That card practically crackled in Elara's grip—like it had a pulse or was trying to Morse code her straight into a migraine. Or maybe she was just losing her mind. Honestly, could go either way these days. Scribbled on the front: "The truth awaits where shadows dance and destinies converge." Oh, fantastic. Nothing says "sleep tight" quite like a cryptic death threat wrapped in fortune-cookie wisdom. If this wasn't Isabella Rossi's brand of theatrical nonsense, Elara would eat her own boots—laces and all. And the messenger? Guy reeked of sandalwood and that coppery, sharp tang of blood. Like he'd just rolled through a perfume counter during a crime scene. Totally Isabella. Expensive, witchy, and the human version of a warning label. Yeah, no thanks.
"She's playing you," Mira grumbled, side-eyeing the card like it might sprout fangs. "Isabella's not just after secrets, Elara. She wants everything you've got—and then some."
Elara eyed the details. Some bougie art gallery, all glass and egos, with champagne flutes and security goons. Of course it was in that part of town—land of $800 handbags and sculptures that look like someone's recycling exploded. Midnight, obviously. Because why not make it extra creepy? Every cell in Elara's body screamed nope, nope, set-it-on-fire. Burn the card, block Isabella, fake your own death. But then there was that itch—curiosity, desperation, who knows. After her dad's disaster, Damien's little curse, her title as Queen of Magical Dumpster Fires… She wasn't about to run. Isabella was dangling answers, and Elara? She was starving for them.
"I'm going," she blurted. Weird, her voice actually sounded solid. "Done hiding. If Isabella's got dirt on Project Elara or my dad's legacy, I want the whole messy truth."
Mira groaned, deep and dramatic, like someone had just told her the WiFi was out forever. "Yeah, there's that family stubbornness. But you're not waltzing in unarmed."
Cue Mira's version of a pep talk: black hoodie, combat boots, nothing that'd get snagged climbing a fence. She slathered something on Elara's wrists and neck—smelled like compost and regret. Nightshade and yarrow, apparently. "You'll stink, but at least the mages won't sniff you out," Mira muttered, moving fast. Magic deodorant, temporary, don't get cocky. Then out came a tiny bone charm, dense and cold. "Break this if someone tries psychic tricks. One shot, so don't screw it up." Mira's eyes handled the rest: Please, for once, don't be a disaster.
Elara caught it then—the worry bleeding through Mira's tough-kid act. This wasn't some random midnight errand. This was striding right into the viper's nest, armor off. But Elara just… felt different. Not the same scared little puppet everyone yanked around. Nah, she was angry now, and so over playing the victim.
Night crashed down, purple-bruised and gritty, city lights twitching on the horizon. Mira walked her to the edge of the apiary, bees buzzing like, "Yeah, whatever, humans and your drama."
"Don't do anything dumb, Elara," Mira whispered, voice all cracked granite and worry. "Isabella's poison. She'll smile and gut you. Don't trust easy answers. Keep your head. Breathe. And if you have to, burn it all down."
No pressure, right?
Elara didn't say a word—just nodded, heart going nuts in her chest. Honestly, she half-expected Mira to call her out on it, the way she was hanging on for dear life. Mira smelled like old herbs and that kind of crackling, musty magic you'd find in some witch's garden shed. Comforting in a weird, sneezy kind of way. "I will," she whispered, even though—let's be real—like she actually had a choice.
She wasn't about to risk an app taxi. No way in hell was she leaving an Uber trail for any revenge-happy creeper to follow. Instead, she waved down this beat-up yellow cab with a door that sounded like it needed a tetanus shot. The city just swallowed her up as soon as she slammed the door. Flashing neon all over her face, painting weird ghost shapes on the window. Street vendors hollering, horns going off like someone sat on a keyboard, music thumping from a club that clearly didn't care about noise ordinances. Typical Tuesday, except everything felt cranked up to eleven—like someone peeled a film off her senses and now everything was just... more.
Then it hit her—that weird, half-burnt smell, all ozone and sweetness, like licking a battery. Magic, worming its way through the alleys. She could practically feel it buzzing under her skin, cold and sharp, like a warning shot straight to her nerves. Glanced out the window—yep, someone was lurking in the shadows, oozing more bad juju than a cursed lottery ticket. Whatever hex they cooked up fizzled out fast, but it left the air prickly. The city wasn't some neutral backdrop anymore. It was alive. Hungry. And she was tangled in the wires. Normal? Hah. Not a chance. Safe? Sure, and pigs do parkour.
She made the cabbie drop her a block early—just in case. Paranoia, but the useful kind. The brownstone looked like it lost a bet with a fairy tale: all tangled ivy and moody bricks, awkwardly wedged between a couple of skyscrapers trying way too hard to be shiny. The windows looked about as friendly as a mugshot. Brass sign up top: Galerie Umbra. Latin for "shadow." Yeah, subtle as a brick through a window.
Her bone charm thudded in her palm, warm and jittery, which was honestly not helping. She took a breath—more like a gulp, nerves chewing holes in her gut—and shoved through the door.
Inside? Cold enough to make her wish for a sweater. Smelled like old library books, furniture polish, and metal—like storm air, right before lightning hits. The art on display? Stuff out of nightmares. Shadows frozen in blocks of resin, twisted iron that almost looked like it was breathing if you caught it out the corner of your eye, pitch-black canvases that seemed to move when you blinked. Not exactly the stuff you'd hang over a breakfast nook. Everything here whispered about pain, old blood, and things best left in the dark.
And there she was. Dead center, soaking up the spotlight. Isabella Rossi. Last time Elara saw her, the woman was all power suit and business. Now? She was wearing a dress that looked like midnight itself, hair up in some impossible knot, regal and lethal all at once. Lips painted that "call-the-coroner" red, eyes sharp enough to slice you open and not blink.
"Elara Jones," Isabella drawled, voice all silken threat. "So glad you braved the lioness's den."
Yeah, well. In for a penny, in for a pounding.
Elara froze—six feet away, easy. Not a single step closer than absolutely necessary. Her hand? Death-grip on the bone charm in her pocket, squeezing so hard her knuckles ached. "I'm not just wandering in here for fun, Ms. Rossi. I want answers. Project Elara. My dad. Damien Sterling's curse. All of it."
Isabella's mouth curved into that slow, predator-smile, like she'd already read the last page of the book and was just waiting for everyone else to catch up. "Straight to the point. That's refreshing. Your dad? Never managed that. Always sidestepping, always hiding. Kind of pathetic, honestly."
Well, that stung. Elara stiffened, heat flashing through her. "Don't talk about my father like that."
Isabella didn't even blink. Just kept smirking. "Touchy, touchy. But hey, you barged in for the truth, right, little bee? And the truth bites. Fine. Let's cut the crap." She snapped her fingers at these ridiculous, plush velvet chairs—blood-red, like a vampire's living room. Theatrics for days. "Sit."
Elara hesitated, just for a second, then forced herself to saunter over, chin up, fake confidence dialed to eleven. She dropped into the furthest chair, muscles coiled tight. The whole room fizzed with some buzzing energy, her nerves on red alert. Isabella looked like she was just chilling, but Elara could feel the danger coming off her in waves.
Isabella slid into the other chair, all effortless grace and sharp edges. Gave Elara this look—half curiosity, half hungry. "Project Elara started before anyone even thought about you being born. It was a failsafe, right? The old families needed a backup plan in case things went sideways. The Sterling curse? Time bomb. Eats whoever's got it, and if it blows, nobody in the blast radius walks away."
Elara leaned forward, voice tight as a wire. "My dad. Where does he fit?"
"Your father," Isabella purred—syrup and poison—"owed the Sterlings. Not just cash. Your family's got rare magic. Healing, life, all that stuff the curse despises. You're the antidote and the nuke, depending how you're used."
Elara's stomach dropped. "He traded me." She could barely get it out—felt like the words scraped her throat raw.
Isabella's eyes sparkled, eating up the drama. "Don't be so melodramatic. He saved you, kid. He knew Damien's deal, knew the curse would come calling. So he made a deal: his life, your temporary services. Figured you'd be safe, kept in the dark. He guessed wrong."
"And you?" Elara snapped. "What's your play in all this?"
That grin went full shark. "Damien and I go way back. He humiliated me. My family should've had everything, but he took off—left us in the dust. I want payback. And he's cursed, so, I mean, poetic justice, right?"
"So I'm just your tool to get to him," Elara said. And yeah, suddenly the whole thing made sense.
"Gorgeous weapon, aren't you?" Isabella gave her a look that made Elara's skin crawl. "You could save him. Or destroy him. And I know which I'd pick."
The air practically crackled. Like a thunderstorm about to break, right there in Isabella's chest. Whatever mask she'd worn? Gone. She was just another player, ready to use Elara's magic for her own revenge trip.
"And Henry Carter?" Elara shot, voice like ice. "He on your team?"
Isabella actually rolled her eyes—full dramatic sigh. "Henry? Please. The guy's a joke. Thinks he's clever, but he's so far out of his depth it's hilarious. He wants to parade you in front of the council, use you as his ace against Damien. He's about to get roasted."
Oh, Elara was mad. Not just annoyed—like, straight-up about-to-punch-someone's-lights-out furious. The kind of angry where your skin feels too tight and the room shrinks around you. Everyone in there? Basically just treating her like a prop in their little drama. Damien? Snake. Isabella? Snake with lipstick. Henry? Who even knows, but definitely not on her side. They all had their own games, and Elara was just supposed to roll over and be their favorite little pawn.
And her magic—God, it was practically vibrating, itching to break free, maybe toss someone out a window for good measure.
So, Isabella slinks closer, oozing that "I could ruin your life and you'd thank me" energy. The woman's like a Bond villain with better shoes. She's all, "You and me, Elara, we're the real deal. Let's not patch up Sterling, let's tear him down and feast on the ashes. You want power? Revenge? Grab it, babe. You earned it, after what he did to you. And your dad."
Honestly? Hard not to want it. Temptation came wrapped in silk, grinning with blood on its teeth. Elara could taste the promise, electric and dangerous. Except… Isabella's eyes were dead. Shark eyes. Nobody home except ambition and ice. This wasn't freedom—just a trade-up for a fancier prison.
Then Isabella reaches out, those nails like tiny daggers. Magic slides between them, slick and cold, whispering in Elara's head: Come on, say yes. You know you want to.
And bam—her bone charm, the one tucked in her pocket? Suddenly it's a live wire, burning hot, almost jumping out of her hand. She clutches it tight, the edges digging in. Isabella's spell? It's all over her, velvet and iron, trying to wrap her up and pull her under.
Nah. Not happening. Elara grabs that stubborn, scrappy part of herself—the spark Mira always said was her best weapon—and fights back. She thinks of her dad, before everything went sideways, and lets that light inside her flare. Isabella's grip cracks, starts to peel away.
Then—pop! The charm blows up in her fist. Magic everywhere. Isabella just gapes for a second, mask slipping, looking about ready to bite someone's face off.
"You… broke it," she snaps, voice suddenly sharp as glass. "Jones bloodline—didn't think you had it in you."
Elara? She doesn't flinch. She stands up, charm shards biting into her skin, power humming in her blood. Isabella's leash? Snapped. Game over. Elara's done being the pawn. She's ready to flip the board.
"I'm not your pawn, Ms. Rossi," Elara snapped, her voice slicing through the room. Yeah, it trembled a bit, but screw it—she wasn't about to shrink back. Something wild fizzed under her skin, like a live wire just itching for a fight. "Not yours. Not Sterling's. I'll find out the truth myself, alright? I make my own damn road."
Isabella stood up slow—seriously, sloooow—stretching out like she had all the time in the world, eyes all sharp and cold and not even bothering with her usual fake-nice routine. The energy in the room got weird. Before, it was all soft and seductive, now it was all claws and fangs, smiles hiding daggers. "Spirited," she drawled, but her eyes? Pure 'what a dumbass.' "Adorable. But, hey, let's not kid ourselves. That attitude? It'll get you dead fast. You're a loose end, Elara. I don't leave those lying around."
Suddenly, the air felt thick, like somebody had turned the gravity up or sucked half the oxygen out. Even the art on the walls seemed to twitch, soaking up Isabella's nasty voodoo. Elara's heart was going nuts—yeah, maybe she'd poked the viper a little too hard. Refusing to play nice with a psycho? Apparently, that came with consequences. And the snake? For sure about to sink its fangs in.
Then the freaking building shuddered. The spotlights glitched, flickering like a busted horror movie, plunging everything into black for a blink, and then—bam—they snapped back, but everything looked off, shadows writhing like something alive. And that sound. Holy hell, that sound. Not just loud, but deep, rattling her bones. Elara's stomach dropped. She knew that noise. Straight out of her nightmare. Damien.
Isabella whipped her head toward the commotion, her oh-so-perfect mask finally slipping. She looked seriously pissed. "Oh, for—he's here," she growled, pure venom. "The egomaniac couldn't keep his shit together."
Elara didn't wait for a second chance. She bolted, weaving through sculptures that looked even creepier in the warped light, wind slapping her in the face (was that her magic, or Damien's? Who even cared at this point). Isabella's voice chased her, all fury and desperation, and then—yep—someone's boots thundered after her. Great choices: hang around for Isabella's psycho games, or run headfirst into Damien, who was basically chaos in human form. Whatever. No time to think. Elara just ran, heart going double-time, every shadow in the gallery suddenly way too interested in her. Whatever was coming, she was right on the edge—one wrong step and she'd be gone.