The Night of the Calling always started with a whisper. Lucas could feel it, like claws scraping against his mind, the spirit pacing inside his skin, restless. He knew this night, of all nights, was the worst time to have Felicity over. The spirit hated her. Always had. Her brightness, her voice, her laughter. All of it was like salt to a wound for the thing that lived inside him.

But maybe that was why he’d invited her.

She lay sprawled across the end of his bed, eyes turned upward to the ceiling window. Through it, the stars blinked down, scattered and cold, and she traced them with her finger in the air as she spoke. The spirit’s rage was muted, muffled by the steady, cheerful rhythm of her words. Not gone, no, he could still feel it itching, pushing, hissing at him to send her away, to stop this madness before it lost its grip.

But he was so tired. So tired of what it made him do.

Lucas shifted against the headboard, watching her. Felicity’s golden hair caught the faint light of the bedside lamp, her eyes bright as she rambled on about something trivial, something that didn’t matter. She did this a lot—filling the silence with stories and laughter, words spilling out like a flood, distracting him from his own head, drowning out the darkness he tried so hard to keep hidden.

Tonight, her voice was a shield. Every word seemed to push the spirit further back, caging it, keeping it tucked away. He didn’t know how much longer it would last, but for now, it was… quiet.

And he almost didn’t feel like a monster.

Felicity’s laughter bubbled up, sweet and untroubled, and Lucas could feel the spirit twitch in disgust. Weakling. She’s making you soft. Send her away before I rip her apart.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t listen. Just watched her, listened to her, held on to the threads of her joy like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world, keeping the spirit at bay.