Kaito didn't say anything at first. He just leaned over and tapped a few glyphs on June's version of the GPS—a compact charm-mirror framed in tarnished silver, glowing faintly with spellcode and etched mission runes. His fingers moved with precision, bringing up an inventory grid. Then a request screen. Then ammo.
"Need more of the C-sharp rounds," he muttered, half to himself. Then he looked over at June and added, "You need anything while I'm in the order screen? It is your car."
I shrugged from the side. "You should throw in some chains and a flaming skull. That feels right."
June didn't answer at first—because the Gravemare jolted forward and fishtailed like it had a mind of its own. She swerved through a spiraling wardline knot in the road, tires kicking up sparks and whisper-smoke. I was holding on to Vinyl with one arm and bracing myself with the other, pretending I wasn't panicking while my spine was practically spelling prayers into the upholstery.
Vinyl yowled and clung to my jacket, ears back, tail lashing like a metronome with an attitude.
June glanced back with one eyebrow raised, totally calm behind the wheel. "Wrong job. Also... chains and flaming skulls aren't as useful as they sound. Unless you're dealing with a god-djinn hemorrhaging worship."
Kaito, completely unfazed, tapped a few more options on the charm-mirror. "Added a tampirone for you," he told me casually, pricking his thumb and letting a single drop of blood fall onto the charm's core. The relic buzzed faintly, absorbing it.
"Blue ghosts just dig tampirones. That sound slices right through their ghost-brains like a needle on wax. If you're ever in the market, get your order from the vamps—they're real slick with blood-forged gear, and their sound design? Baby, it's butter for situations like this."
I blinked at him. "Are all our tools fr—"
I never got to finish the sentence.
A blue ghost—one of the 27s—phased straight through the side of the Gravemare like smoke dipped in moonlight. His whole face looked like a haunted jam session, music notes dangling from his mouth like tuning forks and dripping from his eyes like they were bleeding sound.
I screamed. Loud. I tried to muffle it into a cough, but it came out full-body, full-throat.
Instinct kicked in—I yanked Vinyl into my arms and backed up toward the rear door, scooting down the seat in a clumsy slide. My heart was tap dancing in my ribs, but I did my best not to let it show. I used Kaito's shoulder as a shield, practically curling behind him like he was a magical riot wall.
Vinyl hissed again, fur puffed, eyes wide. He clung to my coat like he knew something worse was coming.
I was trying to play it cool, I swear. But being in the back seat while a music-faced ghost phased through our car wasn't part of my training.
Was it just me, or were all the 27s men? I'd never seen a single woman in their ranks. Was this demon being... sexist? I couldn't tell if I was more terrified or just insulted.
I mean—I was happy to still be breathing.
June didn't flinch. Cool as a cathedral bell, she swiped the gear shift sideways—and the Gravemare split. Not just visually. Physically. Like a beast shedding skin mid-sprint. For a heartbeat, we were riding in mirrored halves, two lanes of the same war-beast holding formation across the veil.
Kaito tilted his head, watching the transformation like it was an old friend showing off. Wind howled through the open seam, tugging at our clothes, rattling spell-charms, making every word half-shouted just to be heard over the roar.
He was already snapping together his sniper rifle like he'd done it a thousand times in his sleep.
"She's alive, y'know!" he called over the wind, voice half lecture, half fond memory. "All Gravemares are! Bonded to their operator like blood-slick familiars!" He chambered a round with a click that sounded like punctuation. "It's one of the perks of the job—you don't just get gear, you get a partner!"
Another gust rocked the cabin as he lined up the scope. "I had one once! Real groovy ride, yeah—handled like silk on a soul train, she did. Tight turns, smooth engine hum, even liked Coltrane more than me. She aged out eventually. Didn't want the upgrade—just wanted to go home. And y'know what?"
He gave a small shake of the head, tone turning reverent beneath the shouting. "I respected that. You gotta let the old ones rest when they're ready. They ain't machines, not really. They're like... soul-bound road spirits with better taste in music than half the folks I know."
I glanced at him sideways, still cradling Vinyl in my lap. Kaito was smiling. Not his usual smirk—the real kind. And sure enough, his Irish accent had thickened like it always did when he was actually enjoying himself.
"Damn," I muttered under my breath. "You must be really happy right now."
He fired once, then twice, the shots howling through the air like a blues trumpet blast from Hell's brass section—loud, dirty, and righteous as sin. "Our van can split too!" he hollered, wind nearly swallowing his voice. "But I customized it for rituals and long hauls. This model's suppression-grade—standard-issue if you know the right sign-offs!"
He ducked low to reload, lips twisting into that smug little grin of his. "You can spec 'em however you want—combat mods, defense wards, stealth veils, even dream-siphon cages if HQ clears the request. Perks of the uniform, sweetheart!"
Then he gave a short, sharp whistle—like a bandleader calling cue—and fired one last round with flare. As the bullet left the chamber, a burst of old soul chords ripped through the air, each note stitched into the shell like vinyl magic.
"That was the encore," he added, snapping the barrel shut with flair.
He glanced at me, wind snapping his hair back. "It's like building a magical tank in a soul suit!"
The 27s must've gotten the message, too. After that last bullet's trumpet howl tore through one of their own, they stopped coming straight through the middle. Started flanking us, sliding toward the windows like slick vinyl ghosts with grudges.
Then the air shifted.
A slow, sour chord rolled through the wind—low brass, warped strings, like a record dying in reverse. One of the 27s fired back. Not a gun. A soundwave. It hit the Gravemare in a shimmering ripple that made my teeth ache and the mirrors twitch.
They weren't just playing backup anymore.
They were fighting back—with their own damn blues.
He rolled the window down and leveled the sniper out, lining up shots as more of the 27s came swooping toward our side. Bah-dow. Waaaahhhn. The rifle coughed deep, each round bursting out like a soul-stained trumpet solo—full of brass and pain. Every bullet wailed through the air with a sound like it was pulled straight from a haunted blues vinyl, music-noted shells singing their own battle hymn.
Then he reached over without looking and handed me the tampirone.
"Start ringing if you want to live!" he shouted over the roar, eyes locked on the incoming 27s.
I didn't hesitate. I rang the damn thing like it owed me rent.
The moment the tampirone rang, Kaito let loose—his rifle barking out bluesy brass blasts in rhythm with the chiming, faster now, almost like a duet.
"C'mon, you cursed jukebox bastards! Let's jam!" he howled, a grin spreading across his face as his accent thickened. "You want soul? I got plenty!"
Before I could blink again, not one—but three motorcycles roared through the Gravemare's open middle seam, trailing chainlight and sacred exhaust. Kaito didn't miss a beat. He turned, grabbed me by the collar, and kissed me once, hard.
"You've got this," he said with a wild grin. "Take over for me."
Then he leapt out the other side like he was born to ride, landing smooth on the back of the last bike. The rider gave him a nod, and they peeled off together into the rising fog, diving straight into the thick of the 27s' reinforcements now crawling out of the veil.
I sat stunned for half a beat before Vinyl whined in my lap. My hands moved on instinct—I crawled over the seatback and climbed into the front like the Gravemare and I were about to have a real conversation.
As I settled in, the Gravemare snapped shut with a metallic clack, fusing its two halves back together in one seamless motion.
June didn't even blink. "Well," she said, still steering like a lounge singer on a loop-de-loop, "looks like you're up front now."
I started scanning the charm-mirror for anything useful I could grab or order, flipping through sigils with half a plan.
The Gravemare kept driving like it didn't care.
June glanced over and asked, "Does your van do this too?"
I was about to say no, but the question made me pause.
Kaito did mention once that our van might be able to pull off something like this—if we ever upgraded the right modules. He bought that van right after we left the circus group; said we needed our own ride, something with guts and space. The tiny car we had before just wasn't cutting it anymore. At the time, I'd nodded along, barely listening like I understood magical engineering. But now, watching the Gravemare split and surge like a living thing, that old memory cracked open and demanded attention.
Yeah. That hit different.
Maybe I always knew Kaito was doing something else—something bigger than he let on. And maybe I just chose not to see it. Not because he was hiding. He never really was. I just didn't want to invade that space he kept sacred. I told myself it was love. Maybe it was. But now I was wondering if it was also fear—of what I'd find if I looked too close.
Maybe Kaito had always been doing more than I realized, and I just hadn't been looking close enough. Not because he was hiding—he never really was. I just wasn't watching. Not the way he watches me. Maybe I was living in my own world, thinking love meant staying out of his.
But maybe that wasn't the whole truth either.
There was that woman who came by the farm once with an elf, said to keep an eye on what moves in the background, not just the spotlight. Another one came later with a dragon-looking man, warned that if I kept one eye closed to magic, it'd bite me. I always wondered what happened to them
Now I understood a bit of what they were trying to tell me. Like something finally clicked. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to feel it settle behind my ribs.
And then June's hand—cool and just a little too soft, like slick aloe and muscle—snatched the mirror out of mine.
"Desperta, menina," she said, voice sharp but still velvet. "We've still got ghosts trying to remix our back bumper."
"Hey!" I snapped. "Why'd you—"
June gave me a look, cool and flat, then flicked her fingers toward the mirror like she was swatting a thought away. "You wouldn't know what to buy. You didn't get the training."
She set the mirror down in the console and leaned back, her slime-slick skin catching the glow of the dashboard. "There's training for everything. We don't hoard what's left over from missions—it's wasteful. Somebody else might need it more."
Then she pointed straight out the back window, tone snapping like a wet slap. "Now quit overthinking and keep ringing that tampirone. They're trying to chew through the cargo again."
I turned and sure enough—more of those blue-note demons were creeping in, gnawing at the air around the cargo. Ghosts or not, they were leaving marks. I swear the cargo looked smaller than it had a minute ago, like they were actually peeling time off it.
I rang the tampirone again, fast and firm. The sound tore through the air like hot brass and sent them shrieking back. Just like before. Just long enough to buy us a moment.
I am ringng the tampirone like there was no tommorrowand that's when I saw it.
Out in the fog, Kaito and the biker crew weren't just riding. They were doing tricks. High-speed spins and gravity-defying flips off what looked like a creature straight out of a fever dream—a beast shaped like a massive musical note, all brass curves and trembling strings. Its hooves beat the ground like a rhythm section, echoing through the mist.
June leaned over the console, unfazed. "That's the source of the stampede. Sonic echo-beast. They're wrangling it back into the deep fog where it belongs."
I watched as the ghostly horde peeled off and followed the creature's fading melody, vanishing into the dark with Kaito and his crew.
June turned to me, tossed something into my lap. For a second, I thought it was a gun.
It was a crowbar.
"Time to play hit-the-mailbox," she said with a grin. "The mailboxes are ghosts. Start swingin'."
I blinked, looked ahead—sure enough, the 27s were lining up along the roadside like deranged postal decorations.
I rolled down the window, grabbed the crowbar, and started knocking them left and right.
And okay, maybe I laughed. Just a little. Because sometimes you have to beat ghosts like bad mail to remember you're alive.