Page 95 of Nocturne

Ivy’s shoulders slump as she gazes down at her hands, the weight of her turmoil evident in her posture. I can almost feel the guilt radiating from her, a palpable tension that hangs in the air. I know that the moment these men step out of the house, she’ll break down, apologising for things she doesn’t need to. I can see it already in her tear-filled eyes as she turns to me, biting the inside of her cheek, trying to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

I hug her close, telling her to shut up. Does she not realise yet that I’d stand by her side no matter the danger? That I’d face any threat with her, knowing full well the risks we’re taking? Stupid woman.

“Never apologise for doing the right thing, Ives.”

She sniffs into my neck, her hands gripping my shirt tightly. I can feel her distress, the weight of her guilt for not being able to bring justice to the people she writes about. I know she blames herself for not doing anything about their suffering, and it pains me to see her like this. It’s going to take time—so much reasoning and reassurance—to pull her out of this darkness.

“But it is a start,”

Ivy peeks at Iblis, her head still buried in my neck, and I follow her gaze, narrowing my eyes at him with suspicion. I can sense Ivy’s hope hanging in the air, fragile and tentative, as she clings to the possibility that he might somehow help us. But I’m not so easily convinced.

“Really?” Her voice is soft, too trusting.

Iblis gives Ivy a small smile, one that almost seems genuine. Almost. But his eyes betray the facade, remaining icy cold and distant, just like the rude git in the shipping container. There’s a chill in his expression that makes it hard for me to trust him, despite the warmth he tries to project.

“I can, at most, halt the experimentation in Walius. I can’t promise you that I can shut it down completely, Ms. O’Shea. I’m afraid I don’t hold that kind of power.”

Why don’t I believe him? When his sneaky eyes dart to me for a brief second before returning to Ivy, I sense he has a hidden agenda—something that won’t bode well for me. Eero suddenly becomes engrossed in the bookshelf he assembled, turning his back to me, as if trying to avoid looking at me.

“Who does?” Ivy asks slowly.

“The boss does.”

Ivy deflates, and I can feel the life force within her dwindling along with her hope. I might be a selfish witch who only cares about myself and my family, but Ivy genuinely cares for every person she can help. Iblis sees that vulnerability, and he is exploiting it.

“Fat chance he might help me.” She grumbles.

“Not you. But he will be interested in anything Dr Sinclair has to say.”

There it is. The first nail in my coffin. I see Eero turn back to us with an impassive face that I think he replicates from his boss.

“I agree,” he nods.

I’m surrounded by traitors. Expect, of course, Ivy and Cas. I can see the smirk in Iblis’s eyes, but he maintains the facade of care on his face. Can Ivy not see it?

I look down at Ivy, seeing the painful dilemma etched on her face. She wants to make it stop, but she won’t ask me to approach him. She knows me too well—my fears, my past. Just as I know her.

She’s been there for me through thick and thin, holding me up on days when I felt unworthy, and guiding me through my darkest moments. She chooses to stand by my side despite all the chaos. She’s a wonderful aunt to Cas, and I know she will always be there for him. She’s even a good friend to Iyra, and I can see the bond they share, close and unwavering in its own way.

“Fine,”

Ivy looks up at me in unveiled surprise as she gets up to sit straight.

“Are you sure?”

I nod.

I’m not heartless. It’s just that, I’m scared. I’m a coward who is resilient in survival.

I weep for what they’re doing to the people in the name of experiments. The scientist inside me revolts against the idea of exploiting the love of my life—science—in such a horrific way. If there’s a way I can put a stop to it without putting myself at risk, I will do it.

Even if it means facing the devil himself.

Twenty-Six

Zagan

It feels strange to sit in a chair that isn’t specifically made for me. It’s a bit tight, but the sweetness of hibiscus and vanilla seeping through the materials makes me stay put as I enjoy my private show. My fingers itch for what feels like a hundredth time to fish out a cigarette and inhale the warm smoke into my lungs, but I resist because that would mean wiping out the sweetness and the taste that is specifically Ara.

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