Chapter 109 From the grave

Chapter 109 From the grave
I'm sorry, you need to do what?

The scream echoed violently inside my skull, but it took three agonizing seconds to realize my mouth hadn’t even opened. The only sound I actually managed to scrape past my constricted windpipe was a breathless, fragile:

"Why?"

Celeste pulled her leather jacket tighter around her shoulders, the grim set of her jaw never wavering. "Because in order to weave a new veil, I have to permanently sever the old one. And that original ward was blood-anchored to Ava. Remember when I told you the spell turned unstable after she passed? That’s because the magic didn't die with her, Iris. It’s still latched to your mother’s... remains."

Beside me, I felt Nate stiffen. His golden eyes were wide, pinned to the side of my face, his scent spiking with sharp, protective alarm. Even Nate Crawford, who had spent his life surrounded by violence, looked completely sickened by the concept.

My mind spun in wild, horrified circles.

"No, no, no... what the fuck?!" The panic finally broke through, my voice rising in a frantic whisper. "You can't just go and dig up my mother's grave! That’s—that’s insane!"

"Iris, listen to me," Celeste said, raising two calloused, ring-adorned hands in a placating gesture. "I know how horrifying this sounds. But you have to understand, the ritual I'm about to perform isn't sage-burning, crystal-charging witchcraft. It’s dark bloodline necromancy. It's orgy-in-goat-blood kind of magic."

My jaw dropped. "Are you going to slaughter a goat?!"

"Wait, what do you mean, orgy?" Nate demanded, stepping forward with his fists clenched.

"It's a figure of speech! It's not literal, you idiots!" Celeste hissed, running an exasperated hand over her curls. "What I am trying to tell you is that even if I were just going to patch the old suppression ward and strip your powers completely, I would still have to extract the original anchor from Ava's bones. There is no other path."

A bitter, hollow weight settled into my chest. "So you'd have to desecrate her grave either way."

"Yes."

"Then why the hell are you even asking me?" I snapped, crossing my arms so tightly over my Chanel jacket that my nails bit into the tweed. "If there isn't a single other option, why tell me at all?"

Celeste’s single dark eye softened, the hard edge vanishing beneath an ache of profound empathy.

"Because you deserve to know, Iris," she said gently. "The spell is for your survival, but that is your mother. I’m not going to sneak behind your back and treat you like collateral."

Her words hit me like a splash of freezing water.

I stood frozen in the filthy alley, staring at her. For twelve years, decisions had simply happened to me. Ernest dictated where I slept, what I wore, when I bled, and what I endured. I was so profoundly conditioned to being an object—a silent pawn shoved around a board—that being offered basic dignity and consent genuinely terrified me.

Ernest could force me to dissociate. He could make me smile while he bruised my skin. But I was done being a passive coward in my own life.

I took a slow, deep breath, letting the icy air steady the fire in my blood.

"Alright," I said, my voice steady. "Do it."

Celeste blinked, tilting her scarred head. "Are you sure?"

I knew the question was rhetorical, but I didn't flinch. "I'd like to believe it's what my mother would have wanted. She sacrificed everything to keep me safe, and from beyond the grave, that magic kept me alive. Unstable, sure... but I'm still here. She was still protecting me. Maybe if you do this, she can finally rest."

A slow, proud smile curved Celeste's lips. "I don't have a single doubt in my mind that's what Ava would want for you. The only real problem now is figuring out how to break into the Crawford family mausoleum without getting torn to shreds by Ernest's perimeter hounds."

"I'll handle that," Nate cut in smoothly, his posture shifting back into the calculating heir. "I know the patrol rotations, the alarm blind spots, and the shift changes for the crypt wardens. We'll find a window."

"It has to be soon," Celeste warned, looking between us. "The spell need to be prepped so I can cast the binding during the next full moon."

My breath hitched. "The next full moon? That's... that's the night of the Debutante Gala."

"I know."

"Does it really have to be that specific night?" I pressed.

"Sweetheart, this is primal werewolf magic," Celeste said with a dry, humorless smirk. "I need the celestial weight of the full moon to weld the shroud to your aura. It won't work on a half-crescent."

"Ernest will never let me skip the gala," I murmured, dread prickling my neck. "He’s been grooming me for it for months."

"You won't have to skip it," Celeste replied coolly. "I’ll cast the shroud right in the center of the estate while the gala is peaking upstairs. Granted, drawing that much lunar pull is going to cause some localized interference with the moon’s energy. A few teenage wolves might miss the click of their fated mate bonds that night, but that’s their problem, not ours."

"We need to get back," I said, glancing over my shoulder toward the sunlight at the alley mouth. "Christian and Jessica will start asking questions."

"You head out first, Iris," Celeste instructed quietly, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her leather vest. "It’ll look suspicious as hell if you two walk back into the box together."

"Okay." I took two steps, then paused, turning back to face her. "Please... don't disappear on me again. Keep me updated on everything."

Celeste gave a firm, reassuring nod. "I'm not going anywhere, cousin. I promise."

I turned and walked out of the shadowed alley, adjusting the wide brim of my sun hat as the afternoon glare washed over me.

As I approached the VIP lawns, I slipped the mask back over my face. I smoothed down the white tweed, softened my posture, and summoned the empty, bright smile of a pageant queen. I could sit beside Christian Harlow for another two hours. I could listen to Jessica's venom, nod at the cheers for the racehorses, and pretend to be the delicate, obedient little debutante they all expected.

Because underneath the Chanel wool and pearls, the countdown had begun. My nightmare had an expiration date.

Soon, the shroud would lock into place. My Pureblood strength would be entirely mine to command. And the next time Ernest Crawford tried to corner me in the dark, he wouldn't find a broken girl.

He would find his executioner.