Ava Galliano: The Last Dark Queen

Cat and Mouse

Isa followed Seven’s scent to the end of the hall, the familiar trail drawing her with a sense of inevitability. She stopped at his door and hesitated, her hand hovering just inches from knocking. She could hear him shuffling inside—likely expecting a food delivery, not her. The moment he opened the door, the color drained from his face, and for a second, neither of them moved. They hadn’t contacted each other in years, not since the game had started, and Seven clearly wasn’t prepared for their paths to cross now.

After what she’d overheard at the café, Isa wasn’t sure what kind of mood she was in. She needed answers, yes—but at the same time, she wanted to throw the boy out the window for all the trouble he’d caused her over the years.

In an instant, the tension broke. Hissing, Isa bared her fangs and lunged for him. Seven, though small, was quicker than she anticipated. He dodged her attack with ease, his movements sharp and practiced. Isa whirled around, trying again, but this time her strike only grazed his shoulder, drawing blood. As the scent of it hit her, a surge of vitality coursed through her. There was nothing like fresh blood—so much richer than the bagged stuff she usually settled for. Hungry for more, she pivoted, aiming to grab him again.

But this time, a sharp pain erupted in her stomach. A wooden sword, thrust deep, cut through her abdomen. Coughing, Isa stumbled back, crashing to the floor, the towel that had been wrapped around Seven’s lower half slipping from his body.

Seven froze, his face paling further, the shock evident in his eyes. Isa's blood pooled beneath her, staining the carpet, but despite the wooden weapon lodged in her torso, she couldn’t help but laugh—rough, earthy, and full of irony.

“Please put some pants on, boy.”

Seven scrambled, muttering under his breath, and darted into the bathroom. A few moments later, he returned fully clothed in jeans and a clean shirt, looking slightly less frantic, though still visibly shaken. Isa had managed to yank the wooden sword from her wound and was now drinking from a flask of blood she’d stashed in her back pocket. She could feel the healing starting, the familiar warmth returning to her limbs, but she couldn’t afford to pass out in some stranger’s living room, not when answers were so close.

“Coffee?” he asked, his voice tentative.

“No, thank you.”

Isa’s gaze followed him as he moved around the small apartment. Despite the chaotic life he seemed to lead, Seven had kept the place surprisingly neat. Isa couldn’t say the same for her own living situation. Living with Jace was a nightmare—especially since Charles was barely ever home. Jace, though, was a disaster in his own right, leaving weapons and gear scattered around like it was just another Tuesday. Isa once woke up to find a full armory laid out on the kitchen table. Jace had said he was “cleaning” them, but those knives and guns stayed there for weeks.

“How long have you known I was following you?” Isa asked, her voice cool despite the recent confrontation.

“Who do you think started this chase?” Seven replied, his tone somewhat teasing but edged with something Isa couldn’t quite place. “Would you like a towel?”

Isa blinked, momentarily thrown off guard. “What?”

“For the wound,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, right,” Isa muttered, accepting the rag he handed her and pressing it against her still-healing wound. It stung, but it was nothing compared to what she had faced before.

Seven sat down across from her, his gaze fixed on her like he was sizing her up. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been in each other’s orbit,” he said slowly. “I had hoped you’d never catch up to me… or knock on my door.”

“I saw you today,” Isa said, her voice quieter now. “With the red-headed woman.”

Seven froze, his expression darkening in an instant. He turned slowly to face her, his eyes narrowing as he assessed her carefully. “And you heard what, exactly?”

Isa’s stomach twisted. “Charles has placed a lot of traps in my head. It’s hard to navigate sometimes. He’s gotten weak over the years, and I think he’s hoping that I too have grown weak. The more light he feeds me, the stronger I am when I’m woken. I thought my sister had died.”

Seven’s face softened, though his voice was still grave when he spoke. “When your mother died, she made sure that Claire was kept safe. She saw what Charles would do to you, so she made sure that the pure light she had created was preserved. Claire was protected.”

“A thousand years later,” Isa whispered, her voice distant, “and Claire is still the perfect one. When did she wake?”

“Her coven woke her when they felt one of your stronger waves.”

Isa’s thoughts tumbled into chaos as memories she had long buried began to surface. Claire Steven—her perfect sister. A highly decorated light witch, so pure in her magic, it had been like a blade in Isa’s heart when they were children. Isa could barely remember Claire’s face, but flashes, brief and haunting, danced at the edges of her mind.

“I guess this would have been when I was with Zuki,” Isa continued, trying to ground herself in the present. “I met an amazing human with extraordinary power. She undid a few unwanted wires in my brain, releasing some of my power.”

“Extraordinary power?” Seven questioned, his brow furrowing. “She must have been a witch?”

“No.” Isa’s voice grew heavy with the memory. “Pure human. Nothing had tainted her bloodline.”

Seven blinked. “You met Anna?”

Isa’s gaze turned hard, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Ava.”

The name hit her like a punch to the gut, a name she hadn’t heard in years—since she’d left Marcus. The memories rushed back in a flood, sharp and unbidden. Before she could stop them, Seven placed his hand gently on her temple. She gasped, the flood of memories overwhelming her. Every suppressed recollection, every locked-away image of her past began to unravel.

“No,” Isa whispered, her body trembling with the force of it. The pain, the confusion—it all came rushing back.

Adrenaline surged through her, and with a desperate push, she shoved herself off the floor, staggering away from Seven. “I don’t want to remember. I don’t want them back for me!” She gripped her head, her eyes wild with panic. “Seven, make it stop. Put them back. Please.”

“Ava,” Seven said softly, his voice unwavering. “You need to see this. You need to remember. We need you to remember.”

“No,” Isa gasped, her voice shaking. “Please, I can’t—”

“You’ve had your whole life and identity stolen from you,” Seven said, his voice growing more insistent. “Don’t you want it back?”

“No!” Isa cried, the pain of it all too much to bear. “Make it stop!”

Sighing, Seven gave in. He pressed his fingers gently against her temple once more, halting the flood of memories. But he didn’t replace them. Isa collapsed to the floor, shaking with exhaustion, her body trembling from the weight of the memories she hadn’t wanted to return.

Seven sat down beside her, his gaze soft but determined. “Why, Ava? We need you back. This is bigger than your pride.”

“No,” she whispered fiercely. “You will not make me go back.”