Page 79 of Avidian
Orin grouses, “Come on, Auntie, don’t be shy. Wouldn’t it be nice to hear from Jamie again? Or maybe you’re afraid of what he’d have to say.” His smile widens as he leans forward, and the room feels colder, the air heavier.
“I said no, Orin,” Irina yells, her voice like steel now. Her hand tightens slightly on her wine glass, and I can tell she’s barely holding herself back.
I clench my hands under the table, willing myself to stay calm, though everything inside me screams to tell him off. The tension between them feels like a lit fuse, and I can’t help but wonder how far Orin is willing to push tonight.
“Come on, Kat, give us a taste.” Orin says, turning to face me fully now in his chair.
“You know I can’t without knowing what he looks like,” I say, hoping he can’t procure anything.
Orin’s chair scrapes loudly against the floor as he stands, his hand clamping into my hair before I have a chance to react. Pain radiates across my scalp as he pulls me up and forces me forward. I stumble, catching my balance, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
“Goddamn it, Orin, not in my house!” Irina gets to her feet, her hands braced on the table, her expression thunderous. “I won’t tolerate this behavior.”
Orin doesn’t even glance at her. His grip tightens as he drags me out of the room, the chill of the hallway air making me acutely aware of how exposed I feel. My boots scrape against the wooden floor, and my pulse pounds in my ears, but I don’t fight back. Not yet. Not when I need to pick my moment.
He stops in front of a long table lined with framed photos, their glossy surfaces catching the faint overhead light. Withoutceremony, he snatches one up and shoves it in my face, his fingers practically pressing the glass to my nose.
“Here. Take a good look.”
I blink at the image of a younger Irina standing beside an older man, at least ten, maybe fifteen years her senior. His dark suit is tailored to perfection, his posture radiating control, his hand resting on her shoulder possessively. Irina’s smile is faint, almost forced, her body tilted slightly away from him.
The man’s face is sharp and cold, a charisma that borders on menace. He looks like the kind of man Marco or Viktor would consider an equal—an ally, perhaps.
“That’s your memory now,” Orin sneers, pressing a finger to my temple. “Seared into your pretty little head. Now, summon him.”
He yanks me back toward the dining room, the photo clattering onto the table as we go. My pulse quickens as I glance back, catching a fleeting glimpse of Irina’s face, her lips pressed into a thin line, her hands clenched at her sides. There’s something there—something she isn’t saying. But whatever it is, I don’t have time to dwell on it. Orin drags me through the doorway and shoves me down into the same chair as before.
The room is silent except for the rustle of Orin’s jacket as he leans over me, his fingers pressing into the back of my chair.
“Well?” he says, daring me.
I glance at Irina her eyes locked on Orin. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and the silence presses heavier than Orin’s grip. Whatever this is, it’s not about me. A darker, bigger conflict than I can see has been brewing, and I want to know what the history is here.
“She clearly doesn’t want this. I won’t do it. I won’t summon him. You’re not the boss of me, Orin. Marco is, and I don’t see him here right now,” I say.
Orin’s eyes narrow, sharp as daggers, and if looks could kill, I’d already be dead. His hand tightens on my thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Summon him now, demon,” he growls, his voice low and venomous. “Or I swear to god, you will not like what happens when I drag you back home.”
The threat sends a cold shiver down my spine, the phantom burn of the brand on my back flaring to life as if it remembers. My fingers curl into the edge of the chair, knuckles white, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
My gaze flicks to Irina, and her expression softens enough to tell me it’s okay, though the tight set of her jaw tells me she hates this as much as I do. Her small nod feels like permission, like a lifeline, and I cling to it.
I close my eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to steady the storm raging inside me. The photo of Jamie is burned into my memory now, his sharp features etched in perfect clarity. I focus on them, on every line and shadow of his face, on the way he stood beside Irina with an air of control. I reach for the energy I know is there, lingering beyond the veil.
It starts as a faint chill, an ache in the air that slowly grows heavier, colder, until it wraps around me like a second skin. The room hums with something electric, the pressure thickening until my breath feels caught in my chest.
I open my eyes, and there he is.
Jamie stands before us, his presence commanding even in death. The air around him ripples like heat waves on asphalt, his sharp features as they were in the photo. His dark eyes sweep the room, and it feels like he’s truly alive.
“He’s here. What do you want to say?” My pulse pounds in my ears as I watch Jamie. His gaze lingers on Irina first, softening before sliding over to me. His head tilts slightly, an expression of curiosity crossing his face, like he’s surprised I cansee him at all. It’s a reaction I’ve seen before, but it doesn’t make it any less unsettling.
Orin shifts beside me, impatient. “Tell him to say something only I would know, so I know you’re not making this up.”
I glance at Orin then back at Jamie, who’s now watching Orin with an almost amused expression. “He can hear you. I don’t need to repeat it.”
The ghostly man glares at us, piecing together what’s happening in front of him. He doesn’t like what he sees.
“Tell this little prick I should have taken more than the belt to him when I caught him stealing that nice bourbon out of my office as a young chap,” Jamie says with dry amusement. I stare at him for a beat before turning to Orin, repeating the words verbatim.
