The air inside the apartment felt thick, suffocating. Celeste stood frozen, Amelia's words still hanging between them.
"They want you."
Celeste's stomach twisted. She knew this moment would come—knew that her existence was too fragile, too unnatural to remain unnoticed. But she hadn't expected it to happen so soon.
Amelia was pacing again, her hands tugging at the ends of her sleeves, her movements sharp with barely contained panic. "It's a trap," she muttered. "They wouldn't have taken it if they didn't know what it meant. They know what you are, Celeste."
"I know," Celeste murmured. Her voice felt distant, like it wasn't entirely her own.
Amelia stopped and turned to face her. "Then you understand why you can't go."
Celeste swallowed. "I don't think we have a choice."
"Yes, we do." Amelia's voice was firm, but there was an edge of desperation beneath it. "We figure something else out. We find out who they are, what they want. We do anything but walk straight into their hands."
Celeste hesitated.
She wanted to believe they had time to think, to plan. But the crack on her wrist burned—not just a cold ache this time, but something deeper, like a warning pulsing through her veins. She clenched her fingers into a fist, hiding it from Amelia's gaze.
If the cracks kept spreading, there might not be another way.
Amelia was staring at her, and Celeste could see the fear behind her anger. Amelia wasn't just frustrated—she was terrified.
And she wasn't the only one.
Celeste exhaled and stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out to touch Amelia's hand. Amelia stiffened but didn't pull away.
"I know this is dangerous," Celeste said softly. "I know you don't want me to go." Amelia's jaw tightened. "But if that painting is the only thing keeping me here, we can't risk losing it."
Amelia's fingers curled around Celeste's, her grip tight. "I won't let you walk into this alone," she whispered. Celeste's heart clenched. "I don't think they'll let you come with me." Amelia's grip only tightened. "Then we make them think you are."
Celeste blinked. "What?"
Amelia's mind was already racing, the sharp, determined glint returning to her eyes. "We give them what they want. Or at least, we make them think we are." Celeste felt a flicker of hope. "You have a plan?" Amelia exhaled. "Not yet." She pulled her hand away and grabbed her phone. "But we're going to find out exactly who the hell we're dealing with."
Celeste watched as Amelia disappeared into the next room, her fingers already flying over the keyboard. For the first time that night, Celeste felt something other than fear.
A spark.
A fight.
They weren't giving up.
Not yet.
Amelia's desk was now covered in books and loose sheets of paper, most of them flipped open to hastily scribbled notes about summoning magic, celestial alignments, and manifestations. The apartment felt like a war room, lit only by the cool glow of her laptop and the occasional flicker of city lights through the window.
Celeste sat on the couch, absently tracing the crack on her wrist. It hadn't grown in the last hour, but that didn't mean it wouldn't. The thought made her stomach knot.
"They're not just anyone," Amelia said suddenly, pulling Celeste from her thoughts. "Whoever took your painting—they knew exactly what they were doing." She ran a hand through her hair, frustration clear in every tense movement. "There's no way this was random."
Celeste nodded slowly. "So what do we do?"
Amelia turned the laptop screen toward her. "We find them first." The screen displayed a security camera feed—grainy, but clear enough to show the back of a hooded figure leaving the gallery.
"You hacked into the gallery's security footage?" Celeste asked, raising an eyebrow. Amelia didn't even look up. "No, I borrowed the password from someone who didn't know better."
Celeste almost smiled at that, but the tension in the room kept it from forming fully. Instead, she leaned closer. "Can you trace them?" Amelia clicked a few more keys, pulling up another screen. A map. A blinking red dot.
"They used a phone," Amelia muttered. "A burner, but still traceable—at least for a little while." Celeste felt a chill run down her spine. This was real. Whoever had taken the painting wasn't some ordinary thief. They had a purpose, a plan.
And now, they had a location. Amelia turned to Celeste, eyes dark with determination.
"We leave in ten minutes."