It was late evening, the kind of evening where the sky is a bruise of deep purples and oranges, and the first stars nervously flicker into existence. Eli paced the living room, phone pressed to his ear, the receiver crackling faintly as Iza's voice on the other end quivered.

"I haven't seen him," Iza said, her tone pitched somewhere between exasperation and worry. "I thought... well, I thought he'd be home by now."

Eli closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. His nephew wasn't the type to go off-grid like this—not for so long, not without a word. Sure, Nze could be dramatic. He was a master of the storm-off, the grand exit, the slamming of doors as punctuation to his frustration. But he wasn't reckless. At least, not in this way.

"Okay," Eli said, forcing calm into his voice, though his stomach was knotting itself into an Olympic-level performance of flips and twists. "Call me if you hear something."

But Iza wasn't reassured. "Do you think something happened to him?" she asked.

Eli didn't answer right away. What could he say? That his gut was telling him something was wrong? That he'd spent the last half-hour replaying every fight, every slammed door, every sharp word he'd ever exchanged with his little sister, Rebecca—just like her stubborn son? That every unanswered call to his phone felt like a rope tightening around his chest?

"He's fine," Eli lied, as much to himself as to Iza.

He hung up before Iza could respond, the silence on the other end of the line pressing into his ear like a weight he couldn't shake. When he turned, Naomi was standing there, her arms crossed, her eyes rimmed red but sparkling with a kind of fragile hope that made him feel simultaneously reassured and completely unmoored. 

"He'll come back," she said softly, a small, sad smile tugging at her lips. It wasn't the kind of smile that said she knew it for sure—it was the kind that said she needed to believe it. And somehow, that made it feel even more real. 

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Iza's thumb hovered over Oby's contact. The ringing felt endless, each trill on the line like a taunt.

"Sweetheart?" Oby's voice finally came through.

"It's Nze," Iza blurted, skipping past pleasantries. "He hasn't gone home. Eli called me—they haven't seen him. His phone's off. I don't know what to do, Aunty. I think—" She stopped herself, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"Breathe, Izabella," Oby said, her voice steady as bedrock. "He's fine."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I know him," Oby replied. "And because, if his family can't keep him safe, then you know who will."

Iza froze, the words hanging in the air like a sudden chill. "You mean the leopard."

"Yes." Oby's tone was matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. "If anything happened to Nze, the bond would have kicked in. The leopard wouldn't let anything happen to him."

Iza wasn't sure if that was supposed to be comforting or terrifying. On the one hand, it was good to think that Nze wasn't alone out there. On the other hand, relying on a wild animal with supernatural instincts and an imprinted bond felt... precarious.

"Okay," Iza said finally, though it didn't feel like a resolution.

"Keep your phone on," Oby added. "And try not to worry too much. He'll turn up."

But Iza didn't know how not to worry.

She spent the next hour staring at her textbooks, trying to cram equations into a brain that kept replaying the image of Nze smiling at her when she walked him home. She should've kept checking in, over and over, no excuses. If something had happened to him—and God, what if something had happened to him—then a piece of the blame, maybe even most of it, would sit squarely on her shoulders.

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Bee's old room in Oakwood was frozen in time. The lilac bedspread was frayed, and posters of defunct bands clung to peeling wallpaper. Dust lingered in the air, heavy with regret. It wasn't much, but it was hers. 

Except now, it wasn't hers. It was his. Or, more accurately, it was his grave. 

Nze's body lay across the bed, unnervingly still. His chest didn't rise or fall. His lips, once quick with wit and sharp with mock anger, were motionless. Bee sat on the floor beside the bed, her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes locked on his face as if sheer willpower alone could wake him. 

"What I would give," she murmured, her voice thick with something between grief and fury, "to see you breathe again." 

And then, as if summoned by her desperation, the door creaked open. 

Nyamekye stepped inside, her dark figure slicing through the dim glow of the single lamp. Behind her was someone Bee recognized immediately, and her muscles coiled like a spring. 

It was her. The witch who had attacked Nze's house that morning. Chinasa. 

Bee was on her feet in an instant, a low growl rumbling from her throat. She lunged forward, but Nyamekye moved faster, stepping between them with a calm that only infuriated Bee further. 

"Don't," Nyamekye said, her voice firm but laced with an unsettling calm. "She's with us now." 

Bee glared, her fists trembling at her sides. "With us?" she spat. "That bitch tried to kill Nze!" 

Nyamekye didn't flinch. "And yet, Nze is dead now," she said, the words landing like bricks in the silence. 

Bee froze, her breath catching in her throat. The truth of it was a blade she couldn't dodge. 

Nyamekye took a step closer, her tone softening but not losing its edge. "And this 'bitch,' as you call her, is going to help you bring him back." 

Bee's eyes darted between Nyamekye and Chinasa, suspicion thick as fog. "Bring him back?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Chinasa grinned then, a slow, sharp thing that stretched across her face like a crescent moon. "Yes,"
she said.

Bee let out a slow, heavy breath. Working with the enemy wasn't just distasteful—it felt like swallowing shards of glass. But she'd already crossed every line that mattered: betrayed her troop, betrayed her brother—all for Nze. At this point, there was no turning back. No way out but through. And really, without Nze, what was there left for her anyway? "What do you need?"

Chinasa's smile deepened. "It's not a question of what we need. It's who." 

Bee blinked, confusion knitting her brow. "Who?" 

Chinasa stepped forward now, her movements feline, deliberate. "To perform the spell of resurrection," she said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, "you need a blood witch. And, lucky for you, there's one right here in St. Leo." 

Bee's frustration bubbled over. "Then where is she? Just tell me where to find her!" 

Chinasa's grin widened, her eyes glittering with something dangerous. "She goes to Holy Cross College. Follows this one—" she gestured lazily at Nze's lifeless form—"like flies to a cow's tail. Obioma's niece." 

Bee's heart stuttered. "Iza?" 

Chinasa gave a slow, mocking nod. 

Bee's mind reeled. Iza? Sweet, quiet Iza? A witch? The absurdity of it made her want to laugh, but the weight of Nze's body behind her held her firmly in reality. 

"She's a witch?" Bee repeated, her voice quieter this time. 

"Apparently," Chinasa said with a shrug. "Obioma hid her well, but she's as powerful as her aunt. And if we're going to manipulate life itself, we'll need her." 

"Manipulate?" Bee's voice sharpened like a knife. 

Chinasa's grin was all teeth now. "Yes," she purred. 

Bee turned to Nyamekye, her fists clenching again. "I want him back exactly as he was," she said, her voice trembling with fury and desperation. "Not mutilated. Not mutated. Not... manipulated." 

"Beggars can't be choosers," Chinasa sang, but Nyamekye held up a hand, silencing her. 

"Fine," Nyamekye said, her tone exasperated. "Exactly as he was. But you have to bring us the blood witch." 

Bee stared at her for a long moment, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Then she nodded, the weight of the task settling onto her shoulders like a shroud. 

"Okay," she said. "I'll bring her."

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