have something in your hand that looks delicious.

However, if you’ve ever shared a bed with a basset hound, you know that’s where they stop caring about boundaries. There is no “your side”. It is all their side.

Tracking

Like Vika in Divine Curiosities, hellhounds are often collectors in mythology. They hunt, catch, and retrieve the souls of those who belong in the Underworld.

Basset hounds were bred for tracking. They walk with their nose to the ground and need to investigate every smell. If someone is eating anywhere in the vicinity, they will find that food and use their mind control to compel the owner to share.

However, unlike hellhounds, they’re not going to chase you. They may make a show of running and then lie down and wait for you to circle back. If they’re feeling playful and you throw a ball, they may even chase the ball, but they’re certainly not going to bring it back.

Other

Despite these obvious setbacks, Basset Hounds do have other qualities in common with hellhounds.

• Shapeshifting: With their sad eyes and long ears, basset hounds appear harmless, but that’s exactly what they want you to think. I have wondered whether they are shapeshifters like their hellhound cousins. How else could they reach countertops to sneak food? I once had a hound who constantly climbed onto the kitchen table.

• Mournful Howl: Basset Hounds howl. Sometimes from joy, and sometimes it’s the sound of a heart breaking. When my kids leave the house, my smallest hound sits by the back door and makes the loudest, saddest sounds I’ve ever heard. His howl would be right at home in the deepest pits of the Underworld.

Conclusion

Well, maybe basset hounds aren’t the obvious choice for a hellhound. In my serial, Divine Curiosities, Millie is a failed hellhound. She much prefers to eat snacks and have her belly rubbed while she naps in the shade rather than chasing souls around the Underworld.

Do you think your dog would make a good hellhound? Tell me about it in the comments.

In this season, Vika must un-shelve an ancient god-blade to help a lovelorn musician rescue his bride from the Underworld before she disappears into the shadows. To bring her home, Vika must trade her quiet bookshop for her Kere wings, bargain with the gods, and learn to trust her pack to help her step into who she once was without losing what she’s built.

This is episode 10 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays.

Joining in the middle? You can find the first one here.

The air tasted of starlight and shadow, thick enough to choke on. Vika could see why Nyx had left. It was stifling.

A faint melody drifted through the air, muffled singing. Marcus. She looked around in every direction, but didn’t see him. She followed the song.

Finally, she saw him, singing by the fountain with Elena and Erebos, but it was like watching through a veil, a door she was on the wrong side of. She yelled to him, but he didn’t hear her.

“You’ll have to do better than that.”

Vika spun around. Eris sat on a bench nestled in a bed of deep purple roses. She held one in her hand, plucking the petals off.

A petal fluttered to the ground. “Do you think he’ll save her?”

“Let me pass,” Vika said, her hand moving to the shadow cutter blade.

Eris raised a perfectly arched brow and plucked another petal. “He loves her. She loves him not.”

“I don’t have time for games.” Vika searched for a way around Eris. She waved her arm, but Marcus couldn’t see her.

“A game. What a splendid idea!” Eris’ smile revealed perfect white teeth.

Vika’s jaw clenched. “What do you want?”

“Do you see how the shadows cling to the girl? She has maybe an hour before she fades completely. And your musician...” She laughed as Marcus stumbled, his song faltering. “Well, he’s burning through his power like kindling. Erebos won’t need to do anything but wait.”

“What do you want?” Vika repeated, her hand tightening on the handle of the blade.

“A wager.” Eris stood, her movements fluid as smoke. “If you win, they go free. All of them, even Erebos. Though he might have the Fates to reckon with.”

“And if you win?”

Eris’s smile was sharp as broken glass. “I get that pretty blade you’re carrying. And you. One century of service, little Kere. Think of all the discord we could sow together.”

Behind Eris, a forest materialized from shadow, twisted trees with thorns for leaves, paths that seemed to shift when Vika wasn’t looking directly at them. In the branches, she could see movement. Wings. Watching eyes.

“The game is simple,” Eris continued. “Your lovers will be placed on opposite sides of this little forest. All you have to do to win is escort one of them through safely to the other side. But the one you don’t choose?” She shrugged. “Well, the Sluagh get so hungry.”

Vika’s blood turned to ice. The same soul-hunting spirits that had been easy to contain near her shop would not be so easy to appease here, in their own element.

“That’s not a choice. That’s just picking who dies.”

“Exactly!” Eris clapped her hands together in delight. “Just like your old days, haunting battlefields. Choose who lives, who falls. Isn’t it delicious? You’ve spent all this time pretending to be something soft and human, but deep down, you’re still what you always were—a creature of endings. You think you’re better than us, but you’re not. You are one of us.”

Vika stared into the forest, watching the Sluagh slither between branches, driven by hunger.

“Do we have a deal?” Eris extended her hand.

Vika looked across the chasm one more time. Marcus had fallen to his knees, his song barely a whisper now.

“Yes.” Vika grasped Eris’s hand.

Eris was wrong. Vika wasn’t who she once was, and she wasn’t like Eris. She was better, and she would prove it. “But if I can get both of them through alive, I win everything. Elena, Marcus, and Erebos’s freedom.”

Eris’s eyebrows shot up. “And if you can’t?”

“Then you get what you asked for.” Vika’s grip tightened on Skiatomos.

“Deal.” Eris’s dark eyes sparkled.

Silence fell over them. Marcus stopped singing.

Eris twisted her hand, and the forest solidified around them, dark and hungry. Marcus and Elena were gone, presumably taken to opposing sides of the forest.

Vika spread her wings and stepped into the trees.

The moment her feet touched the shadow-soaked ground, Vika’s senses locked onto the scent of fear. She could sense where Marcus and Elena were because the scent of death hung heavy in the air. It made her mouth water in a familiar way that unsettled her.

It was stronger coming from the south end of the forest, and she knew instinctively that it was Marcus, that his magic had drained him. There was nothing he could do for Elena in that condition.

Vika jumped into the air and flew in the opposite direction until she caught a flash of white. Elena’s dress. The girl was stumbling through a grove of thorn bushes, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated. The shadows under her skin had spread further, creeping up her neck like dark veins.

Vika walked on, the trees whispering as the Sluagh in the branches shifted, their eyes tracking her.

Vika glided down to where Elena was turning in circles, lost. The Sluagh shrieked in recognition as she approached. Instead of her usual role as a scavenger of the dead, Vika dove between them and Elena like a shield. A protector.

“Mine,” she snarled at the Sluagh, and they scattered. Not because they feared her, but because they respected the ancient claim. Keres had first rights to the battlefield dead.

Elena looked up with glazed eyes, wide with fear, taking in Vika’s frightening presence. “Are you a demon?”

Vika frowned. “A demon? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Vika studied the shadow corruption inching across Elena’s face. It was worse up close. Elena’s humanity was being steadily consumed. The aurora thread at Vika’s wrist began to glow brighter.

Vika held out her hand. “Elena, I need you to take my hand and trust me. We need to find Marcus. He needs us.”

Elena stared at Vika’s outstretched hand and then flicked to her ragged wings with the brilliant end feathers. Head tilted, she repeated, “Marcus” like she was tasting the word, trying it out.

“Marcus,” Vika agreed.

A Sluagh screeched toward them, teeth bared, talons out. Vika lunged with the shadow blade and cut him out of the sky. He dropped and dissolved in a whirl of smoke.

The pull from the other side of the forest, where Marcus lay, surged.

“Come,” Vika said. “We don’t have much time.”

Vika’s mind raced. They needed to get to Marcus, but could she carry Elena? Souls were light. Mortals were not.

Vika wrapped her arm around Elena’s waist, testing her weight. Too heavy to fly with, especially through a forest of grasping branches. They’d have to go on foot.

“Stay close to me,” Vika instructed, pulling Elena close as another Sluagh dove from above. She swung Skiatomos in a wide arc, the blade singing as it cut through shadow and bone.

Elena’s grip tightened on Vika’s hand, her fingers ice-cold even through the fabric. They moved deeper into the forest, Vika cutting a path through thorny vines that seemed to deliberately block their way. The scent of Marcus’s fading life grew stronger, as did the Sluagh.

They watched from crooked branches above, their yellow eyes following as Vika and Elena moved through the forest. They were surrounded.

Elena froze before the first one dove. There was a keening whistle, thin and sharp. Then, they poured down shrieking with rage, their ragged wings beating like thunder. Vika dropped Elena’s hand and stepped in front of her, unfolding her wings to block the onslaught and palming the blade.

Vika spun, slashing through them, her movements sharp, brutal. The shadow blade sang through the air. Her arms burned, but she didn’t falter. The Kere inside her remembered what it was to dance through death.

Elena didn’t move. They kept coming. Vika moved through this new battlefield on instinct, blade flashing, slashing through necks, through wings, scattering them into mist. But it wasn’t enough. Not here.

Her chest heaved. The air was heavy with their stench, mildew, rot, the iron tang of graves left open. It sank into her lungs, into her blood. And something inside her stirred. Vika’s chest heaved. Instinct screamed at her to devour them.

Her tongue slid across her teeth, and to her horror, she found sharp points.

Someone laughed. Eris.

Vika nearly dropped the blade as she searched for Eris. She couldn’t see her, only hear her amused laughter.

Elena cried out. A Sluagh clung to her back. Its eyes locked with Vika’s and, just for an instant, she saw the fragment of humanity that lived behind the monster. Underneath their frightening forms, these creatures were the discarded.

The blade pulsed in her hand. Not a weapon, she thought suddenly. A door.

Vika lowered her stance and drew a long, deliberate cut through the air. Not striking at the Sluagh, but at the fabric that bound them.

The Shadow Cutter split the twilight realm itself. Wind howled through the opening.

The Sluagh shrieked, but this time longing, not fury, laced through their voices. They drifted toward the rift, unraveling into pale motes that streamed into the underworld light beyond.

One by one, they slipped free into the underworld.

The forest grew quiet, empty but for the whisper of leaves.

Vika sagged, lowering the blade. The rift sealed itself with a sigh, leaving only stillness. For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. And though Vika’s hands still trembled, she felt lighter as if, in freeing the Sluagh, she had loosened a chain inside herself as well.

Behind her, Elena’s voice shook. “They’re gone?”

“Yes,” Vika said.

From the shadows between the trees, Eris emerged. Her eyes blazed with fury. “You cheated. She gestured at the trees where the Sluagh once perched. “They were your feast. Your nature. Your joy. You let them go?” Her tone shifted, sharp as broken bone. “That’s not who you are.”

Vika’s jaw tightened. “It’s who I choose to be.”

She leaned close, lips near Vika’s ear. “The Fates are using you. I offer you something real. A return to power. To hunger. To yourself.”

Elena took a step forward, voice quivering but steady. “Stop it. My husband won’t let you hurt her. He will come for me.”

Vika’s attention swung to Elena, who she’d nearly forgotten in her argument with Eris. The words sunk in. Her husband. Elena was talking about Erebos, not Marcus.

The aurora thread around Vika’s wrist pulsed with warm light, reminding her why she was here.

Eris’s smile flickered, sharp and bright. “Careful, little mortal. Love is such a fragile shield.”

With a ripple of the air, Eris was gone.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please like/share/restack it.

In this season, Vika must un-shelve an ancient god-blade to help a lovelorn musician rescue his bride from the Underworld before she disappears into the shadows. To bring her home, Vika must trade her quiet bookshop for her Kere wings, bargain with the gods, and learn to trust her pack to help her step into who she once was without losing what she’s built.

This is episode 9 of 12. New episodes come out on Fridays.

Joining in the middle? You can find the first one here.

This place was like a hall of mirrors, but instead of mirrors, it was shadows and creepy plants.

Eyes followed Marcus in the dark, only to vanish when he spun around. He was so disoriented that he couldn’t remember which way he was going or where he’d come from. It looked the same in every direction, and Marcus was convinced the trees shifted around him.

The twilight realm was playing with him.

Marcus stumbled through another grove of twisted silver trees, their bark shimmering with an oily iridescence that made his stomach churn. The path behind him had vanished again; he was sure of it.

When he’d first arrived through the rift, he could see Elena clearly by the fountain. Now, after what felt like hours of walking, she was nowhere to be found.

“Elena!” His voice echoed strangely, coming back to him in fragments. “-lena... len... a...”

The thunderstorm light that filtered through everything made it impossible to judge distance or direction. Pearly white flowers glowed, their petals following his movement like hungry mouths. When he’d tried to touch one, it had snapped at his fingers with teeth hidden in its center.

Marcus pulled out his phone, hoping the flashlight might cut through some of the gloom, but the screen was dead.

Perfect.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, trying to stay calm. “Think, Marcus. Erebos wants something. He wouldn’t just trap you here for fun.”

But even as he said it, he wasn’t sure that was true.

He caught the sound of trickling water and rushed toward it. It had to be the fountain where he’d seen Elena. He burst through a curtain of hanging moss and found himself in a circular clearing.

And there she was.

“Elena.” Giddy with relief, he ran toward her.

She sat on the edge of a fountain carved from what looked like black marble, trailing her fingers through shimmering water that moved like liquid starlight. She hummed softly to herself, a melody Marcus didn’t recognize. Her wedding dress was gone, replaced by a sleeveless white gown, which made her look more like a priestess than a bride.

She looked up, her familiar brown eyes meeting his. Marcus reached out his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a stiff, polite tone. “Do I know you?”

His arms dropped. Her words sucked the air from his chest, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure his legs could support him.

“Elena, do you really not know me?” He leaned closer, meeting her eyes again. “I’m Marcus. Your Marcus. We were getting married.”

She tilted her head, studying him with the careful attention someone might give a half-remembered dream.

“Marcus...” The name seemed to roll around in her mouth like she was tasting it. “That sounds familiar. But I don’t... I can’t quite...”

Her fingers returned to the starlight water, and where it touched her skin, Marcus saw faint traces of shadow spreading like veins under her flesh. The sight made his throat close up.

“You put salt on watermelon and cheese on apple pie. When we first met, I made up ridiculous songs to get your attention and, by some miracle, it worked.”

Elena’s brow furrowed, and for a second, recognition flickered behind her eyes, but then her expression smoothed back to neutral. “I’m sorry. I—“

“Yes, you do, Elena. Think. You have to fight this.” He reached for her hands, desperate to think of something that would make her remember. Her fingers were cold as marble.

She pulled her hands away. “You should go. He usually comes around the changing of the light.”

As if summoned by her words, the twilight deepened to true darkness. The air grew thick, pressing against Marcus’s chest like a weight. When the shadows began to gather and take shape, Marcus’s magic stirred instinctively, recognizing a power far older and deeper than his own.

Erebos materialized not with the dramatic flourish Marcus had expected, but gradually, like a storm cloud forming. He was tall and lean, with silver-streaked black hair and eyes like a starless night. To Marcus’s surprise, he didn’t look malevolent. Erebos looked nervous.

“Where is she?” Erebos asked, looking around Marcus.

“Where is who?” Marcus countered. Was he looking for Vika?

“My wife,” Erebos said. “Eris said she would come. With my blade.”

Marcus looked down at his hands. He was so focused on Elena that he didn’t go back for the blade when he dropped it. Perhaps he should have.

Elena brightened, turning toward Erebos with the smile she used to save for Marcus. “He says he knows me,” she told Erebos. “But I don’t remember him.”

Something flickered across the god’s features before disappearing. Guilt? No. Annoyance. His voice was smooth. “Memory can be unreliable. Especially when it causes pain.”

“Give her back her memories,” Marcus demanded, fists clenched. His legs shook, but he forced himself to meet those ancient eyes. “She didn’t choose this.”

“Didn’t she?” Erebos moved to Elena’s side, placing a protective hand on her shoulder. “She was walking toward pain, toward loss, toward all the small deaths that mortal love brings. I offered her peace.”

“You offered her nothing!” The words exploded out of Marcus, powered by three days of grief and fear. “We were happy, and you stole it.”

“Happy.” Erebos spoke the word like it left a bitter taste. “What happiness is there in watching everything you love fade and die? In growing old, while your memories become all you have left?” His grip on Elena’s shoulder tightened. “Here she will never lose anything again.”

“You should give her back her memories and let her decide,” Marcus challenged.

Elena’s skin had that same oily iridescence as the tree bark. The shadows under her flesh had spread further up her arms. She was fading, becoming part of this place, and she didn’t even notice.

“She’s dying,” he realized. “You’re killing her by keeping her here.”

“She’s becoming something more.” But Erebos’s voice lacked conviction. “Something eternal.”

No.

Marcus’s chest tightened as his stomach dropped. Elena was right there, and he was failing. Why did he think he could go up against the god of darkness in his own house? He should have waited for Vika. Or his uncle. Or anybody.

Doubt and panic warred inside him. He took a deep breath and did what he always did to stop the noise in his head. He started humming and then grabbed onto the tail of the song that popped into his head. Doing so made his magic rise and take the shake out of his voice.

This wasn’t the desperate, chaotic music that had torn rifts in his world. It was different. Clearer. It was Sunday mornings with Elena, and off-key songs in the shower. It was ridiculous songs made up about Elena’s cat, late nights, and inside jokes.

Elena’s hand stilled in the starlight water. Her head turned toward him, confusion creasing her brow.

Marcus kept singing. As he poured his memories into the song, his magic wrapped around him like a shield.

Erebos stepped forward, shadows gathering around him like thunderclouds. “Stop.”

Marcus kept singing. He sang about their first date, when Elena had laughed so hard at his terrible joke that she’d snorted coffee through her nose. He sang about quiet evenings watching movies, about the way she hummed while cooking, about a thousand small moments that made up a life shared. And again about the songs she made up about her cat.

Elena’s eyes widened. The shadows under her skin began to recede, just slightly. “I... I remember coffee,” she whispered. “And Lord Fluffington.”

The cat, of course. “Yes, Elena. Remember.” As Marcus sang, his power surged. It coursed through him like lightning.

“Marcus?” Elena breathed.

“I will give you eternity.” Erebos held out his hand to Elena. “Peace and security. No pain.”

Elena looked between them, her expression torn. The shadows under her skin flickered like flames.

“Enough,” Erebos shouted. Shadows erupted from the ground and coiled up Marcus’s legs like snakes of ice.

His magic faltered as his breath hitched. His song faded, and he struggled to hold on to it. Shadows squeezed his chest. “I trust you, Elena,” he rasped. “To choose.”

Elena stood, the starlight water dripping from her fingers. She took a step toward Marcus. “You’re hurting him,” she said to Erebos.

Marcus poured everything he had into his voice, trying to remember what his uncle had taught him about their family legacy and Orpheus. Music exploded out of him, strong and clear. The shadow around his chest loosened, making him bold. He channeled all of his power into the song, and it was working.

The effort drained him. Though the shadows receded, like cold water sliding down his body, his limbs felt heavy, his head thick. He just had to push through. He swayed on his feet and his magic sputtered like the last of the ketchup in the bottle.

Erebos stepped forward, darkness gathering around him like a storm.

Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed it, please like/share/restack it.