Chapter 77: But What If I Don’t Think That’s Enough?
Chapter 77: Chapter 77: But What If I Don’t Think That’s Enough?
Chapter 77: But What If I Don’t Think That’s Enough?
A little after nine that night, Audra Sloane sat at her desk with an open notebook in front of her.
She had been writing down everything she could remember about the Glamourkin Ring: the way it altered Nora Ellison’s impression of Cyrus, the way it made Cyrus miss his own mouth while trying to drink water, and the blank, obedient state that followed when its pink stone flashed.
Her notes were organized.
Her thoughts were not.
Audra kept glancing at her phone beside the notebook. When it finally rang, she grabbed it before the first vibration had finished.
Grandfather.
The tension in her shoulders eased.
"Grandpa," she said, pressing the phone to her ear. "I called you several times."
Warren Sloane’s voice came through warm and faintly distracted, as though she had caught him halfway through a stack of research papers.
"You did. I was tied up all evening. What happened?"
"There is something in the study that I need to ask about."
Audra leaned back in her chair and looked toward the velvet box on the corner of the desk. She had taken the ring from its chain before calling. Even from a distance, the pink stone looked harmless.
"It is a ring," she continued. "It has a pink gem, and I found it in one of the old boxes near the shelves. I think it can affect people’s thoughts."
The line went quiet.
Audra explained what she had learned without mentioning Cyrus by name. She described the altered perception, the compulsions, and the strange way a person could be made to answer questions while their awareness drifted elsewhere.
She left out the stairwell.
She left out the kiss.
When she finished, Warren let out a thoughtful breath.
"So that ring really does work that way."
"You knew what it was?"
"Not exactly." His tone carried mild embarrassment. "Years ago, I knew a glamourkin woman reasonably well. We were never close enough for her to explain every artifact she owned, but she gave me that ring as a gift. I studied it after she left town and never discovered anything useful. Eventually, I put it away in the study and forgot about it."
Audra looked again at the box.
"You are saying you had no idea it could control people?"
"I knew glamourkin could influence the mind," Warren said. "I did not know the ring could reproduce that ability. Apparently, it was not meant to sit in a drawer."
Audra pressed her lips together.
The ring had not merely made Cyrus answer questions. It had changed Nora’s opinion, interfered with Cyrus’s judgment, and left Audra wondering whether it had changed something in her as well.
Warren sounded almost pleased.
"Would you be willing to study it for me?" he asked. "You have always been more patient with practical observations than I am."
Audra hesitated.
"I can look into it."
"Good. Keep notes, compare what happens under different circumstances, and do not assume the ability works the same way on everyone."
His phrasing made her pause.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Have you used it on someone of the opposite sex yet?"
The question landed too directly.
Audra’s fingers tightened around her phone.
"I have not."
The lie came out smoothly enough that Warren did not react.
"That is probably for the best," he said. "Glamourkin abilities are not always consistent across sex lines. The original owner of the ring was especially secretive about that part. I would not be surprised if the first use on someone of the opposite sex creates an unexpected effect."
Audra’s ears warmed.
"I understand."
"You can figure it out carefully," Warren said. "Call me when you have something useful."
After another brief exchange, the call ended.
Audra lowered her phone and walked to the window.
Moonlight lay across the lawn below the Sloane estate, pale over the hedges and the quiet driveway. The house had gone still for the night, leaving only the soft hum of climate control and the faint sound of rain beginning somewhere beyond the glass.
The first person of the opposite sex.
That explanation did not make her feel better.
Was that why the ring had made her want to close the distance in the stairwell? Was that why a simple question about who Cyrus thought was prettier had turned into something she could barely explain afterward?
Audra touched her lips.
The memory returned too easily.
Cyrus had been motionless beneath the ring’s influence. She had leaned down, told herself she was punishing him, and crossed a line before she understood that she had moved at all.
Her first kiss.
The thought should have filled her with regret.
Instead, it left her with a confusing, unsettled freshness she could not quite dismiss. She did not like that part of herself. She liked even less that, for one brief and humiliating moment, she had wondered whether a kiss was too small a price for the ability to make Cyrus answer whatever she wanted.
The thought disappeared as quickly as it came.
Audra turned from the window and returned to the desk.
Researching the ring still mattered. Rare-blood artifacts had always interested her, and the glamourkin ring was no longer a curiosity from her grandfather’s collection. It had effects. It had limits. It might have consequences she did not understand.
She lifted it from the velvet box and threaded it back onto the thin chain around her neck.
Only after fastening it did she remember something else.
She had left the stairwell too quickly.
She had removed the suggestion that made Cyrus miss his mouth, but she had not manually released him from the ring’s influence. He had returned to himself on his own.
Audra had already seen the difference between an intentional release and a passive one. A deliberate release left a person clearer, while the ring fading on its own created gaps, confusion, and the uneasy feeling that time had slipped away without explanation.
Cyrus might have noticed.
He was observant when it mattered. He had already become cautious around her, and the stairwell incident gave him another reason to be wary.
Audra sat down again, her fingers resting against the pink stone at her collarbone.
What exactly did the ring do to its wearer?
Why had it changed nothing when she used it on Nora, yet left Audra acting against her own expectations when she used it on Cyrus?
The questions multiplied faster than her notes could contain them.
Across Grayhaven, the night had settled around the apartment building.
Cyrus reached the third floor after his shift at The Full Moon Lounge with his shoulders aching and his patience already worn thin. He had spent the walk home hoping Daphne would not be waiting outside her door.
That hope lasted until he reached his apartment.
Daphne Whitlock stood in the hallway beside her open door, dressed in loose clothes rather than her usual school attire. Warm light spilled out from her apartment, carrying the scent of broth, scallions, and something simmered long enough to soften the edges of the whole room.
"Dinner is ready," she said. "I have been waiting for you. Are you coming in?"
Cyrus stopped with his key halfway to his lock.
He did not answer immediately.
Daphne’s expression was calm, almost earnest. She had prepared food, waited for him after work, and positioned herself between him and the one thing he wanted most tonight, which was to go inside, close his own door, and sleep until the next day stopped being real.
"I know you are tired," she continued. "You should eat something warm. I will not do anything. You have my word."
Cyrus looked at her.
Promises from Daphne had started to feel less useful than locks.
She knew it too. He could tell from the way she did not press when he stayed silent. Instead, she stepped aside and left her own door open.
She had not locked it.
The small detail was deliberate.
Cyrus understood the apology hidden inside it. Last night, she had shut him in. Tonight, she was showing him the door remained available.
It did not make him trust her.
It did make him hungry.
He followed her inside.
Daphne closed the apartment door behind them, but the latch remained untouched. Cyrus watched her hand as she moved away from it. When she noticed him looking, her mouth curved with faint amusement.
"You can leave whenever you want," she said.
Cyrus did not reply.
The table had already been set. Two bowls of scallion noodle soup waited beside small plates of roasted vegetables, and steam still rose from the broth. Daphne gestured toward the chair across from her.
Cyrus sat.
He kept his coat on for another minute before taking it off.
The room smelled good. That was part of the problem.
He had seen enough bad television, read enough cheap stories online, and lived through enough bad decisions to know that a warm meal could be a trap when the person serving it had too much patience and far too much leverage.
Daphne noticed him studying the bowl.
"If I had plans for you tonight," she said, lifting her chopsticks, "I would not need to put anything in your food."
Cyrus looked at her.
The statement was not reassuring.
Daphne seemed to realize it a second later, because her expression shifted slightly.
"I meant that I am not trying to drug you," she said.
"That is an improvement, I guess."
Cyrus picked up his fork and began eating.
The soup was good.
Daphne ate from the same pot, which eased one concern and created another. The more ordinary she acted, the more difficult it became to decide which version of her was real. The teacher who prepared dinner and left the door unlocked. The woman who waited outside his apartment in the morning. The landlord who knew how much rent he paid. The person who had turned every practical need in his life into a negotiation.
Halfway through the meal, Daphne spoke again.
"How much rent did you pay last month?"
Cyrus glanced up.
"The same amount as this month."
Daphne rested her elbow on the table.
"I see."
The answer carried no explanation.
Cyrus kept eating, though each mouthful required care. The noodles were hotter than he liked, and he had to blow on them longer than a human probably would before swallowing. Too much heat sat badly in his body. A normal person only had to worry about burning their tongue. Cyrus had to make sure the warmth did not settle somewhere it should not.
Daphne had finished her own bowl before he reached the middle of his.
She watched him blow gently over another forkful of noodles.
Then she said, "Wouldn’t Cory like to try some too?"
Cyrus’s hand stopped.
"I am eating it," he said. "That should be enough."
Daphne leaned back in her chair.
The smile in her eyes returned, quiet and far too knowing.
"But what if I do not think that is enough?"
Cyrus lowered his fork.
He kept his face carefully blank, though irritation pushed against the back of his teeth.
Fine.
She could enjoy the advantage while she had it. But if Daphne ever gave him an opening, he would make her regret it.