The Last Sparks

Chapter 1

Elias Wilde was twenty-three years old, the first time gravity won.

He had been leaping between rooftops since he was twelve, first as a game, then as a rebellion, then eventually, as a compulsion. The wind had always carried him. Not like flying, not like the comic-book heroes he’d read about as a kid, but close enough. His feet would leave the ground, his body suspended just a second longer than physics allowed, and for that moment, he was weightless.

Tonight, though, his sneakers hit the gravel of the alleyway too soon.

He stumbled, knees buckling as the impact shuddered through him. The fall wasn't far, just a single-story drop, but the shock of it rattled his bones. Elias crouched in the dark, breathing hard, fingers pressed into the damp pavement.

Again.

It has been happening more often. The stutter in his step, the way his body no longer trusted the air to hold him. He'd told himself it was exhaustion. Stress. The mind is playing tricks. But deep down, he knew the magic was leaving him.

Mira Wilde didn't need to touch someone to know they were lying anymore.

She had spent years perfecting it, the tilt of a chin, the flicker of an eyelid, the way a person's voice tightened around certain words. She didn't miss the way her mother's hand clenched when she said, "I'm fine," or how her brother's jaw tensed before he dismissed another failed job interview.

But knowing and caring were different things.

"You're not listening," her best friend, Lana said, snapping her fingers in front of Mira's face.

Mira blinked. The café around them buzzed with midday chatter, but she'd been staring past Lana's shoulder, watching a couple at the counter. The woman was laughing too loudly. The man's smile didn't reach his eyes.

He's cheating on her, Mira thought absently.

"Sorry," she said, turning back to Lana. "What were you saying?"

Lana exhaled, exasperated. "I asked if you'd be coming to the party tonight."

Mira traced the rim of her coffee cup. "Probably not."

"You always say that."

"Because I always mean it."

Lana groaned, throwing her hands up. "You're impossible. When was the last time you went anywhere?”

Mira didn’t answer. She didn’t say that crowds made her skin crawl now, that the press of strangers’ emotions against her mind was like static—unbearable, inescapable. That she used to be able to control it, to mute the noise, but now it bled through every barrier she put up.

Instead, she took another sip of coffee and changed the subject.

Lucian Wilde dreamed in fragments.

A flash of a face he didn’t recognize. A scream muffled by rain. The scent of burning paper. He woke with his heart hammering, the images slipping through his fingers like smoke.

For years, his dreams had been a map—fractured, but navigable. He’d learned to read the signs, to follow the threads of possibility.

Now, they were just noise.

He sat up, rubbing his temples. The bedroom was dark, the digital clock on the nightstand blinking 3:47 AM. Beside him, his wife slept soundly, her breathing steady. Serena had always been able to sleep through anything.

Lucian envied that. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, padding silently across the room. The house creaked around him, settling into its bones. He paused at the top of the stairs, listening. Something felt… off.

Not a vision. Not quite a premonition. Just a prickle at the back of his neck, the same unease he’d carried for months.

He descended the stairs, his bare feet against the worn wood, and stopped in the hallway. The front door was slightly ajar.

Lucian frowned. He could’ve sworn he locked it.

He pushed the door open wider, stepping onto the porch. The night air was cool, the street silent. Empty.

Then he saw it. A single feather, white as bone, resting on the welcome mat. Elias hadn’t been able to fly in years.

Lucian picked it up, turning it between his fingers. The edges were too perfect, too pristine, as if it had just fallen from a wing.

A gust of wind snatched it from his grasp, carrying it into the dark.

____

The house smelled like dying magic.

I could taste it the moment I stepped onto the porch, burnt sugar and ozone, the sour tang of something that had once been powerful now rotting from the inside out. The kind of scent people ignore unless you know what to listen for.

And I always listen.

Three sharp raps of my knuckles against the wood. The sound echoed strangely, like I'd knocked on something hollow. A hoyse pretending to be a home.

It took exactly forty-seven seconds for the door to open.

The man on the other side looked like a grief person, a tall frame slumped, dark circles under his eyes, a coffee mug clutched in one hand like a lifeline.

"Lucian Wilde," I said. Not a greeting. An observation. He stiffened, shoulders squaring on instinct. Good. There was still some fight left in him, then. "Do I know you?" I let my lips curve, the way I'd practiced in the mirror, not quite friendly, not quite threatening. The smile of someone who knows things they shouldn't. "Not yet."

Behind him, the house breathed. A floorboard groaned. The refrigerator kicked on with a wheeze. The air between us crackled, thick with the promise of a storm. This is close. I could see the exact amount he noticed in my eyes. Everyone did. The color of smoke after a fire. "My name is Serena," I said, crisp and professional. "I'm here about the maid position." His grip on the mug tightened. "We didn't advertise for a maid."

"Of course you did." I reached into my coat pocket and showed a slightly crumpled clipping, one I'd carefully aged with coffee stains and folded edges. The phone number was real. The dates matched. The job description was vague enough to be plausible. Lucian stared at the paper like it might bite him. "This is from two weeks ago."

"And yet," I said smoothly, "your house is still a disaster." A flicker of something crossed his face, annoyance, maybe, or reluctant amusement. Upstairs, a light flickered. Not the gentle waver of a dying bulb, but the sharp, deliberate blink of something waking up. Interesting.

"I don't think," Lucian started.

"You don't have to think," I interrupted. "You just have to let me in." I leaned slightly forward, just enough to make him aware of the space between us. "I'm good at cleaning up messes, Mr. Wilde. Especially the kind no one else could see." The porch light above us buzzed, the sound vibrating in my teeth.

For the first time, Lucian Wilde looked at me, really looked at me. Not just at the stranger on his doorstep, but at the woman who'd known exactly how long to let the silence stretch.

He stepped aside.

The house held its breath as I crossed the threshold.

The foyer was dim, the air thick with the scent of dust and something metallic, like old coins left in a fountain. My shoes clicked against hardwood floors that hadn't seen polish in months.

At the top of the stairs, a girl stood frozen mid-step. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, with dark hair that fell in messy waves around her shoulders. She wore oversized pajamas, the sleeves swallowing her hands. But it was her face that caught me. Blank. Completely, utterly blank.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was flat, devoid of inflection.

I felt the first real spark of curiosity since I'd arrived. Normally, I could read people like open books, the twitch of a lip, the dilation of pupils, the thousand tiny tells that revealed everything. But this girl? Nothing. Like staring at a still pond with no reflection.

"Serena," I said. "The new maid."

She didn't react. Didn't blink. Just stared with eyes that were somehow both empty and piercing. Lucian cleared his throat. "Mira, go back to bed. It's too early for—"

"You're lying," the girl, Mira said. Still that eerie monotone. "We didn't hire a helper or a maid or whatever you call this." I tilted my head. "How did you know?" For the first time, something flickered across her face. A shadow of confusion. Then it was gone.

The overhead light chose that moment to sputter violently, casting jagged shadows across the walls. When it steadied, Mira was gone, just the echo of bare feet padding down the hallway upstairs.

Lucian ran a hand through his hair. "You'll have to excuse my daughter. She's..." He trailed off, searching for a word that didn't exist/

"Gifted?" I supplied.

HE gave me a sharp looked. "Troubled." I smiled and said nothing. The house creaked around us, the walls pressing closer as if listening.

Lucian led me to the kitchen, a space that might have been charming once, now littered with unwashed dishes and takeout containers. The table was buried under papers and what looked like medical bills. I sat without being asked. "how long has it been since anyone cleaned properly?" He bristled. "We manage."

"Badly." I plucked a sticky note from the table. Elias—call Dr. Amsel. "Your son?"

Lucian's jaw tightened. "That's none of your—"

"Let me guess," I continued, tapping the note. Early twenties. Used to be athletic. Now he barely leaves his room." I nodded toward the staircase. "And Mira. Empath, isn't she? Or she was. Now she's just... hollow."

The mug in Lucian's hand cracked. Not enough to spill, but enough that I saw the tremor in his fingers. "Who sent you?"

"No one sent me." I leaned back in the chair.

Lucian didn't offer me a coffee or anything. Instead, he just leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching me like I was a stray dog that might bite. The silence stretched long enough that most people would've squirmed.

I didn't.

Finally, he spoke. "Experience?"

"Ten years in private service," I lied smoothly. "Last employer was the Calloway family over on Biarwood."

A flicker of recognition. Good. The Calloways were old money. The kind of name that made rich men sit straight.

"Why did you leave?" I let my gaze drop, just for a second. " They moved to Switzerland."

The truth was, I'd never set foot in Biarwood. But I'd memorized enough society pages to bluff my way through. Lucian's eyes narrowed. "References?" I pulled out a folded sheet, forged, of course, with three glowing recommendations. He barely glanced at it.

"You're overqualified."

I shrugged. "The market's tough."

A crash from upstairs made us both flinch. Something heavy hits the floor, then silence.

Lucian didn't react. Just rubbed his thumb over a stain on the counter. "My daughter doesn't like you."

"Mira?" I smiled. "Teenagers never like the help."

"She's not a normal teenager."

The way he said it, it's like a warning. I leaned forward, elbowed on the sticky table. "Mr. Wilde, let's be honest. You need someone who isn't scared of a little...dysfunction." I gestured to the chaos around us. "I've seen worse."

His jaw worked. "What do you know about—"

"Empaths?" I cut in. "Enough." I nodded to the staircase. "She's not just moody. She's drowning in it, isn't she? All that noise in her head, and no way to turn it off." The air went sharp. Lucian's knuckles whitened around his mug. "You're talking about things you don't understand."

"Maybe." I stood, brushing imaginary lint from my skirt. "But I understand filth. And this place?" I dragged a finger through the dust on the fridge, holding it up. "It's eating you alive."

Another silence. Longer this time. The clock ticked. Somewhere, a pipe groaned. Finally, Lucian exhaled. "Trial basis. Two weeks."

As I turned to leave, Mira appeared in the doorway, barefoot, arms crossed. Watching. Always watching.