Page 5 of The Daughters of Nyx

I wasn’t surprised when the darkness closed in around me, and the first creature made itself known.

2

IVY

THE dreams were getting more intense.

While the psychic’s tea seemed to be toning down the frequency of the nightmares, it was doing nothing about the darkness of them, or the intensity of the danger I felt while having them.

I’d started writing everything down in what Thea liked to call my ‘dream journal’, but it felt more like an anthology of stories that should probably never see the light of day. Vampires, shadow people, and a skull wearing a crown. It made me shudder even thinking about it.

“You didn’t scream once last night,” Thea said from the oven. She gave me one of her wicked winks over her shoulder

before reaching in with her hot pink oven mitt and pulling out a tray of steaming and delicious muffins. “I had a full night’s sleep.”

Strangely, so did I. “You can thank the tea, I think.”

It was a guess, but maybe the psychic’snegative energyandcursebullshit had some merit.

Not like I’d tell her that.

“Ah.” Thea turned and pulled out a second dish, some kind of loaf. “I think we should definitely be trying more herbal remedies. I think there’s a different little witchy shop downtown we can check out next. ThatMadame Sterlinggave me weird vibes. And she’s so expensive.”

I’d be forever grateful for my childhood best friend turned college roommate turned post grad roommate. Our two-bedroom apartment fit us snugly, and there was no one else I’d rather live with.

Thea pulled one final tray out of the oven and sat it on a wire-mesh cooling rack. Three silicon mats lined our granite countertops with three different baked goods sitting atop the racks.

I nodded to the sweet smelling foods as I pulled a stool out from under the counter and sat. “What’s the occasion?”

Thea shrugged. “No occasion. We had eggs and milk that needed to be used. And I felt like it.”

That meant she wouldn’t touch any of her new baking gear for two months. She worked at a restaurant. By tomorrow, she’ll never want to cook at home again. She’d be sick of the sight of food and feel guilty for not picking up a whisk.

“Please tell me we have enough milk for coffee.”

Thea smiled brightly and laughed. “Of course.”

I sighed. Thankgod. I jumped from the stool and made my way around the kitchen island to the fridge. The inside was almost bare, save for ketchup, oat milk, pesto, and a couple of take-out containers. There were two eggs left in the door, looking pretty sad.

When I pulled the milk out, I shook the contents. There was maybe enough for one cup. I spied the mug Thea had on the counter next to the stove. “How much have you already had?”

“Hmm?” She looked up from her muffins, smirked, and reached for the inappropriate mug I got her for Christmas last year. She held it up like she was making a toast, giving me full view of the text:I like my coffee how I like my men – tall, sweet, and fucking dirty.“At least two cups. Milk’s all yours, babe.”

I shook my head and smiled. “Great.”

We went through the motions of the morning routine; I made coffee while Thea reached for the freezer, where she pulled out two bagels that had probably been there since we moved in last June. As I tampered the coffee into one of the espresso handles, I listened as the gas stove ticked on and a pan was dropped on the flame.

“Do you think I can get away with taking a day off?” I asked glumly, watching the espresso drip into my mug.

Thea cut me a glare before rolling her eyes. “You could quit if you wanted to.”

I looked down at my phone, which had a strict calendar on the lock screen. So that every time I tried to spend hours doom scrolling or pinning, I could see that I had two book releases in three months and had yet to start editing either of them.

I sighed and shook my head, reaching for the metal steamer for the milk. I emptied the carton and threw it into the trash. “If I quit, I lose my rebound in case it doesn’t work out.”

“What do you mean?” Thea spooned softened butter into the hot pan; it sizzled as the steamer whistled in the milk. “You have a really good set up, Ivy. The books are selling. Yesterday you said you broke your pre-order record!”

Shrugging, I swirled the milk, watching bubbles pop and the foam turn silky. Three years as a barista in college taught me how to be a coffee snob, and I didn’t mind one bit. “I mean, I have a good thing going…”

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