Page 23 of Avidian
Grief has a funny way of sneaking up at the damndest times. You’re fine for days, weeks, months even, and then it hits you—like a freight train, a sucker punch to the gut. One moment, you’re coasting, even daring to smile at some memory of what you’ve lost. And then the next, it’s like the world shifts, and your chest feels hollow, like your heart’s been ripped out all over again.
I try not to think about my parents. About Cade. Memories of them creep in sometimes, and on good days I can handle it—a flash of their smiles, a laugh echoing in my mind. But the risk of those memories cutting deeper is always there. It’s crazy how you can go from being fine to drowning in seconds.
I figure if I can speak to the dead, I should be the last person suffering from grief this way. But here’s the thing. I can’t speak to them.
I won’t.
I’m a coward when it comes to my family. Too afraid to see their faces again. Too afraid to see Cade. What if they’re angry? What if they’re disappointed? What if they’re at peace and I can’t bear to let them go? I miss Cade so much that sometimes it feels like I’ll never feel happiness again.
But I can’t risk that kind of pain. The best way to survive is to bury it. To seal it off somewhere deep and dark and never let it surface.
I tell myself they’re happy, that they’ve moved on to whatever peace the afterlife offers. That’s it. End of story. I won’t entertain anything more. Because if I did—if I let that grief sink its claws into me—I’m not sure I’d survive it.
“Are you deaf, or did I strike a nerve?” Viktor says, jolting me back to reality.
He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction.
“I do not use my gift for personal matters,” I say flatly as I feel the weight of his words pressing down on me.
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of amusement or maybe triumph—that makes my blood boil. Why the fuck did he summon me here for this? Of all the things to ask me, this is what he chooses? To dig at a wound I’ve spent years trying to keep closed? Why does he even know about my family?
I swallow hard, shoving the grief back where it belongs. Deep, buried, untouchable. It will not seize me today. Goddamnit, it won’t.
“I was told there was a boy in the car with you that day too. You didn’t only ruin your family’s life in that accident—you ruined his as well,” Viktor says.
I give him a cold look.
This man may be cruel, but I’ll be damned if I let him see me break.
“With all due respect, sir, you’re a very busy man,” I say patronizingly. “I’d hate to waste your time with a decade-old story about a car accident. Is there something I can help you with today?”
I force a smile but know it’s a poor imitation of one. I barely know this man, and yet I already despise him.
Across the room, Anton shifts by the door, his presence a quiet reminder that I’m not the one in control here.
“You can leave us, Anton,” Viktor says, his focus entirely on me. The sound of the door clicking shut confirms Anton’s departure, but it doesn’t ease the tension in the room.
Viktor leans forward slightly, his broad, looming presence making the polished desk between us seem to disappear. “My brother has been treating you far too kindly, allowing you to walk around with a mouth like that,” he says, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the desk.
I say nothing, keeping my expression impassive.
He purses his lips. “Anton tells me you’re no closer to solving my son’s murder. But he’s also told me you’ve been speaking behind closed doors. When you’re alone. In the room where it happened.”
Apparently not all the rooms are soundproof.
“It seems your son doesn’t want me to find his killer. He’d rather make a game out of it,” I say matter-of-factly.
Viktor cackles, the sound sharp and hollow as he leans back in his chair. “I’d think you were lying, but that does sound like Damien. The boy always did have a flair for theatrics.” Hisamusement fades quickly, replaced by his usual icy demeanor. “Still, no matter what trouble he gives you, I expect results. Marco assured me you would procure the killer in due time.”
I nod once. “I will.”
He studies me for a moment then sits up straighter, rigid and commanding. “Very well. I asked you here for another reason. Tomorrow evening, I am hosting a party to celebrate my brother’s visit, and I want to make sure you are in attendance—and dressed appropriately.”
His gaze flicks over me, a flicker of distaste crossing his face, as if my current outfit is an affront to his sensibilities. I resist the urge to roll my eyes. What does he expect me to do, solve his son’s murder in ballgowns?
“I do not normally interact so openly with an Avid,” he continues, “but my brother has an attachment to you, and I would like you present. However, let me make one thing very clear. No matter what my brother says, I do not want my guests knowing what you are or what you can do. Keep it to yourself. Do you understand?”
His eyes narrow slightly, and I nod, already regretting every part of this conversation. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
