Chapter 67 The Omen in the Glass

Chapter 67 The Omen in the Glass
Lorraine had been dreaming often, but never like this.
It began in the hush of moonlight. A bayou path stretched ahead of her, water glimmering black on either side. The air was heavy with jasmine and rot, the mingled perfume of beauty and decay. She walked barefoot, yet the ground was warm, as though some unseen fire burned beneath the earth.
Shapes moved along the tree line, but they didn’t feel threatening—not at first. Shadows of children running, of women carrying baskets, their outlines soft as smoke. Lorraine felt an ache in her chest, as though she belonged to them somehow.
And then she saw her.
Jadis Moreau stood at the far end of the path, her white dress swaying in a wind that hadn’t yet reached Lorraine. Her hair was dark, long, and unbound, her eyes so familiar that Lorraine’s knees buckled. She looked like the woman in the photographs from the grave, like the memories Lorraine had never lived but somehow carried.
Blood recognized blood.
Lorraine tried to speak, but no sound came. The air held her words hostage.
Jadis raised a hand, beckoning. Lorraine followed.
The dream shifted. She stood in a courtyard Lorraine had never seen before—stone underfoot, marble pillars rising into night. The air here was colder, sharper, as though every breath were laced with frost.
On a pedestal in the center sat a goblet, tall and ornate, silver rim catching the moonlight. Inside was water so black it seemed to drink the light from the air.
Lorraine’s skin prickled. She didn’t want to look at it. But she couldn’t look away.
Jadis stepped closer. Her hand brushed the goblet, and the liquid inside rippled. The sound was wrong—too loud, like thunder trapped in a glass.
Then she turned to Lorraine, her voice echoing from every shadow.
“This is what he drinks.”
The goblet cracked. A hairline fracture raced down its side, and black water spilled onto the stone. Where it touched, the ground hissed and split, veins of darkness crawling outward.
Lorraine staggered back. The veins raced toward her bare feet.
Jadis didn’t move. She only held Lorraine’s gaze. “Corruption spreads. He has already swallowed more than he can hold.”
The goblet shattered in an instant, glass exploding outward in shards of silver and ink. Lorraine threw up her arms to shield her face, but no pain struck. Instead, every shard hung frozen in the air, glowing faintly like dying stars.
And within each shard, she saw images.
Roman, shouting in his study, maps spread wide. Rhyan, standing in a salt circle, her eyes glowing pale as moons. Shanta and Despoina weaving incantations, their bracelets ringing like chains.
And Dwade.
Dwade laughing, his hands red, his mouth open to drink the storm itself.
The shards rained down. The black water surged like a tide, racing for her.
“Stop it!” Lorraine cried, finally finding her voice.
Jadis only shook her head. “You cannot stop what is already broken. But you can stand against what it births.”
“What do you mean?” Lorraine demanded. Her voice cracked, desperate.
Jadis stepped close, placing her hand against Lorraine’s chest. Warmth radiated through her, like fire stoking a forge.
“You are not alone, Soeur de lune,” she whispered. “The glass is already shattered. But you—” Her voice broke into the rising roar of the storm. “You are the hand that gathers the pieces.”
The black water surged higher, swallowing the courtyard. Jadis’s figure dissolved into light.
And Lorraine screamed herself awake.
Her body jerked upright in bed, sheets tangled around her legs. Sweat soaked her nightgown. Her chest heaved as though she had run miles.
The storm was gone. The estate lay quiet, cicadas humming in the dark beyond the windows. Yet she swore she could still hear the sound of the goblet cracking, the hiss of that black water spreading across stone.
Lorraine pressed her palms to her eyes, willing herself to breathe.
It was only a dream.
But it hadn’t felt like one.
She dragged herself from bed, stumbling barefoot across the cool floor to the dresser. Her reflection in the mirror startled her—cheeks pale, eyes ringed with shadows. She looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks.
She touched her face, half-expecting to find cuts from flying shards. There were none. But her skin prickled, as though some mark lay just beneath the surface.
“Corruption spreads.” Jadis’s voice echoed still.
Lorraine hugged herself, heart racing.
Dwade. It had to mean Dwade.
She’d seen him angry before. She’d felt the weight of his presence in the Quarter, in the storms. But this—this was something more. If Jadis was warning her, then the goblet wasn’t just a symbol. It was truth. He was breaking. And what spilled from him would spread if they didn’t stop it.
Lorraine sank onto the edge of the bed. Her hands shook.
Could she stop it?
Could any of them?
The door creaked. Lorraine startled, turning, but it was only one of the housemaids—Roxy, moving quietly down the hall, her silver hair a ghost in the dim. She didn’t look inside, didn’t disturb her.
Lorraine let out a slow breath.
She wanted to run to Roman, to tell him everything, but part of her hesitated. He was already carrying so much. And if he looked at her the way Despoina sometimes did—like she was fragile, breakable—she wasn’t sure she could bear it.
She lay back down, staring at the ceiling, surprised that Roman didn't wake up through it all. She looked over at him still sleeping peacefully.
What if she wasn’t strong enough?
Her power still bucked and twisted every time she called it. She’d nearly burned herself hollow protecting the convoy. She had seen Roman stumble after absorbing part of her energy. If she pushed too hard, if she failed, would she not just fall—would she take him with her?
The thought lodged in her chest like a stone.
But Jadis’s voice refused to fade. You are not alone, Soeur de lune.
Lorraine closed her eyes, clutching the words like a lifeline.
Maybe she wasn’t enough. But with Rhyan beside her, with Roman, with Shanta and Despoina, with the coven—maybe together they could be.
Maybe.
The storm in her dreams had whispered commands. Dwade had shadows bending like servants. And she?
She had the moonlight in her blood.
She only prayed it would be enough.