Deirdre’s fingers idly scritched Samedi’s head, the cat purring in her lap. Sprawled on her couch, she watched the last remnants of summer sun filter through the boards criss-crossing her windows. On the coffee table, a barely-puffed joint sat in an ashtray, a barely-sipped hard cider warmed to room temperature. Deirdre nearly never drank nor smoked, but the frequency of both activities had increased significantly across the previous year.

Her mind wandered, as it often had over the weeks since the Mask’s attack, back to the confusion of that night. Things still didn’t make sense to her. How had Paul and Victor recovered from their wounds? After she’d collapsed, it took Rehani almost a minute to rouse her. By the time she’d gotten herself back on her feet, she’d barely had the energy to move. Rehani didn’t know much in the way of healing magic—and what she did know, she’d already burned through the resources to use. Olly had tied up Robert Robertson while Nora had called emergency services and started cleaning up what little physical evidence the powerful ritual had left behind.

So what had happened?

What had happened to save Paul and Victor’s lives?

Abruptly, Samedi sat up and yawned. He stretched away from Deirdre’s hand and leapt to the floor. Switching his half-length tail side-to-side, he purred his way across the room to sit at the threshold.

Someone knocked on the door.

Deirdre rose from the couch. She found Olly on the other side of the peephole. For some reason she didn’t know, she glanced back at Samedi—but the cat had already padded his way back into the den. After another moment’s hesitation, Deirdre undid the locks and opened the door. “Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” they replied. “Can I, uh…come in?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Come on.” She stepped back.

Something was off.

“Thanks,” Olly murmured, squeezing through the gap. They peered around, thoughtful. “Huh.”

Deirdre worked the latches and bolts back into place. “Hm?”

“Just…I’ve never been here before. All this time, even when I was dating—” they paused around some flash of memory. “Even when I was dating Razz, I never came over here. I’ve never seen it.”

Deirdre gestured vaguely. “Welcome to my hut.”

In a sagging pullover cap, an antique shawl, and gray jeans, Olly resembled some vague archetype, a symbol, an omen. In chunky boots, they just-about tip-toed into the den. “Vic’s been acting weird,” they said, changing the subject.

“How so?” Deirdre asked, leaning against a flat of doorless threshold.

“Less talk around the dinner table, more time spent in the big office him and Ambrose used to share.”

“Was the talk around the table that plentiful in the first place?”

“There’s something he’s not telling us.”

“Maybe it’s not something you need to know.”

She noticed it, then, too late. The tension taut through Olly’s frame.

Olly turned toward her. “Do you all think you’re fucking Superman?”

Deirdre blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Fuck. Dee—”

“Deirdre.”

“—I almost saw you die.”

She crossed her arms at the words.

“Me and Nor’, all we have is you guys. Vic and you, Rehani, Paul…you’re it. And this thing almost took all of you.”

“We had to fight It.”

“I can’t believe—goddammit. You know what would’ve happened if you’d killed that guy instead of jamming him up?”

“The Mask would’ve gone away, waited for Its next opportunity.”

“Yeah. Exactly. ‘cause unlike you, It gets another chance to die. It can get a lot of ‘em.”

Deirdre’s defenses gave way. She slouched, frowning.

“Look, we can’t…” they hesitated. “It’s like Nora said, before.”

“You can’t keep losing people,” Deirdre remembered.

Olly sighed. “I’m sorry,” they said. “Sorry I came over here like this. Just. I think about it a lot. And Nor’s not really known for being able to handle her emotions. And she’s got a lot of them about this. So. Shit around the house has been tough.”

“Yeah.” Deirdre stepped into the room proper. “I’m sorry, too. I guess I didn’t…I dunno. But I’m sorry.”

A pause passed.

Olly eased their posture. “You know, you’re lucky we didn’t stay in the library.”

“Kids never listen.” Deirdre halfway grinned.

“Yo, I’m nineteen,” Olly replied. “And Nor’s seventeen. I know we’re not adult-adults, but I don’t think we’re kids.”

“You know who says something like that, right?”

A hint of amusement found its way onto their face. “Shut up.”

“A kid.”