The text arrives on a Tuesday morning, disguised as a spam notification.

Coffee shop on Meridian. Noon. Come alone. —M

I stare at my phone for so long the screen goes dark, then lights up again with my own reflection staring back. My hand is shaking. I'm not sure when that started.

M.

There's only one M that would send coded messages to my phone—a number I haven't called in four years, two months, and sixteen days. Not that I'm counting. Not that I've memorized the date she stopped returning my calls like some kind of pathetic, pining idiot.

Margot.

I delete the message. Then I retrieve it from trash because apparently my survival instincts are taking a coffee break. Then I spend the next forty minutes staring at it while my breakfast gets cold and my tea transitions from hot to something resembling swamp water.

This is a trap. Obviously. Margot doesn't do casual reunions. Margot doesn't do anything without seventeen contingency plans and a risk assessment matrix. When we were kids, she used to plan our games like military operations—every variable accounted for, every outcome predicted. She was eight years older and infinitely more competent, which meant she was also infinitely more insufferable.

She was also the one who survived the witch hunt.

I close my eyes. Don't think about that. Don't think about screaming in the dark, about the smell of smoke and something worse, about Margot's hand in mine as they dragged us away and then—

Not thinking about it.

My phone buzzes. Another message: I know you got it. Please.

The word "please" breaks something in my chest that I've spent four years carefully reconstructing. Margot doesn't say please. Margot demands, manipulates, and occasionally threatens, but she doesn't ask.

I'm going to regret this.

---

The coffee shop is exactly the kind of place Margot would choose: upscale enough to seem inconspicuous, busy enough to get lost in the crowd, with multiple exits and sightlines to the door. She's already there when I arrive, sitting at a corner table with a cappuccino she won't drink and a laptop she's pretending not to monitor.

She looks older.

Not in a bad way. Just... lived-in. Her dark eyes—our dark eyes—are framed by fine lines that speak of years spent squinting at computer screens and other people's secrets. Her hair is longer than I remember, perfectly highlighted in shades of auburn and espresso, styled in a way that screams "I have people for that." The designer dress, the jewelry, the manicure—it's all armor. The same way my severe bun and muted colors are armor.

We're more alike than either of us wants to admit.

"Iris." She stands when she sees me, and for a moment I think she's going to hug me, and I'm not sure which outcome would be worse—if she does or if she doesn't.

She doesn't.

I sit across from her instead, keeping the table between us like a barrier. "You're looking very... government."

"You're looking very... haunted." She settles back into her chair, studying me. "Are you sleeping?"

"Are we doing small talk? Because I have to tell you, I'm rusty. Haven't had a lot of practice with family bonding lately."

"Iris—"

"No." I hold up a hand. "You don't get to do that. You don't get to disappear for four years and then text me cryptic messages and expect me to just sit here and chat about my sleep schedule. So whatever this is, whatever you want, just say it."

She's quiet for a long moment. Around us, the coffee shop hums with the oblivious contentment of people whose families aren't complicated by genocide and betrayal. A woman at the next table laughs too loudly. Someone's espresso machine hisses like a dying animal.

"I'm with the Department of Supernatural Affairs," Margot says finally. "High-ranking position. Access to classified intelligence. And I've been tracking Blackthorn Academy for the last three years."

The coffee shop tilts slightly.

"How did you—"

"Know where you were? I have a lot of resources, Iris. I've always known where you were. What I didn't know was why you chose to work there. Why you chose to work for them." Her eyes are sharp now, predatory. "Why you're helping them hide."

"I'm not helping them hide. I'm doing research—"

"You're legitimizing them." She leans forward, her voice dropping. "Every paper you publish, every discovery you make under their roof, you're proving they belong in society. That they're safe. That they deserve to exist alongside humans without consequence."

My hands are fists under the table. "They do deserve to exist. They're not—"

"They're not what? Monsters? Because that's what killed Mom and Dad, Iris. That's what killed everyone in our coven." Her voice cracks slightly, just enough to prove she's human. "Monsters dressed up as righteous humans, and monsters hiding in academia. The Academy has been operating for centuries with impunity. Do you understand what that means? How many people have died to keep their secrets?"

"That's not—" I stop. Swallow. Try again. "The people at Blackthorn aren't responsible for what happened to our family."

"Aren't they?" She pulls out her phone, slides it across the table. On the screen is a file—photographs, documents, something that makes my stomach clench. "The Academy's been recruiting since the 1800s. They've been building networks, acquiring resources, consolidating power. They're not just hiding, Iris. They're preparing."

I don't look at the phone. If I look at it, this becomes real. If this becomes real, I have to make a choice.

"What do you want?" My voice is steady. I'm proud of that.

"Intelligence. You have access. You work there, you're trusted, you're—" She stops, and something softer crosses her face. "You're my sister. And you're in a position to help me expose what they really are."

"Expose them to who? So they can be hunted? So we can have another witch hunt, but this time with better funding and government resources?"

"So they can face justice—"

"There is no justice, Margot." I'm standing now. I don't remember deciding to stand. "There's only revenge, and revenge is just another word for a cycle that never ends. You want to expose the Academy? Fine. You want to prove they're dangerous? Go ahead. But you're not going to do it by asking me to betray the people I work with. You're not going to do it by asking me to become the thing that killed our family."

"You're already betraying them by keeping secrets." She's standing too now, and her voice is quiet and lethal. "You're working for them. That is a betrayal—of Mom, of Dad, of everyone we lost."

The words hit like a physical blow. I feel them in my ribs, in my throat, in the place where my heart is supposed to be.

"You don't get to do that," I whisper. "You don't get to use them against me."

"I'm not using them. I'm reminding you." She reaches across the table, tries to take my hand. I pull away. "Iris, please. I'm not asking you to hurt anyone. I'm asking you to help me prevent more deaths. I'm asking you to help me make sure what happened to our family never happens again."

"And how's that working out for you?" The cruelty in my voice surprises even me. "Because from where I'm standing, you've spent four years hunting monsters and building cases, and you're still angry. You're still hurting. Maybe justice isn't the answer. Maybe it's just more pain dressed up in a suit."

I leave before she can respond. I leave before I can see the expression on her face. I leave before I do something stupid like believe her, like agree with her, like let her pull me back into the gravity well of our shared trauma.

The November air hits me like a slap when I exit the coffee shop. It's cold—real cold, the kind that makes your lungs burn and your eyes water. I walk without destination, just away, letting my feet carry me while my brain short-circuits.

She was right about one thing: I am betraying them. Every time I laugh at Adrian's dry observations about human behavior, every time I feel Cassius's hand brush mine in the archives and don't pull away, every time I choose the Academy over my own family's memory—I'm betraying them.

But what's the alternative? Margot's path? Vengeance and surveillance and spending the rest of my life defined by what was taken from me?

My phone buzzes. A text from Adrian: You missed our meeting. Everything alright?

I check the time. 6:47 PM. I was supposed to be in the archives an hour ago.

Everything is not alright. Everything is burning. Everything is—

I text back: Will be there in twenty minutes.

---

The Academy feels different when I return.

It's the same Gothic architecture, the same shadows pooling in corners, the same smell of old books and older magic. But now I'm seeing it through Margot's eyes—as a fortress, as a conspiracy, as a threat that's been hiding in plain sight for centuries.

The archives are empty when I arrive except for Adrian, who materializes from between the shelves like he's been waiting. He probably has been. Adrian has the patience of someone who's been alive long enough to understand that time is just another resource.

"You're upset," he says. Not a question.

"Just had a shitty day."

"Iris." He moves closer, and I catch that scent—aged leather, winter frost, something ancient and smoky. My treacherous body responds immediately. Heart rate up, breathing shallow, every nerve ending suddenly aware of his proximity. "You can lie to me if you prefer, but I'd rather you didn't."

"What if I told you I was thinking about leaving?" The words are out before I can stop them. "What if I said I was considering a job somewhere else? Somewhere far away from here?"

Something shifts in his expression. It's subtle—just a tightening around his eyes, a slight tension in his jaw—but I catch it. "Are you?"

"I don't know." I turn away from him, toward the shelves. "I'm thinking about a lot of things I shouldn't be thinking about."

He follows me. Of course he does. Adrian has never respected boundaries—not because he's cruel, but because he's existed long enough to believe they're negotiable. "Things like?"

"Like whether I belong here. Like whether I'm helping or hurting. Like whether the people I care about are worth the cost of staying."

"And what's the cost?" His voice is close now, right behind me, and I'm hyperaware of every inch of space between us. "What are you sacrificing, Iris?"

I turn to face him, and he's closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the silver in his eyes is actually complex—not silver at all, but a thousand shades of gray shifting like storm clouds. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze.

"The truth," I say. "I'm sacrificing the truth about who I am."

"And who are you?"

"Someone whose family was murdered by people like you." The words come out flat, factual. "Someone who's been running from that for so long that I've convinced myself I can just... hide here and pretend it didn't happen. Someone who's apparently willing to betray the people who loved me to do it."

Adrian doesn't move. He doesn't reach for me or try to comfort me or do any of the things I'm simultaneously hoping he will and praying he won't. He just looks at me with those ancient eyes, and I can see centuries of loss reflected there. He's loved people and buried them. He knows about sacrifice.

"Your sister." It's not a question.

"How did you—"

"You have a tell. When you're stressed, you touch the scar on your neck." He reaches up slowly, giving me time to pull away. I don't. His fingers trace the line of old burn tissue along my collarbone—the one I've been hiding under high necklines for fifteen years. "You got this the night they came for your family."

I can't breathe. I don't remember telling him that. I don't remember telling anyone that.

"She wants me to spy on the Academy," I whisper. "She wants me to gather intelligence for the government. She thinks exposure will bring justice."

"And what do you think?"

"I think she's right." The admission tastes like poison. "I think I am helping you hide. I think every day I stay here is another day I'm choosing you over them. I think—" My voice breaks. "I think I'm becoming the thing I hate."

Adrian's hand drops from my neck, and for a moment I think he's going to step away. Instead, he takes my hand and places it over his chest. There's no heartbeat. There hasn't been for over a hundred years. But there's warmth, and there's the steady rise and fall of breath, and there's something in his eyes that looks like understanding.

"You're not becoming anything," he says quietly. "You're surviving. You're doing what you've always done—finding the broken things and trying to fix them. The only difference is now you're broken too, and you're terrified that fixing yourself means destroying everything else."

"How is that not betrayal?"

"Because survival isn't betrayal, Iris. It's just survival." He releases my hand but doesn't step back. "Your sister is asking you to die for her justice. I'm asking you to live for yourself. Those are not the same thing."

I want to believe him. I want to believe that choosing myself isn't the same as choosing to forget. I want to believe that I can love the people at this Academy without betraying the memory of the people I've lost.

But Margot's words are still echoing in my head, and the doubt they planted is already taking root.

"I need to think," I say.

"I know." He finally steps back, and the loss of his proximity feels like frostbite. "But Iris? Whatever you decide—about your sister, about the Academy, about us—I want you to know that I would rather you hate me and stay alive than love me and destroy yourself trying to be someone you're not."

I leave the archives without responding. I can't. If I open my mouth, I'll either scream or cry or do something equally pathetic.

In my room, I pull out my phone and stare at Margot's messages. I could respond. I could agree to help her. I could be the good sister, the loyal daughter, the one who avenges our family instead of hiding from them.

Or I could burn it all down and build something new.

The problem is, I don't know if I'm brave enough to do either.

My phone buzzes. A text from Cassius: Heard you had a rough day. Want to grab a drink? I promise to be exactly the right amount of terrible company.

I laugh despite myself. Even his texting is charming. Even his offer of support is laced with that dangerous magnetism that makes people forget their own names.

I don't respond to him either.

Instead, I sit in the dark of my room and think about witches and hunts and the ways we wound each other in the name of love. I think about my sister in her designer suit, trying to save me from a fate I've already accepted. I think about Adrian's hand on my scar, his voice telling me survival isn't betrayal.

And I think about the fact that the witch hunt never really ended.

It just changed costumes.