𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖚𝖓𝖇𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗 @sonnenreich - Tumblr Blog

For some, the end of the world was synonymous with the wrong colour of the car they received for their sixteenth birthday, or when their former best friend was seen kissing the quarterback behind the gym, even though she knew they had been dating. If the end of the world actually stood for an inevitable threat of favourable combinations of natural disasters with occasional cosmic influence—often with the addition of supernatural decisions—then this profound primal fear of humanity had lost its fundamental intensity and significance. Presumably, this could be related to the fact that humans limit their perception to the immediate microcosm and thus, in most cases, accept changes in the world as a marginal phenomenon rather than part of their own historical development—more like a subplot. Furthermore, very few people kept their ears open for sermons about God's wrath and the days of the Last Judgement. But whether it was the end of times, Scientology or Jehovah's Witnesses, the notion of the end of the world clearly suggested only one thing: those who spoke of the world did not necessarily mean the Earth. The world was more of a feeling than a noun.

In the minutes when Isaiah was led away in handcuffs for a crime he was certain he did not commit, Zeev's world collapsed. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly that minutes later, in the silence of the house, he was still unsure of what had transpired.

All the happiness, all the joy, all the contentment and all the love he possessed had been swept away with Isaiah into the unknown.

When the door closed, there was an unbearable silence. Zeev had managed to find out where he was being taken shortly before. However, this information did nothing to calm him down. Zeev stood motionless in the doorway for several minutes, unable to process what he had witnessed. The last fifteen minutes had passed in seconds, and in his state of denial, he slowly made his way back to the basement. But instead of Isaiah, who would have greeted him and asked what had taken so long, he found only a gaping emptiness. Cold tea on the table, a whiteboard in the middle of the room summarising their experiences of the last few weeks, the quiet hum of his laptop fan, which still displayed the page where he had discovered the name of the person who had allegedly fallen victim to his husband. It stood out like a memorial on the screen, mocking him.

His body felt heavy and every movement was painful as he tried to delete the search history, as if that would change anything about their current situation. Silently, he walked over to the timeline he had created and wrote down the latest events in fine, careful letters. Arrest.

Before he had even written the T, he collapsed in slow motion until his knees dug into the carpet floor. He could no longer bear the weight of his heart, and it pulled him down deeper until his forehead hit the floor. Tears did not follow, however; instead, painful sounds escaped from his throat, echoing tinny off the wall. The texture of the pen cap dug into his palm, and the pain of his healing wound was nothing compared to the pain spreading through every fibre of his body like a forest fire.

All that Zeev knew about prisons and jails were based on fiction and cinema and those made him feel more terrified than he already was.

It was nothing like Isaiah's occasional faux pas, which usually followed when he gained unauthorised access to premises where he had no business being. Even if he would refute that claim.

These were serious allegations, and Zeev knew without a shadow of a doubt that they were false.

Isaiah would never deliberately harm anyone, especially not to this extent. Zeev was aware that statements like these were usually followed by amusement. Neighbours who claimed that the perpetrator had always been so friendly, inconspicuous or even a philanthropist. Even the witcher would claim that no one could ever be fully known. In this case, however, it was different. Isaiah was gentle, cautious and easily unsettled. He pursued his goals conscientiously and despite all obstacles, but a murder, not to mention the absurdity of it, would have torn him apart emotionally. It was a crime he could never have concealed. He may not always have been able to express his feelings, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but he wore them so openly on his heart that it would have been impossible for Zeev to overlook them. Isaiah valued life, despite all the pain it had already caused him. He was quite capable of hatred, like any human being, but the difference was that he did not use it as an excuse to be malicious. He was a man of knowledge, understanding and reflectiveness.

A virtue that Zeev did not feel at that moment.

He did not want to understand the witches. He did not want to grant them humanity, let alone grant a comprehensible intention.

Their actions have consequences. And he was going to make sure they did.

He was done playing the game to their rules.

Isaiah was a victim of injustice and foul play that had crossed the lines the second they had threatened his life.

Within minutes, Zeev had already passed the denial stage. His hands clenched even tighter in anger until they turned white.

How did one deal with injustice of this magnitude? Facing false accusations was easy when they were idiotic statements about their character. However, this exceeded everything and involved authorities whose convictions did not coincide with theirs. It could not be ignored or dismissed with a roll of the eyes. It meant work. It would be frustrating, but Zeev would do whatever was necessary. He would not give up until the truth was uncovered and justice prevailed according to their ideals.

Zeev's anger was of little help to him at the moment. It only prevented him from being productive. He drew on his rational abilities, swallowing his emotions until they were reduced to embers in a blazing fire.

He wasn't ready to tell Isaiah's parents about the latest events. Not because he found the conversation uncomfortable or was keeping them out of the loop under the guise of protection. Zeev needed to find out more, to come up with some kind of plan. He didn't want to burden them with this heavy news without offering a way out of this personal hell. Sarah had asked him to protect her son. To look after him. Right now, he was about to fail and break that promise before it had even begun to gather dust.

Isaiah needed him. He couldn't let him down.

After everything that had happened in recent weeks, one would think Zeev would be better equipped to deal with being confronted with the loss of what he loved. Sure, his husband had it much harder than him as an accused murderer, but his egocentric view of his own feelings and thoughts was all he had left at the moment. It was all to prevent him from imploding and crumbling into a singularity where pain and loneliness outlasted the stages of grief, instead causing such a drastic change in him that it would affect not only his entire personality but also the reality of his surroundings. The shock of the moment had manifested itself like a mirage in the hallway, hurting him hour after hour every time he looked at the door—always falling prey to the hope that Isaiah would open the door at any moment to tell him what an insane mistake he had fallen victim to. Instead, he relived the distraction of the moment and the emotional turmoil it had triggered over and over again.

Why Isaiah was considered a suspect was secondary to Zeev most of the time, even though he was well aware of what was going on. However, he felt that dwelling on it was a waste of time. As if that was exactly what they wanted. For him to focus his attention on them instead of his husband. If they really thought they knew him, they were now embarrassing themselves completely. Until Zeev knew Isaiah was back home, he wouldn't give them another thought.

Storms are coming. Just like pain, we expect their arrival every day. Mostly not actively, but somewhere in the catacombs of past experiences, a pedestal waits for new memories that will bring radical changes. Everything exists in harmony. Love, hate. Hot, cold. Loud, quiet. Dark, light. Peace, war. Sunshine and storms.

The witcher had always assumed that, despite his worries and fears, he had a rather positive approach to life, especially in recent years. He had lost a lot, but in the meantime he had gained so much more. His fears of experiencing loss threw him back to a time when loneliness and a lack of prospects had dominated his everyday life. Alone in a large house that held memories he could not bring back to life.

His first official act was to call in the lawyer who had already stood by them in previous difficult times. They had already gone through so much on their own, but in this case, legal assistance was appropriate. Zeev may have learned a few things, especially thanks to Isaiah, but in this area he was completely powerless. Zeev informed him of the facts and provided all the information he could share with him without revealing the absurdity of the situation. Telling someone that witches and curses existed was definitely a shot in the foot and involved a risk he couldn't take at the moment. Zeev had to make sure that whatever they had teased out of his husband's statements was not interpreted to his disadvantage. How could he explain anything to the homicide division without getting lost in logical fallacies? There was no reasonable explanation that fit into humanity's self-created construct. Magic did not exist in their belief system.

Furthermore, the authorities had already treated Isaiah as if he were a serious criminal, simply because his curiosity had gotten the better of him. What would it be like now?

Every thought of how they treated him made Zeev pause. Gripped by fear and concern for the only person he loved this strongly. Everlasting and unconditional. In all facets, with all quirks and especially the parts he had long been ashamed of. Did he get food? Drink? Fresh clothes? Did he have to share the space with others? Did they treat him with respect? Was he already condemned in their eyes, irrevocably a murderer? To curb his fear, Zeev indulged in the thought of getting back at them. It was a small consolation as he was sure that despite all the power the world had placed at his feet, he could not use it in a way that would not have consequences. At the end of the day, he was helplessly exposed to the circumstances.

Zeev was not allowed to talk to him on the phone or see him, even though he pleaded with the guard. No matter how many arguments he gave the police, they kept him at a distance. Tiresome discussions ultimately only led to serious frustration and anger. They fobbed him off with pathetic reassurances, which had no effect. As long as he couldn't see Isaiah, he would never truly find peace. He couldn't comfort him, couldn't be there for him, couldn't assure him that everything would be okay, even though he didn't know himself, but nothing else was acceptable.

After a few days, their lawyer had negotiated a phone call and arranged a half-hearted visit that prevented any physical contact. They interpreted it as a benevolent gesture, but for Zeev it was just another demonstration of their power over an innocent man. Nothing about this conversation was private, nothing about it promised the intimacy that would bring them momentary bliss and hope. How could he assure him that he would find a solution when they weren't talking on safe ground?

Although Zeev had assumed that his heart could not break any more than it already had, the sight of his husband was a stab in the chest. Isaiah had often struggled with sleep deprivation, more so back then than today, and yet the dark shadows under his eyes shocked him, and he found it difficult to recover. He looked terrible. The relief that he had no injuries or other wounds helped only slightly.

The conversation was fraught with helplessness and hopelessness. Every word hurt and every touch was a drop on a hot stone. Prevented by thick glass that simulated a distance he could not bridge. How he would love to grab the chair and smash it against the glass over and over again. On the one hand, because it would give him satisfaction in the face of his anger, and on the other, because their separation was unbearable. But he didn't do it, if only because he knew it wasn't window glass.

“Everything is falling apart” he had said and Zeev felt it in the core of his body, but he couldn’t let this declaration of helplessness be the foundation of which they built their future. A future that would be formed to their liking. Yet, as he was told about the video that seemingly served as proof to his supposedly vile act, every breath was uncertain to be taken. As if the air was defiled by the prospect of failure.

“You didn’t sleepwalk, my love. You know you didn’t, you know that.” He had announced emphatically. Isaiah was unsure, of course he was. Zeev knew that he too would doubt reality if he had found himself in an environment that wanted to make him what seemed like the easiest solution. If Isaiah were guilty, there would be no reason to investigate. The case would be closed. Another case that jumped to the simplest explanation to avoid the work that would otherwise be involved. But someone like Isaiah should know that it was never simple. Zeev had listened to him attentively, and he found it surprisingly easy to be a beacon of hope. In Isaiah's moments of greatest weakness, Zeev's greatest strength was to be a shoulder of encouragement. Not because he was free of these feelings, but because he knew that shared despair was anything but effective. Isaiah couldn't give up, because otherwise they would have achieved what they wanted. The easiest way.

“I will rip this whole case apart until we find out who did this and how.”

It sounded dramatic, but the warmth in his eyes reflected more than just the lyrical meaning of a extravagant metaphor. Zeev would tear down anything if it meant Isaiah would be safe. His husband. The love of his life. The personification of the beauty of a life lived to the fullest. He would grow old with him, and they would look back on this moment as a challenge they had overcome. A success that would be theirs because they were stronger. Because they had each other. No one would ever destroy that. They would never give up.

Zeev spent most nights in Isaiah's office. He would sit on the couch and stare at the countless shelves filled with all kinds of documents and odds and ends. Mementos of their shared and once separate lives. There was a faint smell of lavender. Occasionally, he thought it was fading away. A gap in the atmosphere surrounding him that he couldn't fill with memories. Missing Isaiah was like witnessing natural disasters. The inability to prevent them and clouded by the knowledge that he was equally guilty and innocent. Zeev was trained to long for him. They had lived apart for many months, even though togetherness was all they wanted. However, none of this was voluntary now, and the fear of losing him forever overshadowed the consequences of his previous actions. Shaking and trembling, he sat there, clutching the pillow to his chest as cold sweat clung to his forehead. He didn't dare move, too afraid that every step would lead him to the attic. To where the solution was easiest. He literally held future events in his hands.

He kept whispering to himself. On the one hand, to dispel the silence, and on the other, to remind himself that the consequences were incalculable. Breaking the curse might have been successful, but what if it drastically changed his husband's fate? Anger and grief were not a pleasant combination, especially when trying to perform magic.

He sobbed as the lack of breath prevented him from screaming. He wanted to crush Mark of Solaris, to remind them that witchcraft served preservation, not destruction. He wanted to beat them with their own weapons and mark himself with the traces that would always remind him of breaking his own rules. What was the point of moral greatness if innocents suffered as a result? What was the point of being better than others if he lost everything in the process?

Whimpering, he stroked his arms, kneaded his hands and occasionally buried his face in them.

He missed him. He missed him in a way that tore him apart, emotionally and physically. His sparkle had faded, and his reflection repeatedly reminded him of his miserable state. Grief was paralysing, anger was numbing. Neither of them supported his drive to act, and if they did, it was in the wrong way. Again and again, he shivered with cold before the heat rebuked his decision to wear Isaiah's hoodie with doubt. Nevertheless, he kept it on. Like a hug that fuelled his longing. The hem was now frayed, speaking of countless years of ownership. The hoodie was as old as they had known each other, dating back to a time when he had begun to fall in love with the American. Once the colour had been intense, now only a pale memory. Nevertheless, it was Zeev's favourite piece of clothing, as ironic as that realisation was.

His despair and undoubtedly also his lack of sleep ultimately caused him to frequently believe that he could hear his husband's voice. How he tells him that there is a huge ‘cold spot’ in the cosmic microwave background that might be the result of a huge void in space or even a hint at another universe. Sometimes Zeev closed his eyes as he wiped the tears from his cheeks, only to imagine pitifully that it was him touching him. Zeev realised how easy it had been for him to forget what it felt like to be alone. He had never been alone since Isaiah.

He wanted to tidy up Isaiah's shoes in the hallway, he wanted to shake out his bedspread, he wanted to make him coffee, he wanted to smile at how grumpy he was in the early morning, he wanted to hold his hand while they went for a walk, he wanted to go to the cinema with him and listen to him complain about the selection of films, only to watch an old movie from the nineties at home. He wanted to run his fingers through his hair and kiss him, he wanted to hold him and breathe in his scent, he wanted to watch him sketch or read, he wanted to see how the sunlight flattered his face.

He once had heard of the phenomena couples face when separated. A deregulation of the nervous system that suggests the body to feel unsafe or incomplete. The immune system takes a beating, the stress level rising. Usually, Zeev would have thought of it as insanely romantic and in a way that still was the case, but right now it just contributed to his distress.

He missed him. Every second felt like a waste, and the more he thought about it, the more he realised that he was solely to blame. Because he sat there wallowing in self-pity, convinced that he had nothing else. Because he focused on what Isaiah couldn't tell him instead of considering what he had said. Zeev indulged in wishful thinking instead of facing what was.

Zeev had two options, fall victim to his addiction or fall victim to his rage, skipping the denial, both held tremendous downsides.

He became a victim of his fragile psyche instead of realising what he was capable of.

After dragging himself into a cold bath, which was undoubtedly unsurpassed in terms of loneliness, he was drawn to the living room. His heart was still pounding incessantly, and every few minutes he glanced up at the stairs. So few inches to a solution that seemed simple. His blood cried out for it.

With all the self-control he had left, he concentrated on the information Isaiah had given him. A surveillance video of the crime. A video he had only been allowed to see after multiple arguments. The intention had been to be seen. Someone had taken on Isaiah's appearance. Now that this fact had settled like tea leaves in his cup, a chill ran down his spine. He couldn't help but think of skinwalkers and alternates at first, which was due to the fact that Zeev had spent many hours listening to older episodes of his husband just to hear his voice.

They knew their enemy however. Witches.

Another shiver ran down his spine, which he welcomed due to the heat of his body. Someone had gone to such lengths to change his appearance just to frame him. The fact alone was overwhelming, and yet it was the thought of someone imitating his beloved that filled him with uncontrollable rage. How could anyone dare to wear his husband's face? His gentle, loving eyes? The beautiful curve of his nose, the tousled golden hair, caressed by the warm rays of the sun? Hardly anything was more offensive.

The question that now arose in his mind, despite his anger, was: did this person still wear his face? This depended entirely on the spell they had cast. Which of them was willing to change completely? Zeev suspected it was a disguise spell. In modern folklore, this is often referred to as ‘glamour.’ A temporary change in appearance, usually just an illusion. Perception is influenced, but not reality. Taking pictures of it was risky in that regard, because not all minds were weak enough to be deceived. A camera captured reality. This was a topic that Isaiah had often addressed. Why did figures appear in pictures even though they hadn't been there before? A simple solution: the human brain was easy to manipulate, but a camera lens was not. If the witches wanted it to look real and aimed to make a surveillance camera fall for the trick as well, then it had to be more than a glamour spell.

It had to be permanent. Or at least to the extent that only another spell could undo it.

But a much more important question pressed itself upon Zeev as he stared at his notes, bent over his tea: If they were willing to go so far for an illusion, how much truth was there in the deed itself? Was there a corpse? And if so, was it the person they claimed it to be?

If Zeev was honest, he now believed these witches were capable of anything. At first, he had assumed that her death was possibly the consequence of her own curse. They had aimed to kill Isaiah, so what if breaking the curse had led to exactly that – only the target had changed? Was it a sign of revenge to pin the blame on him?

Two possibilities, only one of which felt right.

Truths were secondary to the Coven. Gradually, Zeev began to suspect that they wanted to show off their abilities. As if they wanted to show him what they were capable of. A wicked way to impress him.

The only admiration Zeev had left for them was for their boundless stupidity. Isaiah was his sanctuary, and anyone who harmed him deserved nothing less than his disdain. If that was what they were aiming for, it only confirmed his previous statement.

If he was right, and everything about the staging was a hoax, Elvira Higgins would have to be alive. And if she was, she would be the key to solving the mystery. She would wish she had died.

Zeev didn't want to be bitter. Or angry. He didn't like the tension in his bone and mind, how he had pictured gruesome acts of violence he never would carry out, but still wished for the liberty to do so. He wasn't violent or malicious, let alone sinister or foul. What he did, he did for love. To protect who is good and kind and innocent and worth saving. He sought harmony and union, peace in times of war. Being faced by failure, however, twice within the short amount of time, had made him what he despised: mad.

Thousands of phone calls later, hours upon hours of research passed him by. He would not be able to devote himself to the witches as long as Isaiah was not with him. If only because Zeev was not sure what he would do if he did not have his support. The only person who was a voice of reason even without words.

It was clear to Zeev that Mark of Solaris did not work with facts. They deceived and lied. They knew they had no power otherwise. However, if they had studied him sufficiently, as they wanted to appear to have done, they would know that Zeev was a master of illusion. Sunlight refracted at his fingertips and could conjure up mirages. Billowing heat that caused road haze, emotional distress that formed eerie images of himself that lingered in places he had once been, blinding and warming but also burning and exhausting.

Zeev enjoyed to shine with love.

Unfortunately for the witches, he was blazing with hatred.

Zeev spent the following days in close contact with the lawyer, who fed him information that the police and authorities were unwilling to give him. He spent every day in front of the building, repeatedly asking to see Isaiah in the hope that he would be allowed to do so. They had claimed that he was obstructing their work and had repeatedly threatened to have him removed, but Zeev could not see what work they were supposed to be doing. They were just sitting there, preventing the release of an innocent man.

Finally, Zeev had made up his mind and informed Sarah and Richard. While he was able to make her understand, to some extent, that this situation was by no means natural, Richard was confronted with the distressing reality that his son had been implicated in a murder case for no reason whatsoever. Nothing about this conversation had been pleasant, let alone easy. Although Zeev was sure he would find a solution, he felt guilty for giving them that assurance. Ultimately, he didn't know. He didn't know what else the witches would do.

A glimmer of hope came over him, along with newfound motivation, when he received the call to bring Isaiah home. Zeev had expected many things, but not to burst into tears of joy.

There was something comforting about seeing Isaiah back in his element. Zeev hoped and believed that this terrain, even if it involved accusations against him, had something motivating about it. Working on a case. Gathering facts, finding clues, collecting data. Zeev was glad he had Isaiah. In many ways, but when it came to detective work, he couldn't have had a better partner. A smile kept creeping onto his lips as he talked about what he had discovered in the depths of the internet. What potential structures the coven were pursuing, which sounded more and more like a cult. Although the terms were only minimally different, Zeev was not willing to equate the malicious and manipulative characteristics of Mark of Solaris with the Solar Coven. They did not want to live in harmony with nature, they did not indulge in the beauty of life, and they did not care for those who needed protection. They were not a family. They sought power, leadership. Like shepherds and sheep, like parasites feigning symbiosis in order to pursue their own goals. They gave nothing back. Their scales were out of balance.

The thin curtains billowed gently in the breeze blowing through the open window. Macomb was a fairly quiet place with little traffic, so the lovely chirping filled the room. Zeev smiled.

Again and again, their hands found each other, and the sweet taste of sugar lingered on their kisses. Again and again, Zeev sighed as Isaiah's hands found their way into his hair. Touches he had longed for beyond words. No feeling in the world could compare to those Isaiah awakened in him. He noticed that some of his anger had dissipated. No, it was asleep.

The thought of witches in his proximity, who would undoubtedly stand by him, reminded Zeev that he had not visited them in the last few days. Perhaps they would have already found solutions if he had done so. He suspected it was due to the fact that he had been raised to be the one who was supposed to solve problems. The one who was supposed to protect. The one who was left to his own devices to ensure everyone's well-being. Even though he was capable of discarding this subconscious teaching, after all, he had succeeded in doing so before, the arrest had triggered a wave of despair that had obviously taken its toll. But Isaiah was right. They wouldn't be able to do it alone. Alone, they would be powerless. Zeev couldn't watch over Isaiah and infiltrate a cult at the same time. They needed reinforcements.

“They won't,” Zeev promised, stroking his hair, kissing his temple and feeling his closeness with heightened senses.

Tenderly, Zeev cupped his face again, raising his head to look at him.

“I’ll burn this County down before ever letting that happen. I mean it. I'm not born a witch to just watch these events unfold with me doing nothing about it.”

His heart skipped a beat when Isaiah placed his hand over his and turned his head to kiss his palm. “Don’t hurt yourself for me, Zeev…”

“Watching you being condemned guilty for a crime you never committed will surpass every pain I ever could inflict on myself.”

“But you don’t know the magnitude of the consequences.”

“I know of the consequences for others if you ever will be mistreated again.”

Their eyes met, and Zeev was certain that Isaiah saw something in his that caused him conflicting feelings. Ultimately, he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t want you to feel bad because of me.”

Zeev's heart sank at this statement and he shook his head gently, raised his hand and kissed his knuckles. “First of all, it's not your fault. Let’s not pretend any of what is happening right now has anything to do with you. You’re a victim, you’re framed. You’re dragged into something you shouldn’t be in in the first place.” Zeev inhaled deeply, a certain emotion gnawing at the edge of his limbic system. “Secondly, Isaiah, I want to feel with you. Whatever it is. I want to share sadness, distress, joy and happiness. I know I sound like a broken record from time to time, but I'm not just with you on the good days. I’m with you always. That’s the joy of love, because we share our lives and emotions. We care about each other and that’s a treasure I never want to go to waste.”

Zeev filled him in on his assumptions and what he believed was the case. Of Elvira potentially being alive, of someone wearing his face like a costume. Lies over lies, piling up like a well cared for museum of deceptions.

“If we are able to find her, we might have a chance to clean this mess. She seemed rather weak when I met her. Uncertain and easily manipulated. I don’t think she's treated kindly and if I manage to convince her of a way out, she might be cooperative.” He paused. “I just hope she’s alive.”

“They must have found her corpse though.”

“If it has been her corpse to begin with. Don’t think forensic knows how to break a hex or be immune to magical manipulation of the mind. Besides, we've never been told they got a body, they’ve just shown you a video.”

“Let’s say Elvira is alive, that still won’t explain why I was seen on the video, murdering someone.” The last part of the sentence sank into a broken exhalation. Zeev immediately grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

“You didn’t. You’re not a murderer and you did nothing. Let’s stick to that, okay? I don’t want anyone to hear that sentence and think it's a confession. You’re innocent.” Zeev could see his husband chewing on the inside of his cheek as if it were a remnant of his breakfast.

“I don't think it is an illusion per se”, he finally added, shrugging his shoulders as he sat up straighter in bed. For safety's sake, he set the teacup aside. “An illusion is too much of a risk. Might work on some minds, but not all. Especially if it is aimed to deceive many people. Not unlikely someone has changed their entire appearance for this fraud. They’re working with one lie chasing another, not hard to imagine they’re not stopping at stealing your face, the reason why I came to suspect Elvira’s death isn’t true also. Considering what you've said before though, about them being rather versed in using technology to their advantage, it’s not even hard to believe they actually deepfaked the video. One is less risky than the other, consequence wise. That’s for sure. Maybe it is a combination of both.” He paused. “One thing is for certain. They wanted my attention and as much as I hate to admit, they're going to receive it. They'll regret however that they do.” It was a little amusing. Witchcraft and the development of new technology were usually not so far apart. One was just more elaborate than the other.

The sun shone unabated on their garden, making the grass a rich green. Seas of flowers, which bordered their property along with the dark oak wood of their fence, swayed gently back and forth. Carefree and undisturbed, they enjoyed another day with the Pines, opening their blossoms to the bees and bumblebees and sharing their pollen, while a multitude of butterfly species feasted on the lavender and coneflowers. They did not care about the worries of humans, even though their lives were affected by them every day. Zeev's garden was a small consolation for the injustice of species extinction and displacement. A marble birdbath stood out among the shrubs, where robins and sparrows occasionally fluffed themselves up and bathed. Not far from there, on the left side of her garden, stood a greenhouse the size and shape of a hexagonal pavilion, its corners and edges decorated with sweeping metal rods that occasionally ended in Celtic knots. Above the glass door hung a bundle of rosemary, already dried and therefore uninteresting to the insects that swarmed everywhere. The neighbours' hedges nestled against their fence, further isolating them from the rest of the world.

Within these square metres, there was only the existence of the two of them and the infinite height of the sky above them, streaked with a carpet of seemingly soft clouds of hydrogen and light reflections. A peaceful observation that calmed their souls.

Zeev crept through the garden, occasionally closing his hands around a soft wreath of chrysanthemums, whispering quiet compliments of beauty to them and flattering his sense of smell with their soothing scent. Again and again, he looked over at Isaiah and smiled. It was hard for him not to, and there was no reason to prevent this sign of goodwill and affection.

Smoke curled from Isaiah's lips as he smoked. Even from this distance, Zeev could clearly see the clear blue of his eyes as they rested on him and watched him. He couldn't deny the pleasant tingling sensation in his body. Almost chastely, he waved to him and turned his gaze back to the flowers with a smile. After his inspection, he returned to the blond man and stood in front of him, pushing his knees slightly apart with his own and moving a step closer before bending down and kissing him sweetly. The taste of nicotine was not unfamiliar to him, but he still found it difficult to get used to. However, it would never stop him from kissing him, let alone sliding his tongue against his. Slowly, he slipped onto his lap and slid his hands up his chest before placing them on his face and stroking his cheeks with his thumb. He sighed after this gesture of affection and a little later slid to the side next to him, one leg still draped over his lap.

For a long time, Zeev just looked at the other man and leaned his head against the cushion. He smiled dreamily at him and enjoyed the fact that he was back with him.

“I’ve spoken to Zara and the others”, he finally began, although he was far from done with ogling at him. “Whenever I leave the house, for whatever reason, I’ll have them over. If they can’t, Martha will welcome you with open arms. I've filled her in, of course, but she is on our side. I don’t want you to be alone at any given time. We need alibis like never before and I gladly receive random photos from you, too.”

Zeev reached out and grabbed Isaiah's hand, playing with his wedding ring as if it were a worry stone. “I, however, will stay with you for as long and whenever I can. Zara will try getting some information on Elvira and the video. She'll try to figure out if someone who shouldn’t had access to the security systems, perhaps she’ll manage to be charming enough to get a hold on the video. When you find a potential informant, dropout or betrayer, I’ll get Florence involved too. She’ll have a blast.”

“How are you?”

The question confused Zeev, and he frowned in response. “What?”

Worry lines furrowed his brow, and he leaned closer to Zeev, turning her hand in his and squeezing it gently. “There’s something about you I’ve seen only a glimpse of before, after the first assault, but right now… It’s more prominent. Will you share this with me?”

The witcher's gaze fell on their clasped hands and he took a deep breath. “I'm terrified”, he confessed.

“About?”

“Losing you.”

“There’s more to that, isn't it?”

Zeev paused and looked up again. His heart pounded heavily in his chest. “I'm terrified I’ll lose myself, too. That they’ll make me be someone I'm not.”

“Don’t let them, love.” His voice was little more than a whisper, but he understood him more than clearly. He knew what he was getting at, and yet he was not ready to accept it. Not ready to give it up when it was all that drove him. Kept him from being paralysed by the fear of failing again. He couldn't lose his family, not again. Zeev moved closer and let himself be embraced. He rested his head on Isaiah's shoulder and closed his eyes so he could listen to both his breathing and the busy activity of the insects in their garden “You had told me what you did these days, but you never really said how you felt.”

He gently caressed his chest.

“You’re having it worse. It's your future at stake.”

“This is not a competition, my love. Your feelings are valid as well and I want to be involved. Just like you always tell me, remember?”

Zeev huffed. He was right. He should follow his own advice.

“Being without you felt terrible. I was… numbed. I felt incomplete. When they broke into our home it felt defiled and unsafe, but when they took you from me… It felt like that but a hundred times worse. I'm having… bad thoughts. I want them to suffer like you did when you were cursed. I want them to wail and cry and I want them gone. I don’t care why they do it and if there's a reason behind it that might evoke sympathy. They shame my ancestors and they mock our nature. I'm just so… angry.”

Isaiah gently brushed over his head and neck. The touch alone was enough to slow his racing heartbeat a little. Once again, his fear of being judged for what he felt and thought proved to be unfounded.

“I know, baby”, he whispered into his hairline. “But don’t let them use that anger. Don’t let it dictate our next step. You're better than that.”

“And what’s the point in that?” he sighed. “What will they do to you next? How much will they hurt you till there’s no way out anymore? Why do we have to suffer and endure just to claim we're better than them? If they win this I don’t want to think about what I’ll do.”

“Then we better make sure they won’t, for your and my sake.”

“As you said”, he murmured, tilting his head back to look up at him. He caressed his cheek and lost himself in the sight of him. “We can't let them destroy what we built for years.”

“They won’t”, Isaiah assured him with newfound confidence, echoing the witcher's words, and Zeev rejoiced. After all, it was the greatest blessing not to be alone. It was impossible to pull himself out of the darkness of his thoughts. But for Zeev, Isaiah was brighter than the sun.

“You’re amazing, do you know that?” whispered Zeev, stretching his neck far enough to kiss his lips. “With you everything seems possible. They won’t know what hits them once we’ll start overthrowing them.”

“Hmm, sounds quite sexy when you say it like that.”

Hearing Isaiah laugh made his heart blossom. A smile returned to Zeev's lips and his pupils dilated as he watched him. “What can I say? They should have known better than to threaten the Antichrist and a God.”

“Do witches believe in Armageddon?”

Zeev snickered cunningly.

“They certainly will soon.”

As the midday sun shone into the living room and bathed the dark wooden parquet floor in warm tones, he realised that the sun had been hidden behind thick clouds for the last few days, mourning just as much as he had been. Dried bouquets of flowers lay on the windowsill, gifts from Isaiah's gardening efforts, no longer vibrant in colour but still a token of love. Dust particles floated slowly by, watching them as they lay on the couch, simply holding each other.

Even though the problem was not solved, a certain amount of calm returned to his body. His heart beat more evenly, his head felt empty from time to time; not in an unpleasant way, but in a liberating one. His nose was buried in the other's hair, damp from the shower he had desperately needed. Isaiah lay on top of him, his head resting on his chest. Zeev's fingertips slowly traced circles across his back. Every tiny movement was noticeable to Zeev, reminding him that Isaiah was indeed with him. He had no intention of ever letting him go again. Soft declarations of love were murmured against his skull, his lips brushing his skin, and they breathed the same warm air.

“I’ve missed you”, he confessed as if it had been a secret to begin with. “I’ve missed you before, but this was worse than anything I ever experienced, because there was nothing I could have done to change it. There wasn’t a moment I didn’t think of you.”

Isaiah lifted his head to kiss him. It was a healing feeling, if he was being honest. Meaningful, too.

“The thought of you was all that kept me somewhat sane”, Isaiah replied, adding his confession and declaration of love.

“I’ve been trying to see you everyday. I brought you food and snacks, even something to read. They didn’t even pretend they were going to give it to you… One of them even said they were pitying me. As if I was some delusional husband who can't accept the supposed truth. It hurts so much to realise that all of them think you're the perpetrator. How is anyone supposed to find the truth if all they aim at is being proven right? You're innocent.” If those who decided his fate failed to recognise this, he would have to force them to.

“Also… be braced when you walk through that door,” he sighed, nodding down the hallway, at the end of which the wooden door with glass insert led the way outside. A door that was always locked. Zeev had never understood the American habit of leaving doors unlocked anyway. Isaiah looked at him with a trace of confusion and concern.

“I've left an emotional imprint. I hope it will disappear soon, but I’m afraid it's… quite strong. I was just so… devastated.” He wrapped his arms tightly around the other man and closed his eyes to intensify the feeling. It was truly an emotional rollercoaster. He also realised that his regret, pain and sadness only took on meaning when there was someone who could understand and recognise them. Without Isaiah, he realised, there was only hatred. “I don't know how many I might have left on accident… I didn't check that thoroughly.” It was an ability whose raison d'être he didn't really understand, but which had been with him for as long as he could remember. How often had he annoyed his sisters in the past with brief, repetitive images of himself, or affected himself by having to experience his turbulent emotions over and over again because they had invaded his home like vengeful ghosts. Zeev had only a slight influence on this phenomenon of influencing light and heat, especially when his emotions pulled the rug out from under him. That was why it was mostly negative emotions that clung to his surroundings.

However, he would never forget how confused some people were on their wedding day because they thought they saw him in several places. He was literally overflowing with happiness.

“Did you get into contact with someone of the cult?” he asked at last and kissed the side of his neck without ulterior motive.

“Not yet. Jemma and I are on it, though.”

“What if she fakes a problem to which they offer their help? Could be worth a try. Not necessarily to meet, who knows which address they’d name, but perhaps we’ll be able to gather some information during a conversation of that sort. They were offering their services on Reddit after all. If we're unlucky, those who do gather victims aren’t connected to those we’re aiming to reach. Like different branches. Like a Corporation and their departments. Just because they’re all Mark of Solaris, doesn’t mean they know much about the Higgins’.” It was just a guess. They didn't know for sure what structures the cult followed, but given that Isaiah clearly understood more about cults than he did – ironic as it was – his explanations sounded quite plausible. It was unlikely that they would go to such lengths, even though there were only three of them. Or maybe five. However, he couldn't quite figure out what interest the cult as a whole had in Isaiah disappearing. It sounded more like the action and opinion of a few individuals. And if they had succeeded in separating him from Isaiah (if only physically, but never mentally), what then?

“Some day I will meet them, probably sooner rather than later. In a way I'm looking forward to it.”

A fleeting moment of silence before Isaiah spoke again: “Why?”

“Because I’ll be able to see their faces.” A growl accompanied his statement. “Also, I might finally be told what by the sun they want and why they are actually doing this. Honestly, the more I think about it, the more I'm willing to meet them. I'm just certain the conversation won’t go that well.” He smiled weakly. The anticipation of the outcome was like a half-hearted joke.

“It doesn’t sit right with me to imagine you interacting with them…”

“Wait a second”, Zeev suddenly gasped and the intake of his breath caused Isaiah to straighten his back as well. “Faces.”

Isaiah frowned and tilted his head to one side like a puppy who couldn't quite decipher what was being said.

“If I know the face of someone, I can put a spell on them. I can check where Elvira is and I know your face too.” He sat up completely and grabbed Isaiah’s face with both of his hands, kissing him hard. Which confused but left him grinning, too. “I mean, technically you’re you, but perhaps it works as well if someone is actually wearing you like a Glamour.. It'll demand concentration and luck on our side.”

“If there’s someone who can do it, it's you.” Zeev leaned into the other man's touch and closed his eyes with a contented hum. His motivation and plans were instantly clouded, and instead of jumping up to take action, he slid onto the other man's lap and engaged him in an unrestrained kiss. He had missed him so much. And the more Isaiah's hands explored his body, the more certain the witcher became that they would not be getting to the fun part of their investigations anytime soon.

Although, that was probably a matter of interpretation.

Sex was not merely the fulfilment of desires, of human urges, let alone boredom or mere distraction. It was solely the desire for closeness, for togetherness in its purest and most effective form. Together, they put back into focus the fact that they were reunited, that they had each other, that they protected each other as best and as successfully as they could. Sex was not merely the pursuit of elation, the brief moment of euphoria and ecstasy, but the interplay of two people who, despite their unattainable desire to disappear into each other's chests, shared their bodies and hearts. They held each other until their fingertips left marks on their skin, they did not even move much, but simply became aware of each other's presence. Painfully tentative kisses in the glow of the fading light, shared sighs that expressed their relief, and the wild beating of their hearts, which masked the pain of their once-shared souls. United, in spirit as well as in body. An intimate whisper of: I am yours and you are mine. You’re safe again.

Zeev loved Isaiah in a way he had never loved anything else in his life. Not even his family. They had been his centre, his dependence, his limit. Isaiah was his expanding universe, the cosmic entity that gave meaning to all things. He was both the question and the answer for him. The beginning and the end. Isaiah was the love of his life—and he would protect him with his life, because if a universe collapsed, Zeev could only hope that the supposed gods of this world would show mercy.

Because Zeev would not.

For the most part Zeev just sat in his lap, their bodies connected as close as possible, warm skin pressed to one another, sprawled hands moving across their backs, brushing through their hair, aiding their movements against the other. Together, one, home.

The silence that enveloped their bedroom resembled that in which Zeev had spent lonely hours, but now it was completely free of pressure and suffering. It was pleasant and welcome, detached from everything that could whisper hopelessness.

The golden reflections of light shone on the walls of the room, mirrored in the framed picture of their first exploratory tour in Sundawn. A snapshot in which Isaiah had not known the greater significance of the supposed witch's portal. His fingertips glided over Isaiah's bare arm as Zeev nestled against his chest, resting his chin on the back of his hand so as not to dig into his chest. He was unable to take his eyes off him. He was in no danger of forgetting him, and yet he thought he saw something new on the surface of his face. A deep-seated thoughtfulness that exceeded his usual tendency to sink into spirals of thought. Isaiah was still the same, but the experience had already left its mark, the emergence of which Zeev regretted.

It was not difficult to notice that Isaiah was still reluctant to sleep. Whether it was nightmares he feared or an old ailment that afflicted him whenever he slept, Zeev had already taken precautions for the latter, but for the former, he could only offer his closeness.

As well as gentle, occasional kisses and caresses, which they both desperately needed. Hours flew by until the sun turned its watchful gaze away. Even in the darkness, Zeev had a clear view of Isaiah and realised that he too was having trouble sleeping. If he closed his eyes, would he still be there beside him?

It was a question he had asked himself many times in the past, but for entirely different reasons. This time, however, the fear lay elsewhere. In the unpredictable, the surprising and the incalculable. Zeev was not willing to face a life without Isaiah. It was a decision as certain as the rising sun. It would be possible, he thought, but where would the joy be in that? What would a world be without blooming flowers? Without the morning chirping of birds, without magnificent sunsets, without music, without laughter, without comfort?

It would not be life, it would be the mere passing of tedious time.

“I love you,” Zeev whispered. Three words that had been heavy with meaning since the first time they were spoken. They were never said lightly, never merely muttered to ease the other's conscience. They were not a means to an end. They were true. At that moment, looking back on everything that had happened, Zeev felt it was even more necessary. “We will solve this… I will not let them destroy your life.”

I will destroy theirs in return.

“But… I can't do this without you. I need you. You're all that's keeping me sane right now, I'm afraid.”

Softly his lips grazed his skin, kissing up his chest till he reached the corner of his mouth, his facial hair scratching his upper lip. Zeev smiled satisfied as Isaiah wrapped his arms around him tightly, deepening the kiss and turning with him in the process. He hovered above him and nudged his nose against the witcher's, returning the smile with equal happiness. Zeev's arms crossed behind his neck and his leg hooked around his waist, humming delightfully at the full body contact. As his feet brushed down Isaiah's leg, he bumped against the annoying device, sighing wistfully as he did.

Of course, Zeev preferred this arrangement. Still, it wasn't ideal. It restricted their freedom of movement, and Zeev didn't like the idea of his husband being monitored. The only advantage of this ankle cuff was that it made it possible to locate him if peaceful sleep proved impossible and Zeev, unlikely as it was after all these years, forgot to close the door. However, he doubted that the authorities would turn a blind eye if he explained to them that Isaiah was sleepwalking. Either way, there was only one solution to their problem: they would have to find the real culprit or, what he considered more likely, expose the deception.

Beams of light lined the wooden floor, causing dust particles to sparkle. The folds of the faded, round carpet with fringes and a pattern of intertwining lilies cast shadows over the design and posed a certain risk if one moved carelessly through the room. When Zeev was focused on his work, his surroundings melted into a veil of inattention. At moments like these, he was very easy to startle. However, Isaiah had no such intention as he climbed the dangerously steep stairs to the attic..

Zeev sat at the massive, rectangular wooden structure in the middle of the room. It resembled a discarded kitchen island with storage space on the short sides and legroom in the middle.

Isaiah cleared his throat to get his attention, but it took three attempts to achieve the desired effect. The witcher looked up from his book, and within seconds the tension disappeared from his face and a smile spread across his full lips.

“Got bored?” Zeev quipped, placing the rust-coloured ribbon in the fold of the tome before turning his attention to his husband.

“I got you some tea,” he replied, placing the cup on the table next to him, where an empty one was already resting. “And yeah, kinda. Not enjoyin’ being alone down there right now.”

Zeev stood up and put his arms around him, smiling as Isaiah wrapped his arms around his neck. They kissed sweetly.

“I'm sorry, baby, would you like to assist me?”

A trace of joy returned to his features. Not necessarily a rarity, but Zeev had observed him sitting lethargically and staring into space several times in the past few days. No doubt plagued by worries and memories that weighed heavily on his heart.

Whenever it had been possible, Zeev had distracted him with tasks — an activity he preferred anyway. He involved him in housework, asked him disjointed questions about the universe and everything in between, sorted through the remains of the annoying paper chaos the burglars had left behind, and felt it more necessary than ever to shower him with kisses. The involuntary house arrest was only burdensome because of the reasons behind it; otherwise, little had changed in their life together. They were allowed to go shopping and take walks together, and despite everything, Isaiah tried to work on his projects, even if the witcher noticed that he was struggling.

Fortunately, the case had not yet gone public and remained inaccessible — something Zeev had fought for together with the lawyer. If — and it would — come to an acquittal, Zeev still didn’t want his reputation to suffer or be retrospectively tainted by the accusations. Nonetheless, the ongoing radio silence that had prevailed since the break-in had not gone unnoticed. Privacy was not taken lightly when it came to a successful online personality. Protecting and maintaining that had been a priority from the beginning of their relationship, and even though Isaiah had done everything to preserve it, Zeev couldn’t — and wouldn’t — let him carry that burden now. He didn’t have to handle it alone.

His embrace tightened, and he buried his face against his chest for a moment, inhaling his scent and feeling the chemical composition of his body return to calm and serenity.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled into the fabric. “I'm so sorry all of this is happening and I can barely do anything. I wish I could just curse them and call it a day.”

He sighed heavily and looked up, knowing that Isaiah was the last person who would ever blame him or accuse him of inaction. Still, he felt unbearably useless. All this power and he ain’t using it. But they do. Always a step ahead. But then again, the constant usage of dark magic is bound to backfire sooner or later. He had to make sure it did.

Zeev prepared a mirror, along with a small vial of sun-blessed water, thyme, and a white candle. He sat back down in his place and lit the candle. He gave Isaiah the simple task of standing by him, because while Zeev murmured softly, there wasn’t much else for him to do but let the spell take effect. Zeev felt his presence more intensely than ever. Not because Isaiah was being intrusive, or because the hand on his shoulder was too close. But because his senses were sharpened.

Without a human remnant, pinpointing a location was vague and rarely accurate. In the end, Zeev only wanted confirmation of a suspicion.

It was difficult for Zeev to differentiate between the man he loved and the murderer, since he didn’t know the latter, and both shared the same presumed face. That was one reason the mirror mostly showed Lafayette Street, mixed with fleeting glimpses of their home. An accuracy that only existed because the heart in his chest beat for the man standing behind him. He didn’t need a hair, blood, or even the tiniest scale. Isaiah was so deeply woven into his body, like the stardust from which they had undoubtedly both been born.

Zeev tried again and again, clinging to hatred instead of the love he associated with that face. He latched onto the despair and let it carry him like a passenger.

But he failed. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t see the murderer he was trying to track in his man. Even if they weren’t the same person. He loathed the one who had defiled his appearance with every fiber of his being.

A gentle touch on his hand tore his gaze away from the mirror, whose surface rippled like muddy rainwater. With tired eyes, he looked up at Isaiah, an apology on his lips. Isaiah looked down at him with compassion and gently released his clenched hands from the mirror’s frame. The carved floral patterns had left imprints on his palms.

Just as Zeev was about to open his mouth, the podcast host shook his head. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

He softly ran his fingers through Zeev’s hair and leaned down. The kiss had something wistful in it. “It’s not your fault. Perhaps it’s as you said. The illusion wore off, or they used another spell to reverse the change.”

Zeev’s shoulders slumped, and he collapsed into the chair, covering his head with his hands. A warmth began rising inside him — one unlike the heat of the past days. No rage, no hatred, no soul-crushing fury.

Instead, he sobbed.

The candle’s flame danced in the draft of his rapid breathing. Isaiah’s arms wrapped around him instantly, deepening his despair, and the floodgates broke without end.

He wanted to save Isaiah for his sake, for his future that is promising and filled with joy, family and love. With discovery, not just the paranormal unknown, but what is waiting for each human life. The natural challenges of adulthood, of raising children and providing guidance and support.

But also, egoistically so, for himself.

His calming words eventually reached him, and he leaned into the touches that wiped away his tears.

“I could make them forget,” he murmured, his voice so delicate because he knew it was a suggestion he couldn’t act on. “I could make the judge decide in our favor, I could… I could burn this coven down and make them regret every decision that led to them hurting you.”

Zeev pressed his lips together and rested his forehead on Isaiah’s shoulder.

“Sun, I’m a goddamn witch and I can’t do shit.”

They need to burn in the sun they dared to get too close to. They need to choke on their apology and not be forgiven.

The dark thoughts he harbored were written clearly on his face — yet another reason he despised them. They pushed him to a place within himself that had begun to take root the moment he was cast out by his family. An injustice he couldn’t do anything about.

“If it is an illusion, are you able to reverse it?”

The question pulled him back into the present.

“What’s the point in that? Potentially, yes. But if there’s someone running around with your face — or at least an uncanny resemblance — we’re better off dragging them to the authorities. And getting a confession too.”

“Is it possible to put a spell on a recording?”

Zeev frowned. “I… don’t know? I wasn’t really raised with technology, so I can’t say for sure if it can be manipulated to that extent.”

“Remember that one time my car’s engine broke on our way to Philly?”

“That one time.”

“Careful, she’s an old lady. Don’t shame her and her third hip.”

Silently, Zeev thanked him for the hint of laughter.

“Anyway,” Isaiah smirked. “You can restore what's broken, that includes man-made objects. May it be a drenched journal or an overheated engine. Anything can be manipulated. “

“Yes, but… it's a video.”

“There are non-magic tools to make deepfakes, what if there’s a magical equivalent? The Coven knows quite a lot regarding modern technology, perhaps they found a way to connect their abilities.”

Zeev leaned back in the chair and wiped his eyes once more, removing the last traces of an emotional outburst.

It wasn’t that he doubted his own abilities. He knew what he could and couldn’t do. In that moment, he could hardly love Isaiah more than he already did, because Isaiah had managed to help him refocus on the things he was capable of — without resorting to blood magic.

Even though that was all his body had been craving for weeks.

Without a word, Zeev reached out and brushed his hand over Isaiah’s cheeks. Isaiah had crouched beside him earlier, and his hand still rested on Zeev’s thigh and arm.

Zeev leaned in and kissed him softly, resting his forehead against his and sighing “I love you.”

“For stating the obvious?”

“I love when you do that. Facts sound so sexy coming from you.”

His giggles were soothing to hear, pushing away the looming frustration hanging in the air above them, thickening the atmosphere of his working space.

“I could try,” he answered at last. “I'm not sure if a copy of that video is enough or if we need the original file. Either way, how will we get to that?”

“It's surveillance footage. The Sanctuary might have a back-up. They surely gave it to the authorities, but that ain't like stopping any drive to still harbor the original.”

“Don't you think they've been asked to remove it?”

“Why should they? It's evidence, yeah, but it's still their security system.”

“Perhaps Zara is able to persuade them to have me get a look.”

“If they do not believe you're married to a murderer.”

“Luckily I'm not,” he clarified. “On the other hand I didn't exactly cover myself in glory when I confronted Elvira, but maybe—”

Zeev froze. His hand slipped away from Isaiah’s, and he jumped to his feet — so quickly that his vision went black for a moment. Isaiah was instantly beside him, steadying him with the lightest touch on his lower back. How did he do that? No one had ever been as attentive to him as Isaiah was.

With a smile, he assured him that everything was fine, then stepped over to a floor-to-ceiling cabinet that already bore visible signs of wear when he bought it. Over time, from being disassembled and rebuilt, it had sustained more damage in places — but that was part of its charm.

Below the surface cluttered with crystals, herb vials, and a row of candles were three drawers. Zeev pulled open the middle one and took out a white cloth. He unfolded it in his hands and revealed a few strands of Elvira’s hair. They were barely visible to the naked eye — so thin and delicate.

“If I can’t check for your doppelgänger, I can at least try to find out if she’s truly resting in peace.”

With a renewed sense of purpose in his heart, he returned to the table and sank back into the chair, his movements deliberate and practiced. Skilled in what he was doing. The words that passed his lips did not falter. He knew them by heart, and the hope he drew from his suspicion helped fuel his concentration, which barely wavered.

He knew her face. He knew her voice. He knew the fear that had lived within it — the subtle trembling, the hesitation, the foreboding sense that their meeting would not end well.

Was he the one who caused her death?

Was it a consequence of the curse being broken?

Was it a fate meant for Isaiah that had become hers instead?

Should Zeev have been the one on trial?

The one who should’ve appeared on that footage?

A visual record of his crime?

If he could, he would trade fates with Isaiah in an instant. Not just to protect him — but to bear the consequences, if they proved true. Isaiah should not carry the blame for something he was innocent of. Was this the coven’s punishment? No, the cult’s.

Zeev inhaled and exhaled slowly. Isaiah’s hand on his shoulder, with his thumb applying gentle pressure, was calming—an anchor that helped him stay grounded.

The thought of Elvira, even if she seemed to have been merely a tool, stirred unease in him—an unease he couldn’t allow to surface. But he wasn’t alone. Isaiah was with him. Nothing was lost yet. And he wouldn’t let it come to that.

That certainty gave him as much strength as the physical touch.

The surface of the mirror began to ripple again. Waves formed, but unlike restless water, nothing spilled over the edge. Confused and blurry images emerged—no concrete details from which a location or even vague impressions could be interpreted.

Shadows. Darkness. The rustling of leaves.

Zeev felt cold, the gentle breath of wind slipping between narrow tree trunks. The whispering in the treetops promised secrets. A familiar, comforting sensation that instantly confused him. Were these his own memories or present reality?

“What do you see?” Isaiah dared to ask. Zeev heard the uncertainty in his voice.

“A forest,” he replied gently, to reassure him that the question didn’t bother him. “It’s dark… probably because it’s late.” His brow furrowed in concentration, his dark blond eyebrows drawing together. His heart felt heavy. He couldn’t help but think of the scene from the surveillance footage:

A young woman; bludgeoned near the edge of the Sanctuary.

Surrounded by unevenly spaced tree trunks that seemed to form her own personal prison.

“What is she doing in the woods?” asked Isaiah. At first, Zeev didn’t understand his confusion—until he realized that it truly didn’t make sense. The body, if there had been one, certainly wouldn’t have been left in the forest. And if there was no body—because it hadn’t been found—they couldn’t charge Isaiah with murder. At least not the way they had.

“I… don’t know,” Zeev continued, his grip still tight on the frame of the mirror, though he was no longer actively looking into it. The images flickered before his inner eye, like an afterimage. Just as vague, but easier to interpret.

Zeev saw a lake, a steep rise that didn’t match the relatively flat terrain of Wigwam, and a view down into a valley framed by treetops. Zeev knew Wigwam. Not only had it been a favorite spot of his sister’s, it was also a nearby place of peace for him. For long walks with Isaiah, to breathe, or to gather wild herbs and mushrooms. His hideout—the cozy cabin at its heart—had always been a place they escaped to when the fast and noisy world became too much for either of them. Zeev knew that forest like the back of his hand, and while it wasn’t small, it certainly wasn’t the Appalachian Mountains’ little sister. It didn’t even qualify as a distant, estranged cousin.

Wherever Elvira was, it wasn’t a morgue. And it wasn’t Wigwam.

“Wait,” he blurted out, even though Isaiah hadn’t intended to leave—let alone stop him.

“There’s more…”

“What is it?”

By now, Zeev had closed his eyes. He was holding the mirror loosely in his hands, all his energy and concentration turned fully inward

“A building,” he explained what he was seeing.

“I can’t really… see what it is. But it’s huge. Almost… looks like a mansion. Or a palace…” The statement confused even him. He was bothered by how unclear the image was. The white candle only illuminated the path to a limited extent.

“It’s white. I see a flag… American. Red roof, a Mercedes in the parking lot.” His eyelids twitched as if he were quickly looking around, though he had little control over what he was seeing. The impressions came to him—he didn’t go to them.

“I see serpentines, I smell pinewood and… lemons?” The confusion wrinkled his nose.

“Number 920…”

“Do you see her?”

“No.”

Isaiah let out a sigh.

“But she must be there, since I’m being shown this.”

His darkened eyes fluttered open. His iris was barely distinguishable from the pupil. To a trained eye, the exhaustion on his face was unmistakable. A faint frustration began to rise, and disappointed, he set the mirror down with a bit too much force, the clatter echoing through the attic. Zeev buried his face in his hands again and gave a slight shake of his head.

The hand on his back had a profound effect, his tense breath released instantly, and the strain melted from his muscles like silk.

As if Isaiah were gently unveiling the treasure hidden beneath.

“She's alive, Zeev. That's like… That's like all we need.”

“We don't know that yet for certain,” he sighed frustrated. “She might be in an open casket in their living room or something.”

“You can track the dead?”

“I can track a bed bug if you give me a single hair.” He snorted, although it wasn't entirely of amusement. He ran a distracted hand through his hair and leaned back into the chair, turning his head to the side and meeting Isaiah’s empathetic gaze.

“It must be some place you’ve seen before, right? Somewhere around Macomb or Illinois in general?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “It was quite vivid too, but I don’t remember any house like that. Not consciously, at least. We may have passed it before, maybe along the main highway. These woods seem to be on the outskirts of Macomb. Maybe it’s somewhere along our usual route to Michigan. It’s the only one we take often enough, subconsciously.”

Zeev got up from the chair and wrapped his arms around Isaiah, pressing his cheek tightly against his chest. No explanation followed. He just needed him close.

“I’ll go and look for it.”

“I can’t come with you,” Isaiah murmured—not as a reminder, but as a bleak and regretful statement.

“I know,” Zeev replied, just as downhearted, tightening his embrace. “But you can still be with me. Probably helpful for proof too. We could hide a camera.”

“Were you watching those spy movies again?”

His laugh warmed Zeev’s heart. He looked up at him and rested his chin on his chest, a smile curling his lips.

“Say what you want, but The Manchurian Candidate is a masterpiece.”

It was healing to see his smile, to watch the lines on his face deepen with it. Everything about Isaiah made Zeev look forward to the future. Even though he didn’t want to rush time, he couldn’t help but imagine them standing in that exact spot years from now, arm in arm—faces wrinkled, hair gray. He’d probably need glasses by then.

He wasn’t afraid of growing old.

He was only afraid it might happen without him.

“I love you,” he whispered into the small space between them. “I love you more than anything, and I’ll make sure they don’t ruin your life.”

Octavia grumbled, stretching out next to Isaiah on the couch. Zeev couldn’t see it, but he heard it. A half-hearted laugh escaped him. “It’s cozy.” “Yeah, sure—cozy for people who have something to hide.” “I lived in the woods.” “Proves my point, I’d say,” she countered with a smirk.

“Where’s Isaiah?” “Making cocktails,” she hummed. “Like the diligent, lanky host he is.” “Tell him I love him.” “Isaiah!” A pause. “Zeev says you got a fine ass.” Zeev rolled his eyes but smiled to himself. “Alright, once we find something I’ll call. Please don’t be drunk then, that’d distract me thoroughly.” “Excuse me? What’s that supposed to mean?” “I know how you two are when drunk.” “Adorable and insanely funny? Thank you! I believe so too. Did you already throw Flo out of the car? She’s so quiet. What did she do? Whatever she did, her sins have been forgiven.” “Didn’t take you for a priest.” “You’d be surprised how good I am on my knees and saying prayers.” Zeev could practically hear her wink through the phone. “Hush, you. No Christianity in my proximity.” Octavia scoffed. “Be careful, you two, alright? Can’t have a cult hurting two hot witches. They won’t survive a neurodivergent yapper with no social cues or self-respect. Let alone two of them.” With a laugh, she hung up, and Zeev realized witches clearly had a type. His gaze shifted over to Florence, who had indeed been rather quiet. He hadn’t heard a single snarky comment yet. “Don’t tell me you’re worried,” he murmured in her direction, then turned his eyes back to the road. They had already passed five different houses, each tucked away in the solitude of tree-lined country roads. “Or well, please do tell me if you are. It’s just surprising to see you show it so openly.” He offered her an encouraging smile. Even though it was no longer rare for her to let down the protective cloak she had once sewn and adorned with such care, Zeev still found it touching every single time. Trust could reveal itself in all sorts of behavior. Hers was by far the most rewarding. “Don’t force me to open up,” she hissed. There was less venom in her voice this time, which is why Zeev didn’t fear any lasting damage if he chose to continue the conversation. “I'd never force you to do anything, Florence,” he replied softly “I'm just offering an ear. Who knows how long we’ll be on the road, we might as well catch up.” “There’s nothing to catch up to.” Zeev kept the worried look to himself so as not to pressure her further. Talking to Florence was often a tightrope walk. When she decided to shut down, even the most well-meaning question turned into an interrogation.

“Thank you for joining me on such short notice. I appreciate it.” His gaze drifted back to the landscape. They had already been on the road for an hour and were steadily approaching the Illinois border. “Please know that I enjoy your company, but I also think your abilities will come in handy. In fact, they’re highly encouraged.”

A long pause followed, which he filled with a sweeping glance at the surroundings. “This has been going on for far too long already. I just want it to end. I just want him… well. I hate seeing him suffer, and suffer, with no end in sight. It’s wearing him down, rightfully so, and I absolutely despise that I can’t do a damn thing about it.” His knuckles lost their color as he kneaded the leather, like it wasn’t a steering wheel but a carotid artery.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this agitated.” She tilted her head from side to side until an unhealthy crack echoed.

He sighed. “It doesn’t just look awful… it feels like it too. I hate this feeling.”

“You’re allowed to be angry, you know? It’s healthy, too. No one can be cheerful all the damn time.”

He kept gripping the wheel. “I’m afraid it’ll spiral out of control if I don’t keep it down.”

“And what’s so bad about that? Those people don’t deserve your kindness and understanding. They feel safe knowing witches don’t get burned at the stake anymore. But that shouldn’t save them from getting burned.”

Zeev’s jaw clenched at that. Florence’s approach had always been drastic and forceful—not necessarily in a physical sense, but still intense. In the past, her anger hadn’t been tied to the actions of those around her. They weren’t the cause, just the casualties—especially herself. Zeev knew what anger could do, and he wasn’t willing to sacrifice his pride to it. Still, he couldn’t deny the truth in her words.

“Fire spreads uncontrollably. I don’t want it to burn down a forest.”

“You wouldn’t. You’re more subtle than that.”

His hands tensed on the wheel. Was he? “I’m not trying to play nice with them. I’m well past the stage of solving this with politeness.”

It was ultimately Florence’s shout that made Zeev slam the brakes. She had turned her head so quickly her pale curls whipped around her face. He was lucky the country road was empty and deserted. If they had been in the city, that maneuver would have cost him dearly.

Possibly speaking from experience.

He leaned over to her. The closeness was anything but uncomfortable. She had long since become part of the family and always would be. While he had lost five of his sisters, Florence had taken their place. Unexpectedly so, on both sides.

He followed her delicate finger, which pointed to a ring he vaguely remembered once owning. He didn’t comment on it and instead looked toward the tightly clustered trees. Between the dense branches and the bushy crowns of the conifers that fanned out toward the top, Zeev thought he could make out white patches of a facade. It took all his focus to determine whether it was just shiny stones glinting in the sunlight—or truly what he wished for most.

Before allowing himself even a flicker of hope, he restarted the engine and continued along the road at a slow pace, more rolling than driving, with the uneven and gently sloping ground aiding the technique. They reached an earthen path branching off from the main road and leading into the forest. Under the watchful eyes of the pines, they rumbled along the trail. Tire tracks acted like rails they followed, leaving behind tread marks like footprints at a crime scene.

The glimmer of red brick shimmered through the trees, which thinned in number, as if they didn’t want to stand too close to the scene—yet still peeked in like curious onlookers.

Zeev cut the engine and unfastened his seatbelt, stepping out and lifting his nose to the air. The warm scent of the forest enveloped him and soothed his restless mind. It had a calming effect on him, but it only mildly replicated the peace Isaiah would’ve brought in that moment. The ground gave way slightly beneath his feet and cushioned his firm but fluid stride.

Florence followed him, her blonde head circling the old black Stingray that Zeev had once made roadworthy with Richard—although, in truth, Richard had done most of the work. Not that Zeev had minded, considering the gleam in Richard’s eyes as he enthusiastically shared every detail about the parts with his son-in-law.

He gently stroked her back as they continued along the path—a silent thank-you for accompanying him. Florence wasn’t exactly known for keeping a cool head, but that made room for Zeev to take on that role. On his own, he wouldn’t have managed.

A sight unfolded before them that made Zeev’s neck hairs stand on end. A white wooden facade, an American flag ominously fluttering in the wind, a red roof clashing sharply and poisonously with the rich green of the forest.

"It's the one," Zeev murmured, his voice flat. Like a child in unfamiliar surroundings, he instinctively reached for her hand and didn’t take another step forward. He realized he hadn’t made a plan for what to do if he actually found the house. The lack of hope had robbed him of that foresight. Now, uncertainty tightened around his throat.

It wasn’t as if Florence hadn’t experienced moments like these herself, no matter how confidently he carried himself in everything he did. He was someone who protected. Who, in moments of greatest weakness, offered a reassuring presence. Someone you could hold onto when the path ahead became clouded.

Now it was the young witch who had to take on that role. She squeezed his hand in support. The smile on her lips held nothing mocking, but it did carry a certain edge—meant both to show him that his fear was unfounded and to make clear that she, too, was ready to fight. Whether with words or fists made no difference to her.

Zeev squeezed her hand back and gave her a nod. Then, finally, he moved, one foot in front of the other, closing the distance between past and future, toward the answer of whether a murder had truly taken place. And if so, what kind of person must one be to allow the murder of their own daughter, just to destroy the lives of complete strangers?

None of it made sense.

He wasn’t sure that ever would.

He took a deep breath and raised his hand. His rings shimmered in the dappled sunlight scattered across the property. His gaze then fell to his wedding ring, the violet-gold stone offering him silent reassurance.

This was more than his rage. More than his grief.

This was for Isaiah.

A few thunderous seconds passed in which his heart stole the air from his lungs.

The door swung open energetically, unbothered, and almost overly enthusiastic. The man who smiled at them seemed to have nothing to hide. Or, Zeev thought, he was hiding it very well. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with receding hairlines already quite prominent.

Zeev resisted judging people by their appearance, yet he found it difficult to see more than an inconspicuous family man in the guy wearing a plaid flannel shirt and faded jeans. He looked more like the type who’d let out heavy grunts when sitting down and rave about new barbecue sauces at every cookout, while his coworkers gazed in awe at his new Broil King.

“Good afternoon,” the man chirped toward them. His smile didn’t seem forced, nor did it suggest he was hiding anything. Much less grieving. On top of that, he didn’t appear to recognize Zeev. “Can I help?”

Zeev faltered. A reply got stuck in his throat, and he glanced past the man into the house, but could see little beyond beige cabinets and family photos in the hallway. The scent of incense numbed his nose.

“We're here to meet your wife,” Florence lied boldly, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The witcher’s gaze briefly flicked to the hand on the doorframe and saw a wedding ring. His eyes then shifted to the nameplate.

Higgins.

Anger is healthy, Florence had claimed, but the searing heat rushing through him felt more like a fever.

The man briefly furrowed his brow and understandably eyed his unexpected guests with skepticism. “She hadn’t mentioned any visitors.”

“You know how she is,” Zeev jumped on the lie, even though his heart twisted strangely in response. Illusions were one thing, but lying still made him uncomfortable. All the more unsettling was how easy it came to him. “She tends to be rather secretive.”

He smiled at him charmingly and was soon met with a dry chuckle from the man. “That does sound like Allegra."

The warmth in his expression stood in stark contrast to the inner turmoil in his chest. Allegra. Was she the root of all this?

Meeting her hadn’t been on today’s checklist. Was this the place Elvira had grown up in? Was this why the house had appeared to him? Not because she was there now, but because she had spent most of her life there?

He was emotionally unprepared to face the mother of a dead girl. Least of all the woman allegedly responsible for Isaiah’s suffering.

“I suppose we’re too early," Florence sighed, more sweetly than Zeev would’ve ever expected from her. She was a natural-born actress, and he found it admirable how effortlessly she wrapped the man around her finger. "We didn’t mean to surprise you. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience."

The man waved it off and stepped aside. “No, no, it’s alright. I was just in the middle of making dinner. Very sorry for the mess, but come right in. Allegra wouldn’t like it much if I were to send you off."

“Thank you, that’s appreciated," Zeev smiled, then paused mid-movement. "Oh, wait—I forgot something in my car. I’ll grab it real quick." He glanced over at Florence, who gave him a gentle nod. She could handle herself. She had for many years, out on the streets.

Zeev hurried down the path, rubbing his restless hands. His thumb pressed into the scar that had healed but still hurt under pressure. It helped, he had to admit. Helped him detach from his storming thoughts. At the car, he pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial assigned to only one person.

"Isaiah, we found it," he said without much emotional introduction. He didn’t want to keep Florence waiting. “More than we bargained for. It’s the Higgins residence, the mother’s name is Allegra. I might meet her, she has a husband, but he’s either a stellar actor or he doesn’t know shit about what his wife does. It'll send you the location, I'll keep the line running. I'll send my whereabouts to Helena and Amber as well, if anything strange happens, shoot them a message. Maybe you’ll be able to find something about Allegra on the net. I can imagine she's involved in community work or something. If he truly doesn’t know his wife’s schemes, she might cover it up.”

The inside of the house was surprisingly bright. In fact, everything was oddly colorless, at least compared to Zeev’s own style. Pale parquet floors, bleached furniture, lacquered cabinets. Everything had a designated place and was kept understated. A few vases with white lilies, one or two family pictures arranged on shelves. Nothing was crowded together, and there was still plenty of empty space.

It struck him as barren and empty, like the pictures in interior design magazines he and Isaiah had flipped through when they first moved to Macomb. It was modern, no doubt, but also devoid of personality. Nothing about it revealed who the Higgins family really was.

A cross hung above the living room doorframe. Witches, as far as Zeev could tell, were expressionistic. Allegra seemed to go out of her way to obscure her nature—to maintain the impression of an unremarkable American woman.

Florence was seated at the oak table, one leg crossed over the other, a casual smile on her lips. As Zeev approached, phone in hand and screen facing his thigh, she was just in the middle of working her charm.

“A man knowing how to make focaccia is a heaven’s gift. All those I met knew how to order take-out at best, and even those only alternated between pizza and burgers—you can imagine how exciting those dinner dates were.”

“Youth these days know little about the joys of culinary diversity. Focaccia is far from extraordinary, but there’s delight in its simplicity without it being bland.”

Zeev placed the phone face down on the table, letting his fingertips lightly brush Florence’s elbow. She understood the nonverbal signal without looking. Before sitting down, the witch strolled casually through the room with his innate grace. He was too restless to sit.

There wasn’t much to see, yet he was drawn to the pictures.

“A lovely home,” he commented, a challenging glint in his golden eyes.

“Thank you!” The man raised his chin with pride. “Was quite the effort to buy, but my wife… she’s determined. If she wants something, she gets it. I remember her words loud and clear when we first saw it. She said: David, it’s this or none. You can imagine we did everything we could, because there was no way I’d survive another year near her mother.”

Florence giggled, as if she understood what he was hinting at. “That explains where her personality comes from.”

“One of them is challenge enough,” he chuckled, relaxing into his seat. “Where are you two from? Are you a couple?”

Florence wrinkled her nose in disgust, which Zeev found a little insulting. “Absolutely not, he’s my brother.”

David drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Oops, I’m sorry.” Zeev waved it off. “Adoptive, I might add.” “That changes little,” the witch clarified, raising an eyebrow.

The brief humorous exchange had a calming effect on him, and he couldn’t help but smile. His fingertips glided over the surface of a display cabinet. No dust clung to his hand. He picked up one of the pictures and examined the three-member family.

“We’re from around here. Moved here about two years ago,” she lied. Florence and Octavia had indeed moved to Illinois, but both were constantly drawn across the globe. And Zeev? He’d been living in Macomb for four years. Four years of peace, disrupted and threatened by a group he never would have noticed if they hadn’t fixated so intensely on him and Isaiah.

“Oh! That’s still fresh. Where are you originally from?” “Boston,” she murmured. Not entirely true, but easier to lie when woven with half-truths. “Massachusetts?” “Lincolnshire,” she corrected. “Ah, I thought I heard a British accent. That’s quite the distance. How come?” “Love.” Zeev’s voice was gentle as he said it, but there was a sharpness beneath it, designed to provoke some kind of reaction in the man. And he got one—just not the what he’d expected.

“That’s lovely!” the man replied with a smile and now looked over to the witch, who still held the photo in his hands. “That’s from a summer in Cali. My wife and daughter. Must’ve been ages ago. I believe Elvira was six at the time.”

Zeev’s fixed gaze was on the woman beside David. She smiled warmly—kind, approachable. She had smooth, reddish-brown hair, and even in the picture, fine lines traced her face, hinting at her aging. She didn’t look older or younger than David. Hm, echoed in his head.

“A beautiful family you got there, David. Wouldn’t have thought that’s Allegra.” David let out a weak laugh. He didn’t act or speak like someone who had just lost his daughter days ago. That didn’t make sense. How could Allegra keep him from knowing about a court case that investigated the murder of his own daughter?

“Yeah, those were easier times,” he admitted. There was a trace of regret in his small, closely set eyes.

Florence leaned forward and touched the man’s hand. The compassionate smile on her full lips had something unsettling about it. “Apologies in advance for invading the privacy of you two. Allegra doesn’t speak much about her past.”

Zeev placed the photo back, but stole one more glance at her face. Knowing what she looked like gave him an advantage—if only a small one. She had undoubtedly changed since then.

“She thinks more about the future than about what was, I admire that a lot about her. Always dashing forward. I like to believe I’m grounding her, whenever she's heading too far.”

This time it was Zeev who looked at him with pity. He didn’t believe David held any real significance to Allegra, other than helping her maintain the image of a normal family. Maybe she loved him, but judging by recent events, not enough to let him be part of her criminal life. He paused to catch his breath. Or maybe she loved him enough to want to protect him from the consequences. To Zeev, her motivations didn’t matter. He still felt a hint of sympathy for David.

“Elvira, your child—where is she?” Zeev dared to ask, fully aware that he was risking suspicion.

David, bless him, was either too carefree or Florence was already influencing him.

“She’s upstairs,” he informed them with a mournful shrug. “Been sick for two weeks now, but she’s recovering.”

Blistering heat creeped to Zeev’s head. He clasped his hands behind his back so he could knead them out of David’s line of sight. His face remained stern, unreadable. His heart was pounding so hard against his ribcage it made him dizzy. His stomach turned.

“Our condolences,” Florence quickly redirected the attention back to herself. Her hand still rested on David’s, and Zeev noticed how she gave it a gentle squeeze. “We heard as much. Allegra’s been all over the place since then. We’ve been doing our best to keep work off her shoulders.”

Zeev continued wandering through the room, circling the kitchen table that stood freely in the colorless space, lost in a storm of thoughts. His legs moved on their own—an outlet for the unrest coursing through his body like choppy seas around a small skiff.

David, despite Florence’s influence, could feel the guest’s aura. Time and again, he tried to make eye contact. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“So you’re from the Methodist Church? Must be new then, hadn’t mentioned you before.”

The mention of the church caused Florence’s lips to purse bitterly for a moment before she masked it with a welcoming smile.

“That’s actually why we’re here. We’d like to talk about the annual seasonal celebration.”

“Oh, she’s been talking about that one non-stop! Already hinted it’s going to be bigger than ever before. Has the whole congregation wrapped around her finger since she mentioned it. I figured she wouldn’t be able to pull that off all by herself.”

“Especially not with everything that’s happened recently,” Zeev murmured. His voice remained smooth, even as his body trembled.

“She likes to emanate stability. A trait many admire in her, me included, but I figured it must be getting to her.” David let out a heavy sigh and glanced, just briefly but tellingly, toward the door that undoubtedly led to the staircase.

Zeev had to gather every ounce of self-control not to run through it. As long as he didn’t see Elvira, it could still be a deception. Maybe David wasn’t a liar, but that didn’t mean his reality matched the one they were currently in.

“Are you a believer?” asked Florence finally. A plea in her green eyes, directed solely at Zeev. She nodded toward the seat beside her. Zeev ignored it, however, and continued walking through the room, which was growing increasingly dense. A heaviness in the atmosphere that didn’t require an empath to feel.

David shifted nervously in his chair, unaware of where the discomfort was coming from.

“Yes, of course. The Lord is my guide and saviour. He has granted me a wonderful life. A daughter, a wife, a home.”

“He indeed has,” Florence agreed. “He has led us to your wife as well. We’re really grateful to be giving something back to the community as well. They've welcomed us warmly and helped us adjust.”

The statement relieved some of David’s unease. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? How community means stability and care. She's a helper, doing so much for the people around her. I like to believe she loves me the most, but I know she holds love for the people the most.”

Zeev came to a stop behind him. His eyes, now darkened, stared at the back of David’s head. Bitterly, his lips pulled into a sharp line. Illusions had once been his specialty, but never on this scale. Allegra was indeed a witch—in a derogatory sense of the word. She committed wrongdoing even toward the person she had undoubtedly sworn to love. There was no doubt in David’s words, and although they should have stirred compassion in Zeev, all that rose in him were the flames of hatred.

David was a victim and yet Zeev wanted to wrap his hands around his throat and choke out every further word. Allegra didn’t care about people. If she did, she wouldn’t hurt Isaiah. Hurt the one person who embodied boundless love.

His ringed hand settled on the man’s shoulder, his fingertips creasing the flannel shirt as they applied pressure.

“She does know how to achieve her goals,” he said, his voice void of warmth. “We've noticed her ambitions the day we first got into contact.”

David straightened his shoulders, but the hand didn’t lift. Zeev continued staring at his skull as if trying to practice telepathy.

“What’s that smell?” offered Florence as both an escape for David and a warning to the witcher.

“My Focaccia!” David seized the opportunity and jumped up from his chair, forcing Zeev to step back. His jaw clenched. The homeowner left the room to head into the kitchen. His short legs moved faster than one would have expected. Zeev kept his gaze fixed on him.

“Zeev,” whispered Florence, her brows drawn together. “Relax.”

Instead of answering, he shot her a dark look that made her flinch. She recovered quickly.

“If you lose your temper now, we won't get anywhere. From what I’ve gathered, he’s innocent.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I'm sure of it.”

Zeev took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“If she gets here, I don’t think it's going to be civil.”

“Not saying it has to be,” she agreed. “But there’s no point in throwing fists if it only leads to our disadvantage.”

“I need to see her.”

“Elvira?”

He gave a faint nod and looked toward the doorframe. Soft clattering suggested David was still busy preparing the food.

“I don’t think he'll let a stranger to his kid.”

A glint appeared in his eyes. A hint of gold and mischief.

“Not on his own will.”

Florence’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline, and for a surprising moment, she seemed speechless.

“Are you suggesting…?”

“No, but you will.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command. And although she wasn’t known for taking orders, she let it slide. Maybe she was just too stunned.

When David returned and apologized for the interruption, Zeev turned to him. His lips curled into a dazzling smile, and once more, he laid a hand on David’s shoulder.

“Would you mind if I say a blessing to Elvira? I feel terrible not showing compassion to Allegra’s little sunshine, while we have such a comfortable chat down here.” Zeev felt terrible indeed, because his intentions were anything but compassionate.

David, understandably puzzled by the request, questioning his sense of duty and care. That alone was all Zeev needed as a sign that he wasn’t entirely unwilling. It made Florence’s task easier.

Her gentle touch on his arm as she guided him back to the table served as a bridge into the man’s heart. The scent of lemongrass danced around Zeev’s nose, and he watched the witch attentively. Even though his urge to see Elvira currently held priority, Florence’s well-being still mattered to him. A trace of concern danced across his features. Her words to the man were carefully chosen and felt like an argument he couldn’t refuse.

“I suppose,” David murmured at last. “A blessing can only aid her.” Zeev nodded in agreement and mouthed a silent “thank you” in Florence’s direction. He was certain she would make him pay for this favor in gold.

Fortunately, he had enough jewelry to supply a jeweler. Zeev thanked him.

Florence engaged David in casual conversation and asked about the wonderfully fragrant recipe, while Zeev reverently took the steps upstairs. He followed his instinct and the pull of the presence, the phone clutched tightly in his hand.

Every further step did his heart no good. He would probably faint before reaching the room. His steps were muffled by the blue carpet, the hallway was narrow. The uncovered window allowed light to fall in, casting a yellow cone on the three white doors. A trace of doubt tightened his chest. What if David was wrong? What if he had long since lost his daughter and was living in an illusion?

Zeev felt like he would suffocate from the cruelty if that turned out to be the truth.

And then he heard it: a cough. Weak and dry. Instantly, tears welled over his lower eyelid and he paused. He looked at the screen of his phone, considered speaking with Isaiah before going further, but decided against it. He didn’t want to lose time. He would hear it. He would learn the truth. The sunlight rendered the bedroom door into a point of interest.

He knocked on the door and waited. He hadn’t entirely lost his manners, even if Elvira couldn’t know who stood at the door. Accordingly, the permission granted by her weak voice wasn’t really his to accept. Still, he opened it and stood in the doorway.

The person in bed, wrapped in a green blanket with a floral pattern, inhaled so sharply that it turned into coughing. She was pale, her hair colorless and dry—wild, on top of that. The air in the room was stale, with a note of sage mixed in. Her room, in contrast to the rest of the house, was a wild array of interests. Magazines lay scattered on her dresser, light blue curtains hung lifelessly in front of her window. A TV was mounted on the wall next to various photographs of landscapes and friendships. She had an impressive collection of strange little figurines. Elephants, giraffes, otters… They seemed to be made of gemstones. A mountain of laundry veiled her desk chair.

Zeev lacked the interest to take in more details, as his gaze quickly returned to the pitiful figure in bed. He had already seen her frightened in the Sanctuary, but what was visible on her face now surpassed everything.

She shook her head, but the movement was limited by her condition.

Zeev could be intimidating, but being feared was a reflection on her pale face that made him uncomfortable. Still, it was useful.

His movements were slow. Although she saw him, he felt like he was stalking prey.

“Looking quite alive, Elvira,” he whispered and closed the door behind him. The click enticed a whimper from her.

“Please,” she begged. He tilted his head to the side and stepped to the edge of her bed, smoothed the fabric at the foot, and sat down. She scooted to the side as best she could. He crossed one leg over the other and turned his upper body toward her, one hand supporting him.

“Please what?”

She didn’t answer, choking on her own tongue. Tears ran down her cheeks, her eyes already reddened from exhaustion. Zeev accepted her silence and let it linger. She could avoid questions, not his presence.

When she spoke, her voice was as thin as floss.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please…”

“As a sign of my goodwill, I repeat: please what?”

“Don’t hurt me…”

His face twisted into a grimace. “Hurt you?”

The implication that he would do so stung. What did she think he was? She nodded in response and pulled the blanket up to her chin. He had guessed her to be around twenty, but now he felt like he was sitting in front of a child.

“Why should I hurt you?”

She seemed confused by his words and mimicked his expression.

“Do you think this is my doing?” He gestured loosely toward her appearance. She said nothing and instead looked away, unable to hold his gaze.

“Elvira.” A gentleness returned to his voice, one he hadn’t thought himself still capable of. Not in the face of the person responsible for Isaiah's misery for the second time. “This isn’t my fault. It’s yours.”

Something about her was strange. Admittedly, he couldn’t judge much from her appearance, and the last time he’d seen her, he had been so filled with rage that his senses were clouded. Now, despite feeling similarly hateful, he relied on his intuition again.

“Are you a witch?”

She looked at him dimly. Then the unexpected happened: she shook her head.

The realization hit him unprepared, and he didn’t know how to process that answer. But he knew she wasn’t lying.

“Is your mother a witch?”

She hesitated, but shook her head again. By now, she had stopped crying, though the fear remained. Confusion setting into her instead.

It confirmed what Zeev had already suspected when looking at the photo. Witches possess a certain quality. An extraordinariness that is hard to overlook, but difficult for common folks to define. It causes a gaze not to stray. Like a painting whose deep beauty defies explanation but wakes emotions in the depths of the heart. Attraction, discomfort, curiosity, mistrust—contradictory perceptions that leave a lasting impression.

Allegra was just a woman.

Just like Elvira.

Zeev didn’t know what to make of this information. It made no sense.

“Do you know witches, Elvira? Have you conversed with one?”

She hesitated before shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know.”

The witcher pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed.

“Are you aware of what is currently happening? That you've been pronounced dead and your mother has put my husband into trial? That he's charged with murder of you?”

She looked away.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” she whispered “Yes, I know…”

“What is your mother doing? What has she gotten you into?”

“Please…” she sobbed again, pulling the blanket higher up to her chin alongside her legs.

“I'm not here to hurt you, Elvira.” He spoke firmly, without giving her a shred of doubt.

“Your sickness. I’ve been told you're sick for two weeks now. Whatever your mother has done, it's her fault, you hear me? Whatever powers are at play right now, she’s treading a dangerous path and you're her pawn, do you understand that?”

She looked at him in disbelief, her brow furrowed.

“Magic has a price and if the Order she operates for is what I believe it is then you and your father are at the sidelines of gates you don’t want to cross. What do you know about the Mark of Solaris?”

She remained silent. The fear in her eyes shifted. She wiped her eyes before her hand weakly fell back onto the sheet.

“You're currently paying the price of your mother’s greed, Elvira, and of those people she’s working with. If you want to live, if you want a future with your friends and your father, you have to work with me. Do you understand that?”

She remained silent, uncertainty in every crease of her young, exhausted face.

“I assume you're not allowed to leave this house, but… If you can, please come find us. I’ll keep you safe, if you allow. We need your help, Elvira. And you need yours as well. Don’t follow her path, it’ll lead to your demise. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about.”

“Is it true then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you Saint Sol?”

For the blink of an eye, confusion crossed his face, then he smiled kindly and took her hand. If this was the way to win, he’d take the opportunity.

“I am.”

Her eyes widened. The sight of reverence stirred discomfort in his stomach. And something else alongside it. A feeling he didn't dare to allow room to blossom. “And I tell you, whatever the Mark of Solaris is doing is not in my interest.” He paused, meeting her gaze with emphasis. “I'm getting very, very displeased.”

Her fear remained, but something mixed into it. A trace of hope, which worried him. Mark of Solaris, if he was putting the puzzle pieces together correctly, was more than a cult. They were playing with powers whose consequences they couldn’t bear. Allegra’s faith was not Christianity—it was a farce. Mark of Solaris followed a strange belief. And as it seemed, he was at the center of it. Zeev didn’t like what that thought was doing to him. But if it was divinity they wanted, they’d have to start building a ark.

He left Elvira his number, asked for discretion, and rose to leave. Just before exiting her room, he turned back to her.

“Would you tell your mother something from me?”

She nodded, excitement flashing in the returning shine of her eyes.

“Family’s sacred,” he spoke smoothly. “I don’t pray. I promise.”

Visible confusion overcame David when Zeev decided to leave the house. Urgent matters, they had put it. David didn’t try to stop them, probably relieved to rid himself of the strange atmosphere that had invaded his home. Zeev didn’t have the capacity to deal with Allegra if she came home. He needed to prepare for a confrontation. Time was running out, and whatever spell was cast on David had likely been placed on the authorities as well.

They were capable of creating illusions. Magic was everywhere—not just for witches. Occultism wasn’t exclusive to his bloodline, even if they were its foundation. Magic was practiced in many parts of the world, even in America—long before the continent was colonized. It wasn’t unlikely that witches had been instrumentalized for their cause. That Elvira didn’t know was no proof that she wasn’t working with them.

But it did explain the carelessness of her actions. A witch worked with intention, with an unspoken code. Mark of Solaris seemed organized, but self-centered. They didn’t care about the consequences, even if they resulted in hurting their own child.

They spat on the legacy of his family, on the challenges they had faced throughout history. Witchcraft was a gift—a blessing. It came with a duty that went beyond one’s own interests. To them, as Zeev saw it, it was just a tool to reach their goals. It was an insult.

When he and Florence returned to the Lafayette Streets, Zeev fell into Isaiah’s arms without hesitation and nuzzled against him. His scent, his voice, his closeness—all of it was balm for his soul, and he could feel his heart settle, his mood improving.

“I missed you,” he whispered up to him and looked at him with warming eyes. How much he would’ve liked to have had him there. It felt wrong to search for answers without him. Florence and Octavia said their goodbyes shortly afterward, but let the two know they would stay nearby. Zeev showed his gratitude with tight hugs, warm words, and a gift that now adorned Florence’s hand.

Over a cup of tea and a strong coffee, Zeev told Isaiah everything he had found out and what suspicions he held. They had stayed in touch over the phone, but that didn’t mean everything had been understood. The whole time, Zeev was fidgeting with his husband’s hand. Such a simple touch, yet meaningful. “Did you record the call? Just in case? I'm not sure if this will serve as enough evidence, but I feel a bit more confident with that at disposal.” He pulled his hand to his lips and kissed it, until the slight physical contact wasn’t enough anymore and he pulled him out into the garden and onto the lounge to cuddle in his arms. The sun was now hinting at a late afternoon and warmed their faces. Gently, his palm moved across Isaiah’s chest.

“Has Zara messaged you? Has she retrieved the files of the surveillance? I can try, as you suggested, to break the illusion. If there’s one to begin with.” The witcher turned his head and looked up at him, brushed a few golden curls from his face and caressed his cheek before kissing him audibly.

“This whole… ordeal is exhausting,” he finally confessed and sank back against him, threw his legs across Isaiah’s lap and sighed. “I feel so… I hate what it does to me. I wish I could snap my fingers and have it gone. I'm so tired of them pulling you into their bullshit. I hope I didn’t scare Elvira that much. I hope she'll reach out… If we want this trial to end in our favour, having her on our side is the best chance to win. Against the judgement and the Cult. We've been on the losing side way too long. She could be our game-changer.”

He enjoyed a moment of peaceful silence, listened to the sounds of the garden, and let the past few weeks play back in his mind like stubborn dirt that had clung to them. Zeev couldn’t shower enough to wash away the malaise—not as long as Isaiah wore the device on his ankle.

“Have you found anything out? About Allegra and her Church services? She seems to be pretty tied to Community businesses. I suspect to uphold some Saint Mary perception, her schemes however speak devilish intentions, if we stick to the cultist narrative.”

He listened to Isaiah’s words, and regardless of their content, he found something healing in them. Not long after, the witcher needed distance from the day’s events. He wanted to return to the everyday—a life where his biggest worry was whether Isaiah had eaten enough when he got caught up in his work. They cooked together, read to each other, stood in the middle of the living room and just held each other, kissed on the couch and forgot what movie they’d decided on after an hour of browsing.

Zeev loved the mundane life. He loved the quiet. He loved the certainty of a warm, safe home. He didn’t need grand adventures or challenges to know he was alive. He loved life with Isaiah, just the way it had been. He loved Isaiah. He would protect him. No matter the cost.

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