We didn’t sleep. None of us even tried. The whole house buzzed like it had been hardwired into a goddamn power line. Every wall, every lightbulb, every breath hummed with tension.

  Elly had gone full warlock-librarian, seated cross-legged on the floor like a summoned chaos spirit. Her laptop was flanked by a battalion of empty energy drink cans. She was texting at least four contacts at once, muttering curses with each buzz and ping.

  “God, I hate gnome forums,” she grumbled, fingers flying across the keyboard. “If this guy sends me one more cursed emoji, I swear I’ll hex him through the net.”

  I didn’t even want to know what a cursed emoji looked like.

  Meanwhile, Euryale paced like a panther in a too-small cage. She didn’t speak unless prompted. Her phone screen lit up again and again, even though no new messages came. Each flicker reflected in her golden eyes, which were sharper than I’d ever seen them—ready to cut. Ready to burn. She looked like a fuse that had already been lit and was just waiting to hit the payload.

  And me?

  I handed out snacks. Water. Pop-Tarts. Tried not to hurl.

  I wasn’t useless—at least, I hoped not—but I didn’t have ancient powers or eldritch internet contacts. All I had was guilt and panic and a lingering copper taste in my mouth from where I’d bit my tongue sprinting halfway across town.

  But we were doing something. That mattered.

  With Elly’s network of underworld Alterkind contacts, we started piecing things together. Half her intel came from cryptid message boards and magical dark web wikis that used emoji ciphers, shapeshifter slang, and a weirdly high number of Shrek memes. The other half came from people she absolutely should not have had access to. Or owed serious favors to.

  Some of it even came from me—what Elly so affectionately called Daniel’s face-biting buddy list.

  “I didn’t make out with that guy for nothing,” I said, jabbing a finger at a grainy photo on Elly’s screen.

  Elly didn’t even look up. “You’re like the slutty CIA.”

  “Being a mouth-whore has to have some advantages,” I muttered.

  “I’m writing that on your tombstone.”

  “Great. Make sure it’s in Helvetica.”

  A few hours, a cursed coffee pot, and a seriously disturbing chat log with someone named YogurtFiend88 later, we had it narrowed down to two possible locations where the Eyes of Aether might be holding Lily.

  One was an abandoned industrial park near the canal. The other was a long-forgotten maintenance depot buried deep in a wooded area northwest of town—off the grid, barely marked on any map.

  Elly circled the first location with a sharpie on the back of an old pizza box. “Too exposed. Too much potential for normie traffic. If they’re holding someone volatile, they wouldn’t risk it.”

  She tapped the other. A rough triangle, scribbled in the middle of nowhere. “But this one? Remote. No cell reception for miles. Shielded from scrying. Surveillance dead zones. If they’re playing smart, they’re out there.”

  I stared at the screen, then looked at both of them. “I vote that one.”

  The sparkly creature in my pantry chittered agreement before attacking another box of breakfast pastries.

  They gave them beastie a quick glance, and then turned back to me, as if that were settled.

  “I’ll take point,” I said, and yeah, my voice cracked. Just a little.

  Euryale tilted her head. “You sure about that?”

  “No,” I said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

  “That’s hot,” she said, already moving toward the door. “I like it. Gear up.”

  “But listen,” I said, raising a hand like a middle schooler with a war plan. “We call in backup. Real backup. Everyone. Tell SilentWatcher I’m cashing that rain check. Tell Reeva the Rat Queen to bring her Bitey Boys. Call my honeys. All of them. If I’ve kissed someone who can swing a blade, cast a curse, or distract a security system, I want them on speed dial.”

  Elly blinked. “That’s a lot of people.”

  “I’ve lived a weird life,” I said, grabbing my bag, “and I still don’t have mouth herpes.”

  “Secrecy is out the window then.”

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  I nodded. “I’d rather have more friends than be shifty about it. It’s not like we’re sitting on this plan for days anyway. It’s now or nothing.”

  “Can we call that one a miracle?” she asked.

  “I already did,” I said. “Just don’t count on it.”

  Euryale pulled her coat from the hook and slung it over her shoulders. Her voice was calm, cold, calculated. “We’re walking into a trap.”

  “Yeah,” I said, pulling open the weapons trunk I wasn’t technically supposed to know about. “Let’s blow it up anyway.”

  I looked at them—my team, my terrifying roommates, my chaotic maybe-girlfriends, my war council.

  “Lily’s counting on us.”

  And this time?

  No one was going to take her from me.

  I laced up my most sensible shoes.

  These were not the ones with the hole in the sole, not the canvas ones that made me look like I vaped recreationally and thought kombucha was a personality. No, these were the sturdy ones—the ones with real arch support, actual tread, and just enough wear to let me know they could handle sprinting, sudden direction changes, and curb stomping, if it came to that. I’d walked away from one supernatural brawl in these before. Hopefully, they’d see me through this one, too.

  I also filled a chapstick holster.

  Yes, I had a chapstick holster. Don’t ask. My lips dry out when I’m nervous. You want a war plan? Great. But I’m not leading a rescue mission with cracked lips. Judge me after the revenge.

  Next came the hoodie. Not the one with the pizza stain from the night I fell asleep holding a Hot Pocket. The hoodie. The one I wore the night everything went sideways. It wasn’t armored or enchanted or anything out of a post-apocalyptic playbook. It was just an old cotton thing, soft from years of use, sleeves worn down at the cuffs, hood stitched clumsily by hand. Elly had added a secret pocket to the lining—a little blade slot stitched with dental floss and spite—and inside it still sat the tiny ward Eury had slipped in months ago when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

  I didn’t know what it did. Still didn’t want to ask. I just knew that ever since it went in, bad things had been a little slower to catch up.

  Across the room, Elly was laying out gear on the kitchen table with the solemn efficiency of someone dismembering a dollhouse. Her hands moved fast, methodical.

  Knives. So many knives.

  There was a boot sheath knife, one clipped at her waistband, one thin folding one she called "Shankles," and another that was bright pink with a sparkly hilt and a blade so serrated it looked like a horror prop. That one had “come and get it” scrawled on the steel in permanent marker. I was pretty sure it had tasted demon blood.

  Her crossbody bag looked more like a portable apocalypse. Inside: a mini flashlight, zip ties, pepper spray, protein bar, breath mints, a backup phone battery, lock picks, a roll of duct tape, and a handful of Ziplock bags I refused to ask about. There was also a five-pack of mint gum and an extra charger in case she got bored mid-fight and wanted to play Candy Crush.

  She was already chewing. Her jaw flexed with calm, rhythmic rage.

  Eury didn’t need gear.

  Eury stepped into the room dressed like a hitwoman who moonlighted as a hedge fund executive. Dark slacks. Crisp white blouse. Low-heeled ankle boots that clicked across the floor like punctuation marks on a death threat. Her sunglasses were prescription, but they didn’t just block the sun—they broadcast domination. She looked like she was ready to sue your family into extinction and bury you in paperwork after she kicked your ass.

  She adjusted her cuffs and said, “We ready?” like we were going to a brunch reservation instead of declaring war.

  I gave her a once-over. “Aren’t you worried about getting blood on that shirt?”

  She smiled. Not a warm smile. A knife-in-your-back smile. “That’s why I picked white.”

  Then she cracked her knuckles like the opening notes to a very unpleasant song.

  Elly tossed her a blade—small, wicked, spring-loaded.

  Euryale caught it midair without looking, then slid it into a hidden fold in her purse with the smoothness of someone who’d mugged gods and never once scuffed her manicure.

  And that was us: three flavors of barely functional disaster, dressed for violence and very light snacking.

  I zipped up my hoodie, took one last swig of the radioactive neon-green energy drink Elly insisted I finish (my taste buds still haven’t forgiven me), and nodded once.

  “Let’s ruin someone’s afternoon.”

  I pulled the door shut behind me, heart pounding.

  We weren’t just going after Lily.

  We were about to make a statement.

  Whoever had touched her? Hurt her? Taken her?

  They were about to learn what happened when you picked a fight with someone who had nothing left to lose.

  And friends who really needed to blow off some steam.

  The car was small. Too small. Painted a cheerful sky blue, with a “Support Your Local Chaos Witch” bumper sticker and a faint smell of lavender air freshener mixed with something vaguely metallic—like dried blood and glitter glue.

  “This is your ride?” Euryale asked flatly, eyeing the compact hatchback like it had personally insulted her lineage.

  “Thirty-eight miles per gallon,” Elly replied, popping the trunk and tossing her bag of assorted doom inside. “Also? The seats fold down. You can fit at least three bodies back there if you stack ‘em right.” She cleared her throat. ”Not that I’ve ever tried.”

  Eury gave the car a long look and declared, “I think it’s cute. Like a murder Prius.”

  “Justice doesn’t care about wheelbase,” Elly said, slapping the roof with unearned confidence.

  “Tiny car for a revenge mission,” I muttered as I carefully folded myself into the backseat, knees brushing Elly’s gear bag. I felt a tickle of magic even through the canvas of the bag.

  “We’re compact,” Elly shot back, adjusting her mirrors with purpose. “Efficient. Like vengeance with cruise control.”

  Euryale slid into the front passenger seat with all the grace of a queen boarding a rowboat. She folded her coat across her lap like she was heading to a PTA meeting rather than a supernatural rescue op.

  The car purred to life. Or tried to. The engine coughed once—Elly thumped the dash—and then it caught, humming like a bee with purpose.

  We pulled away from the curb.

  No music. No chatter. Just the hum of tires on pavement and the occasional jangle of cursed hardware in Elly’s bag every time we hit a bump.

  Outside, trees blurred past in streaks of green and shadow. The world narrowed to lines and motion.

  My hand found its way to the charm in my hoodie pocket. I still didn’t know what it did. I just knew it was warm. Familiar.

  Maybe Lily had slipped it in, once. Maybe Eury. Maybe it had always been there, waiting for a night like this.

  Tonight, I needed everything.

  Power. Focus. Friends.

  The car may have been small.

  But the war we were driving toward?

  That was not.