“How is it possible?” she whispered, staring at the photo. “He lied…”
“What did he tell you? About his past, and yours?” Cade asked.
“Not much. I knew my dad had worked for Arca as a doctor, but he swore Command had always stationed him in Falcon City. They allowed him an honorable discharge so he could open a clinic for pregnant women. Birth rates were dropping, omegas becoming rarer. Arca needed better healthcare in the city. Supposedly, he met my mom shortly before he opened the clinic. I was born just a year after they met.”
“So he would have met her roughly twenty-seven years ago…” Cade said, “a year before you were born. That's right around the time Arca decommissioned this base and…” He paused, flipping through Melker’s notebook. “Melker dated his last entry right around that same time.”
Rowan grabbed a dusty stapler from the desk.
She smashed the picture frame’s glass with the butt.
Then shook the shards free and pulled out the photo to inspect.
“There’s a date on the back,” she said. “This picture was taken here, only a few weeks before I was born, at the exact time my father told me he was in Falcon City opening his clinic. He lied!”
“It seems so,” Cade said. “We need to check the personnel files and identify everyone in this photo. Names. History. Roles. All of it. But our time is up. We've gotten lucky not running into anything, and I'm not pushing it. We're leaving.”
Crane opened her mouth to protest.
Cade shot me a look.
So I stepped forward, scooped up Little Bird, and threw her over my shoulder.
No time for arguing.
“Killian, let me go! We can't just leave! I have so many questions!” she yelled, her small fists pounding on my back.
“No,” I grunted, tightening my hold. “We go. Now.”
“Put me down!” she snapped, kicking her feet.
I grunted. “You can question later. Alive.”
Crane growled in frustration.
I carried her out anyway.
Kicking and screaming.
We headed for the lab doors.
Moved the tables. Opened the doors.
Stopped.
A loud crash echoed through the hallway.
A growl followed.
I scented the air. Putrid. Foul. Metallic.
“Direworg,” I whispered. “Getting closer.”
It stood at the end of the hall.
Huge tusks.
Claws scraping stone.
