Page 95 of Bloom in Darkness

“No, you don’t.” I hook my fingers into the front of his shirt and pull him back toward me before he can pretend the conversation is over.

He glances toward Bryn, then back at me, and the corner of his mouth finally lifts. “Unfortunately, I really don’t. That seems to be the problem.”

By Halloween night, the house is ridiculous. Orange lights run across the porch and around every front window. Black bats climb the siding, fake cobwebs stretch between the bushes, and little ghosts hang from the trees. Skeletal hands stick out of the flower beds, the giant pumpkin glows beside the steps with Bryn’s aggressively carved face cut into it, and my animatronic witch screams whenever anyone gets within six feet of the porch. Caelan hates her. I love her.

We stand at the edge of the driveway after dark, looking back at the orange glow covering the house. It’s absolutely too much, and I love every inch of it. Bryn folds his arms beside me. “Needs more lights.”

Caelan turns toward Bryn before I can say anything. “Don’t encourage him. We already have enough lights.”

“He’s right. There’s a dark spot over the garage.” I already have my phone out by the time Bryn suggests running lights along the roofline next year.

Caelan notices the screen in my hand and shifts closer until he can see what I opened. “Astra. Tell me that isn’t another shopping page.”

“I’m just looking.” I keep scrolling through the sale listings and move the phone a little farther from him. “Looking is free.”

He points toward the house behind us, where the witch screams at another passing pedestrian. “It’s Halloween right now. You can’t possibly already be shopping for next year.”

“I can if there’s a sale.” Bryn leans over my shoulder and points at the first set of lights I opened. “See? These are good.”

Caelan reaches for my phone, so I pull it against my chest before he can see the total. “You have a cart? You said you were looking.”

“It’s not full.” I angle the screen away from him and tuck my elbow against my side when he reaches again. “There’s still plenty of room.”

Bryn looks down at the screen over my shoulder, taking in the list without any hesitation. “It’s full. You already have six things in there.”

“Traitor.” I tuck myself against Caelan’s side while he starts laughing and Bryn puts one heavy arm around both of us. The witch screams from the porch when someone walking a dog gets too close to the motion sensor, and Caelan flinches hard enough that I nearly drop my phone.

Caelan glares toward the porch while the witch finishes shrieking. “I’m throwing that thing away tomorrow. I’m serious this time.”

“No, you’re not.” I open the cart again and add the roofline lights before he can make another argument about the witch.

Bryn looks toward the witch as the motion sensor resets and the porch goes quiet again. “She’s loud. I heard her from the driveway yesterday.”

“Exactly.” I expect him to agree with me for normal reasons, but he nods once and studies the porch again like he has just made a useful discovery.

“Good deterrent.” Bryn looks back at the house while Caelan groans beside me, and I add another strand of lights to the cart.

Caelan

Astra has been in my office for forty-three minutes and has not sat in the chair once. He started there with his sketchbook open across one knee while Forrest and I went through next month’s fighter contracts. Then Milo came in to ask about training blocks, Astra followed him out to finish a drawing of his hands, and now the top of Astra’s blond head keeps passing the office windows while people who are supposed to be working stop to talk to him.

Forrest signs the bottom of the last page and slides it back across the desk, then follows my attention toward the glass. “You’re watching him again.”

I keep my eyes on the contract and turn to the next page even though I’ve already read the same line twice. “I’m working.”

Forrest looks toward the glass wall behind me, then back at the contract in my hands. “Of course.”

The Forge is quiet by our standards. There are two fighters on the far mat, somebody working the heavy bag, and three people at the desk arguing over next week’s sparring schedule. No fight-night crowd, no alcohol, no security problem waiting to happen. Just sweat, tape, bad music, and Bryn somewhere in the back correcting a new fighter’s footwork.

Astra likes days like this. He brings his sketchbook, steals my coffee, and drifts wherever he feels like going until somebody sits still long enough to become a subject. Half the fighters have learned to ignore him. The other half know better than to ask what he is drawing unless they want him to show them the least flattering page first.

I hear Astra laugh from the floor and look up in time to see him standing in front of Jace, one of our heavier fighters, with his sketchbook tucked against his chest. Jace has at least seventy pounds on him. Astra says something I can’t hear, and Jace’s brows pull together before he answers. Astra smiles.

Forrest follows my line of sight toward the floor and watches Astra for another second. “That smile usually means trouble.”

I set my pen down. “Yes.” Neither of us gets up. Jace’s hands are loose at his sides, and Astra is still smiling as he shifts the sketchbook against his chest.

Jace points at the sketchbook tucked against Astra’s chest and holds out one hand. “Let me see it. You have been staring at me for ten minutes.”