For the first time in what felt like forever, I was optimistic.

  I’d survived the curse. I had a weird imp who could make tea and insult me creatively. I’d even scored an unexpected cash bonus. So I figured—maybe I’d finally leveled up in life.

  I hit the grocery store like I’d won a game show. Chips. Coffee. Fancy mustard. The kind of stuff I’d usually stare at and walk past. For once, I didn’t feel cursed. The universe, it seemed, was finally cutting me a break.

  So of course, that’s when I saw him.

  I was waiting at the light on Walden and Birch—sun in my eyes, thinking about snacks—and felt it before I saw him.

  Pressure. Like static under my ribs.

  I turned my head and spotted him crossing through the small sculpture park across the street.

  Old coat. Torn slacks. Worn shoes. The kind of guy you’d mistake for a retired librarian who’d lost his pension and his mind and taken up residence in the discount bin at a thrift store. Except… something was *off*.

  The way he moved. His posture. Too controlled. Too deliberate.

  He had the slow, purposeful strides of a man who was used to hunting things that ran faster, the precision of it sending a jolt down my spine. Panic wrapped around my chest like a vice, but I stayed rooted in place, unable to look away. His face—hidden mostly under the brim of an old, drooping fedora—offered nothing but the sharp curve of a hooked nose and the glint of pale, stubbled cheeks. Observed in pieces, he was a jumble of mismatched parts, but taken as a whole, he was a spider at the center of an invisible web.

  Under the shadow of his hat, I didn’t see his eyes. I didn’t need to know their color or their shape or if they were aimed at me. I didn’t need to.

  I *knew*.

  Borderlander.

  He was like me. But older. Stronger.

  My stomach dropped through the floorboards. Fight or flight kicked in. I chose *drive*.

  My stomach dropped through the floorboards. Fight or flight kicked in. I chose *drive*.

  I slammed the gear into first and blew the red light.

  A horn blared behind me. Someone swore. I didn’t care.

  I sped past the stranger, my Civic shuddering like it might fall apart from the effort. For a split second, he turned his head and **looked straight at me**.

  That’s when I saw them—his eyes.

  Green. But the irises were ringed in gold. Not metaphorical gold. Literal. Shimmering.

  And they *held* me.

  If I hadn’t been in a moving car, I might’ve just stopped. Walked to him. Let him peel me open with a glance.

  I jerked my gaze back to the road and tore through the next block.

  Please don’t follow. Please don’t follow—

  Then he raised his hands.

  A strange, graceful gesture—like a conductor mid-symphony or a prophet calling down fire.

  And from the sky, they came.

  Crows. At least six. Maybe more. Black dots descending like knives, aiming for me with terrifying precision.

  My first thought: *This can’t be happening.*

  My second: *Of course it is.*

  They swooped around buildings. Cut corners like aerial assassins. I floored the gas. The Civic groaned in protest. Its engine coughed, sputtered, and rallied like a drunk at last call.

  I blew past my own street. No way I was leading this Hitchcock horror show to my doorstep. The crows weren’t attacking—but they were watching. Following. **Reporting.**

  They tracked my every move—sailing overhead, banking on wind currents. One even skimmed the roof.

  I felt the impact.

  *Thud.*

  No damage. Just a warning: *We’re here. We see you.*

  My chest tightened. My neck ached from tension. I couldn’t breathe deeply. I couldn’t even think.

  *What do you want from me?*

  Another red light. I slowed. A mistake.

  Two crows landed on my hood. Stared me down like tiny, winged hitmen.

  I clenched the wheel. “Get off,” I muttered. “Shoo. Go eat garbage like a normal bird.”

  They didn’t move.

  So I thought harder.

  **Go. Just... go.**

  It wasn’t a command. Not really. It was desperation dressed as language.

  And maybe… that was enough.

  The engine stuttered. The lights above me flickered—red to green to red again.

  The air shimmered.

  The crows leapt from the hood and **flew away**—circling once before vanishing into a nearby tree like sulking spies.

  The moment passed.

  No more birds.

  I drove three more blocks before I pulled over and let myself breathe.

  My arms shook. My ribs ached. My shirt clung to my back like I’d just run a marathon in a sauna.

  And for the first time, I understood something clearly:

  I wasn’t hidden anymore.

  ———

  I didn’t go home.

  I couldn’t.

  That man had seen me. The one with the golden-ringed eyes. And now that I’d felt the weight of his gaze, I couldn’t shake the sense that something cold had locked onto my ribcage like a magnet.

  So I turned the Civic and aimed for the edge of town, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

  Chuck’s garage wasn’t much, but it was out of sight—and more importantly, not my driveway.

  I called as I turned off Route 1.

  “No, I don’t have twenty bucks,” he answered without hello.

  “Cool. I just need your garage.”

  “…That a euphemism, or should I be worried?”

  “I need to hide my car.”

  “Ten minutes.”

  —

  He was already waiting when I pulled in—hoodie up, leaning against his sun-faded Duster like it was a crime scene or a confession booth.

  Chuck looked like the kind of guy who could fix your router and ruin your fantasy league draft in the same breath. Medium-build, a little soft in the middle, but fast on his feet and faster with sarcasm. His sneakers were untied, his hoodie had electrical tape on one sleeve, and I’d trust him with my life before I trusted him with my lunch.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  He squinted at the Civic like it owed him money.

  “So… who’d you piss off this time? Drug dealers? Psychic ex?”

  “Worse,” I muttered, stepping out. My knees still ached from how hard I’d been pressing the gas pedal. “Crows.”

  “Crows.”

  “They were following me. In a coordinated formation.”

  He pointed at the bags in my back seat. “And you escaped the death birds by going grocery shopping?”

  “Obviously.”

  Chuck opened the garage with a rusted creak. The inside smelled like duct tape, dust, and something that had definitely died inside an air vent. There were two empty crates labeled “Oleg’s Crap”, a broken treadmill, and a camp chair with a mysterious brown stain.

  “Back her in next to the wheelbarrow,” he said. “Don’t hit the coffee roaster. That thing’s seen more failed dreams than an improv class.”

  I parked, engine ticking like a cooling bomb.

  Chuck glanced at the trunk again. “Stocking up for a siege?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve lost faith in delivery services.”

  He raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask. Just popped the garage door shut and patted the Duster’s roof like it had done something noble.

  —

  On the way back, he drove. My chest still felt tight. My thoughts were a blur of feathers, golden eyes, and the name I hadn’t dared say aloud—because I didn’t know it.

  Instead, I stared at the cracked dashboard and focused on Chuck’s voice.

  “Meant to call you last night,” he said. “Got a gig for tomorrow. Security install. Full setup. House near Gull Hill.”

  “Rich client?”

  “From out of town. Probably has a hot yoga studio and a crystal advisor. Paid the deposit in cash and said it had to be done in one day.”

  “Sounds desperate.”

  “She said urgent,” Chuck corrected. “Which is how rich people say I forgot to plan. Pays seventy-five a head if we finish fast.”

  I blinked. “That’s like… real money.”

  “I know. Enough to buy actual groceries instead of stuff labeled ‘cheese-flavored food product.’”

  I managed a half-smile. “And let me guess—she’s your type?”

  “She’s everyone’s type if you squint and forget your wife’s tracking your location.”

  I laughed, and for the first time since the crows, I felt a flicker of something normal.

  “Chuck,” I said, as we pulled up to my apartment, “you ever get the feeling something big’s happening, and you’re the last idiot to realize you’re in the middle of it?”

  He looked over at me—really looked—then nodded once.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s called your twenties.”

  He didn’t ask anything else.

  And that’s why I trusted him.

  ———

  The apartment smelled like soap and cheap floor wax—which was weird, because I hadn’t cleaned a thing.

  Grimm was sprawled across the couch like a cat after a successful hunt. The TV was on, blaring some Russian soap opera I definitely hadn’t queued up.

  “I waited for you,” he said solemnly, not looking away from the screen.

  “Clearly.”

  “Did you bring snacks? Or am I dying of starvation for nothing?”

  I dropped two grocery bags by the table and kicked the door shut with my heel.

  “I got bread. Cheese. Coffee. Even cookies.”

  “Ooh. Cookies.” He perked up and lunged for the bags with surprising speed. For a short, scruffy imp, he had the reflexes of a caffeine-addled squirrel.

  “Wait,” he paused, sniffing. “You used the Hist.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  He turned, squinting at me. “You did. Your whole aura’s buzzing like a short-circuited fridge. What’d you do?”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. “Not sure. Maybe made some birds go away.”

  Grimm’s eyes widened. “You *scared off familiars*? With *instinctive casting*? On your first week?”

  “I just told them to leave. It didn’t feel like a spell or anything.”

  “That *was* a spell,” he said, now pacing. “Crude, subconscious, and reckless—but definitely a spell. Idiot birds probably tried to scout you for someone.”

  I frowned. “You think someone sent them?”

  Grimm gave me a look that said *duh*. “They don’t just hang out for fun, you know. Crows like that? Surveillance. And now they know where you shop.”

  “I didn’t even go home. Went straight to Chuck’s and parked the Civic in his garage.”

  Grimm nodded. “Good instincts. For once.”

  I sank into the armchair, body still aching from the adrenaline crash. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “You can. You just might die trying.”

  “Comforting.”

  “Welcome to being a Borderlander,” he said, grabbing a cookie and chewing loudly. “Hope you didn’t plan on a retirement fund.”

  ———

  Grimm made himself a sandwich the way only an imp could—knife in one hand, tail somehow helping balance a pickle jar, and crumbs absolutely everywhere.

  Meanwhile, I slumped on the couch, nursing a headache and replaying everything that had happened on the road.

  “You said those birds were familiars,” I muttered. “You think the guy—coat, hat, creepy magician energy—was watching through them?”

  Grimm didn’t look up. “Oh, he wasn’t just watching.”

  “Then what was he doing?”

  He finished chewing, took a long sip of tea, and said, “Sizing you up. Seeing if you were worth the trouble.”

  “Great,” I muttered. “So who is he?”

  Grimm leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms. “His name’s Silas Wren. He’s… complicated.”

  “That sounds bad.”

  “It is,” Grimm said. “He’s a Borderlander like you. Only older. Meaner. And from a different dominion.”

  I frowned. “What does that even mean?”

  “Think of the U.S. map,” Grimm said. “Now imagine it’s layered with invisible territories. Hidden dominions, ruled by old powers. Northreach. Tvermont. Frostmarch. Each one’s got their own rules, rites, and rulers.”

  “And Silas Wren is from…”

  “Frostmarch Expanse,” Grimm said. “A cold, mean place where they don’t trust fire unless it screams.”

  I blinked. “That’s… poetic. And disturbing.”

  “He was one of their best,” Grimm continued. “Knew the local monsters by name. Then he got bought out.”

  “Bought?”

  “Yeah. The voivode from Tvermont paid a ridiculous sum to bring him over.”

  “Wait, wait—he bought a person?”

  Grimm shrugged. “Technically, Silas sold himself. Probably to avoid dying in a duel or freezing to death. But yeah—he’s Tvermont now. And he works for their voivode. Mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “There are whispers,” Grimm said carefully. “He takes side jobs. Silver under the table. Private clients.”

  “Assassin?”

  “Spy. Saboteur. Collector of rare things.”

  “Like cursed teenagers with Hist marks?”

  “Exactly,” Grimm said. “And from the way he looked at you—I’d say he’s very interested.”

  I shivered.

  “Should I be worried?”

  Grimm grinned without humor. “You already are.”

  ———

  Grimm squinted at the pendant like it owed him money.

  “That,” he said, pointing but not touching, “is a Sleeper’s Eye.”

  “Sounds ominous.”

  “It’s a concealment charm. While you’re wearing it, your Hist’s presence is muffled. Other Borderlanders won’t sense you easily.”

  “Seriously?” I turned it over in my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”

  “Because you didn’t show it to me earlier, genius.”

  Fair.

  I looped it around my neck. The moment it touched my chest, the air felt… thinner. Not in a bad way—just quieter. Like background static had vanished.

  “And this?” I held up the knife. Heavy. Balanced.

  Grimm actually whistled.

  “That’s not a toy,” he said. “It’s a bonded blade. Tied to the Hist. You’ll know how to use it when the time comes.”

  “I don’t even know how to hold it.”

  “You will. Just don’t sell it, lose it, or wave it around like a maniac.”

  I slid it back into its sheath.

  “What about the coin pouch?”

  “Keep them close. They’re old silver—real old. Useful for certain rites. Or bartering. But don’t spend them on snacks.”

  “And the journal?”

  Grimm shrugged. “Looks empty?”

  “Totally blank.”

  “Then your Hist isn’t ready to read it yet. Or maybe you’re not ready.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Give it time.”

  Last came the cigarette case. Grimm froze when I lifted it.

  His expression changed—serious, cautious.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That’s… different,” he said slowly. “Don’t open it. Not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “It belonged to her,” he said. “She didn’t keep anything meaningless.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the best one I’ve got.”

  I stared at the brass case.

  Didn’t open it.

  Didn’t put it down either.

  ———

  Grimm leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the cigarette case I hadn’t put down.

  “You keep staring at it,” I said.

  He didn’t deny it. Just tapped one clawed finger against his mug.

  “She kept that thing close. Too close. Wouldn’t let me touch it. Wouldn’t even let me *look* at it too long.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated.

  “Because whatever’s in there... it’s not for me. And maybe not for you. Not yet.”

  I waited. But he didn’t elaborate.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Another one of those ‘you’ll find out when you’re dead or in therapy’ kind of secrets?”

  Grimm cracked a smile. “Exactly.”

  I set the case aside—carefully—and looked at the rest of the items again. Each one felt heavy, not in weight, but in story. History. Consequence.

  “This,” I said quietly, “this isn’t just gear, is it?”

  “No,” Grimm said. “It’s an inheritance. A toolkit. A message.”

  “From her?”

  “From the world she belonged to. The one you’re in now.”

  I nodded slowly.

  “And the enemies she warned me about?”

  “They’re real,” he said. “And they’re watching. You lit up like a beacon when you touched the Hist. Some noticed. Some are still sniffing.”

  I swallowed. “So what do I do?”

  “You lay low. You learn. You *listen*.”

  I looked around the apartment—the dishes in the sink, the dusty shelves, the imp on my chair.

  This was my life now.

  No going back.

  “Great,” I muttered. “Guess I’m officially hexed.”

  Grimm raised his mug in a mock toast. “Welcome to the edge, sapling.”

  I didn’t toast back.

  Just sat there, trying not to think about what waited beyond the next knock on the door.