The fire was the only thing in the world that made sense.
It crackled in the stone hearth of Julian’s cabin, consuming the dry cedar logs with a hunger that felt honest. Outside, the storm had turned into a temper tantrum. The wind slammed against the thick timber walls, demanding entry, and the rain sounded like handfuls of gravel being thrown against the roof.
We were cut off. The bridge down the mountain would be slick with mud, maybe even washed out. For tonight, the world ended at the porch steps.
I sat on the braided rug in front of the fire, holding a mug of whiskey that burned my throat in a good way. Julian was kneeling beside me, a first aid kit open on the coffee table.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
He pressed an alcohol wipe to the cut on my cheek—a souvenir from a blackberry thorn during my sprint through the woods.
I winced, hissing through my teeth.
“Sorry,” he said, his voice rough with fatigue. “It’s deep. You might need a butterfly strip.”
“I don’t need stitches,” I said, staring into the flames. “I just need a new timeline.”
Julian didn’t answer immediately. He applied the bandage with hands that were steady, despite everything. He was a good cop. A protector. The irony that his blood ran in the veins of the monster hunting us wasn’t lost on me; it was sitting in the room like a third person.
“There,” he said, sitting back on his heels. He looked at the blood on the wipe, then tossed it into the fire. It flared green for a second.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
He looked at me. The firelight softened the hard angles of his face, erasing the years of cynicism and leaving behind the boy I used to meet at the diner.
“Elara,” he said. “About what happened at the station…”
“Don’t,” I cut him off. “You saved me. You threw your career into a woodchipper for me. We’re past apologies.”
“I’m not apologizing for saving you. I’m apologizing for not believing you sooner. For letting you walk into that morgue alone.” He ran a hand through his hair. “My father… he taught me that the Thorne name was a shield. That if we ignored the ugly things, they would go away. I let Elias rot in my memory because it was easier than admitting we broke him.”
“You were a kid, Julian.”
“So was he.”
The silence stretched, heavy with the ghosts of two boys—one in the big house, one in the shed.
I reached for the journal. It was drying out on the hearth, the pages crinkled and swollen.
“We can’t change 1999,” I said, opening the book. The smell of mildew and marker wafted up. “But we can change tonight. We need to figure out where the Wedding is.”
Julian shifted, moving closer until our shoulders touched. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through me that had nothing to do with fear.
“The Wedding,” he repeated, reading the jagged scrawl over my shoulder. “The Groom is ready. The Bride is ready. The guests are waiting in the dark.”
“It’s the endgame,” I said. “Every other crime scene was a rehearsal. The Sleeping Princess. The Tea Party. Hide and Seek. They were all games we played before the Wedding.”
“You played a wedding game?” Julian asked, his tone a mix of incredulity and horror.
” once,” I admitted. “I was twelve. I was angry at Richard. I told Elias I would never marry a man like him. I said I’d marry the woods instead.”
“And Elias took that literally.”
“He took everything literally. To him, metaphor is just a lie you tell to be polite.”
I flipped the page. The ink here was frantic, heavy strokes that tore the paper.
The Bad Prince tries to keep her. He thinks he owns the tower. But the tower is glass. Glass breaks.
“The Bad Prince,” Julian read. “That’s me.”
“He hates you,” I said softly. “Not because you’re a cop. But because you’re the one who gets to stand in the light.”
“He wants to kill me, Elara. That’s clear.”
“No,” I said, pointing to a line at the bottom of the page. “The Prince must watch. He must see the Crown pass.”
I looked up at Julian. “He doesn’t want to kill you. Not yet. He wants you to witness it. He wants to marry me—whatever twisted version of marriage exists in his head—while you watch. He wants to prove that he’s the better man. The better protector.”
Julian took the book from my hands. He stared at the drawing on the opposite page. It was crude, done in black marker. Two stick figures holding hands under an archway made of crossed branches. And a third figure, tied to a tree, watching.
“Where?” Julian asked. “Where does he think this castle is?”
“The Sawmill,” I said. “It has to be. It’s the only structure left that fits the ‘Castle’ archetype in his head. High ceilings. Industrial. Dangerous.”
“The mill is massive, Elara. A labyrinth. If he’s in there, he has the tactical advantage. We can’t just walk in.”
“We don’t have a choice. He has the bodies. He has the ‘guests.’ If we don’t show up…”
“He’ll find new guests,” Julian finished grimly.
He closed the book and set it aside. He turned to face me fully, his knee brushing against my thigh. The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“Stop apologizing.”
“Not for Elias,” he said. “For us. For fifteen years ago. When you left… I was angry. I thought you ran away because you didn’t love me enough to stay.”
I felt the sting of tears. “I ran because I loved you too much to let you see me break.”
“I see you now,” he whispered. “You’re not broken, Elara. You’re the strongest thing in this valley.”
He reached out and touched my face, his thumb brushing the bandage on my cheek. His hand was warm, rough, and alive. It was the opposite of the cold, clammy touch of the fog.
“I never stopped,” he said. “Looking for you. Waiting for you.”
The air in the cabin changed. The dread that had been pressing down on us receded, pushed back by something older and more potent.
I leaned into his touch. “I’m here now.”
He kissed me.
It wasn’t a movie kiss. It tasted of whiskey and desperation. It was the kiss of two people standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to anchor themselves to the earth before they fell.
I gripped his shirt, pulling him closer. For a moment, the journal, the murders, the monster in the woods—it all faded. There was just the heat of the fire and the weight of Julian’s body against mine.
I wanted to stay here. I wanted to lock the door and let the world burn down around us.
Click.
The sound was sharp, mechanical.
The overhead lamp in the kitchen flickered and died. The hum of the refrigerator cut out.
The cabin plunged into semi-darkness, lit only by the dying fire.
Julian pulled back instantly, his hand going to his hip, reaching for a gun that wasn’t there. He had surrendered his service weapon. All we had was the snub-nose .38 on the mantel.
“The power,” I whispered.
“Storm probably took a line down,” Julian said, but his voice was tight. He stood up, moving to the window.
He peered out through the blinds.
“Julian?”
“The neighbors,” he said. “The Andersons down the road. Their porch light is still on.”
My blood ran cold.
If the grid was down, the whole mountain would be dark.
“He cut the line,” I said, standing up. The warmth of the kiss evaporated, replaced by a chill that seeped into my marrow.
Julian turned away from the window. “Get the gun.”
I grabbed the revolver from the mantel. It felt heavy, slippery in my sweating palm.
“How did he find us?” I asked. “This is your family cabin. It’s off the books.”
“He’s my brother,” Julian said, grabbing a heavy iron poker from the fireplace tool set. “He knows everything I know. He knows where I go when I want to hide.”
A thud echoed from the porch. Heavy. Deliberate.
Then, a scratching sound against the heavy oak of the front door.
Scritch. Scritch.
It wasn’t a request for entry. It was a taunt.
“He followed us,” Julian whispered.
“No,” I said, realizing the truth as I looked at the journal lying on the rug. “He didn’t follow us. We came to him.”
“What?”
“The Wedding,” I said. “It’s not at the Sawmill.”
I looked at Julian, horror dawning.
“The cabin,” I whispered. “We played ‘House’ here once. We pretended we were married. We pretended this was our castle.”
Julian looked at the door. The scratching stopped.
“He’s not here to take us to the wedding,” Julian said. “He’s here to perform it.”
The doorknob slowly began to turn.