Page 57 of Avidian
I head to the bedroom to change into my pajamas, moving quickly so he doesn’t think he’ll need to help with that later. Not that I’d let him, but still. The thought makes my cheeks warm.
Once I’m dressed, I start pacing the room, my nerves building. It’s been a while since I’ve done this, and no matter how many times I project, the anxiety always lingers. There’s something about willingly stepping into the veil—a world that feels as if it’s constantly shifting, always watching—that makes my stomach twist.
For a brief second, I wish Bash were here. Maybe he really could experiment on me, figure out a way to make me stronger, more resilient. Maybe even take away the exhaustion afterward.
Malachi knocks lightly on the door. “Are you going to do it in the bedroom? Or does it not matter where you are?” he asks, and I pull the door open and walk out. “You don’t care if the ghosts see you in tiny pink pajamas?”
I roll my eyes. “It doesn’t matter where I am or what I’m wearing. I figured I’d try in here since it’s closer to the bed.”
He moves to one of the leather chairs at the foot of the bed and takes a seat, stretching out like he plans to settle in for the show. His attention is fully on me, making the whole situation even more awkward. Great. Last thing I need is an audience.
“You look nervous,” he says, his brows pulling together. “Is this dangerous? Maybe you shouldn’t do it.”
I force a smile, though my nerves are real. “I’ll be fine. But whatever you do, don’t interrupt me. I won’t be able to respond until I’m done.”
He rubs his chin thoughtfully, the faint shadow of stubble making him look more serious. “I won’t interrupt, but I’m here if anything goes wrong.”
Nothing’s going to go wrong.
But his concern doesn’t help the knot forming in my stomach. Taking a deep breath, I nod and step toward the bed. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
I cross my arms over my chest, close my eyes, and take a few steadying breaths. Malachi, thankfully, remains silent. I try to pretend he’s not sitting there, probably staring at me like a hawk. The thought almost breaks my concentration, but I refocus, imagining the veil—the thin, intangible wall between space and time.
I force my mind through it.
When I open my eyes, the world has shifted. The room is dim and shadowy, like all the color and warmth have been sucked out of it. I glance back and see my body still seated on the bed, arms crossed, chest rising and falling slowly as if I were simply meditating. Malachi sits in the chair, his posture tense, eyes locked on me—or rather on my physical body. His intensity hasn’t changed, and seeing him like that, unaware of my presence, is both unsettling and grounding.
The temperature plummets suddenly, the air turning icy and thin, and I shiver. A soundless vibration ripples through the space, a low hum I feel more than hear. Then the room begins to change around me, the walls stretching, melting, twisting like ink spreading across water. I know I’ve crossed over.
The veil has opened.
Chapter Eighteen
RULE 18 OF THE NEW ORDER: THE VEIL BETWEEN WORLDS IS THINNER THAN YOU THINK. STEP LIGHTLY, OR YOU MAY FALL THROUGH.
“Alright,Damien, you like to play games. I’m here now—come play with me.” My voice echoes into the abyss, taunting him because I know he won’t be able to resist.
The darkness around me feels alive, almost tangible, and when I glance back, I see Malachi’s bedroom glowing faintly in the void, like a beacon of warmth in a cold, forsaken world. It’s strange—like peering through a foggy window at another life. I can still see us there, Malachi watching over my lifeless body, his expression unreadable.
But out here, in the veil, everything is different.
I turn away, facing the expanse of what has melded from darkness into what looks like the forest outside Viktor’s compound. The snow-covered ground and skeletal trees are familiar but twisted. The snow doesn’t crunch beneath my feet. It’s eerily silent, and when I reach out to touch a tree, my hand sinks into its bark—it feels warm, slimy, and wrong, as if the tree is breathing.
When I project, the world bends to the will of the spirit I’m calling. It’s always unpredictable, always unsteady, and now I know either Damien or Carmen has brought me here. The question is who.
A breeze stirs, light but unnatural, carrying a faint whistle that snakes through the trees. It whispers, “Here, Kitty Kat.” I roll my eyes. Of course.
“Don’t you think it would be better if you showed yourself, Damien? We could talk face-to-face, save us both some time,” I say, crossing my arms as I scan the shadows.
The air shifts. The sensation of being watched creeps down my spine, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. My breath hitches as I catch something in the distance—a figure, dark and jagged, peeking out from behind a tree. Or maybe it’s the tree itself. No. It moves, slipping out of sight before I can focus.
“What’s the matter?” I call out. “Are you afraid of me?”
Then, all at once, his voice is there. Too close. Right against my ear, soft but sharp enough to cut. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
I whip around, stumbling back as my heart races. Damien stands there, grinning, his dark eyes gleaming with something too sinister to be amusement.
“Miss me?” His voice drips with mockery, and his form glitches, like static on a broken screen. One moment he’s whole, the next he flickers, jagged edges melting into shadows before snapping back together. His body doesn’t move like it should—too fluid, too unnatural.
