When a star dies, its core collapses under its own gravity. Once it burns through its nuclear fuel, the heart becomes so heavy, so dense, it’s crushed, unleashing a stellar explosion.
The more beautiful and radiant the star, the darker its annihilation.
In its final beats, a star’s life is beautiful, brilliant. Immensely powerful. It’s also destructive, violently imploding as its energy is cut short before it darkens into a black hole.
A cataclysm beautiful in its devastation.
Light swallowed by shadow.
I know the exact month, the day, hour, minute—the goddamn second her heart will stop beating.
And I know there is nothing I can do to stop it.
Her light will burn out.
And so of larger—Darknesses?—
Those Evenings of the Brain?—
When not a Moon disclose a sign?—
Or Star—come out—within?—
—EMILY DICKINSON,WE GROW ACCUSTOMED TO THE DARK
17
Dark Adaptation
The eyes may be confused in two ways—by a change from light to darkness or from darkness to light; and the same thing happens to the soul.
—PLATO
COLLINS
Each steady blink of the cursor mocks my faltering pulse.
A distressing hitch catches beneath my rib cage, and I press my palm hard to my chest as the realization crashes into me, dread sinking further with each flashing line of code. So cloying, so deep, it seeps past the callused leaflets and hardened muscle.
Years spent inside ViCAP, training on one of the most elite database systems, and yet, this was too easy. I shouldn’t have been able to crack Orion’s security protocols this quickly.
Once I realized the server was air-gapped, I should’ve backed out of the system and erased my tracks. Waited for him to return and try another tactic. My male apparently has a whole other habitat, and I’ve spent precious months gaining access to the wrong one.
A setback—but there’s another way in.
That’s not what chokes my heart with dread, however. To anyone else, the data flickering on the backlit screen might look like an intricate star chart. The lines of right ascension, the degrees of declination. The celestial coordinates measured down to the hour, minute, second?—
I recognize the pattern.
And I’ve made a grave error.
“Shit,” I whisper harshly.
With numb fingers, I grab my phone and bring up the image of the brass instrument. I didn’t fully comprehend what the device was at the time. But now, staring at the highlighted node on the screen, comparing it to the star chart, and then the dialed coordinates on the astrolabe in the image?—
I drop my phone to the desk surface, spearing shaky fingers into my hair before I plunge deeper in search of the dark-sky data.
Before I even set foot inside Stonehurst, I knew my hunter was different. I knew once he found what he was searching for, I would lose him. He’s unlike other predators of his kind.
