This all feels so pointless. Now I know why I resisted accessing the internet for so many years. Even the shadows seem to agree, flicking irritated tendrils at the phone like it owes them an apology.
I guess this is my life now—obsessing over a woman, drowning in internet garbage, and managing a pack of sentient shadow shits who apparently have opinions.
The cosmos really went for the full dick-and-balls combo this time.
In a fit of frustration, I throw my new phone on the bed.
Why did I think I could find the answers I need in a place where anyone can post anything?
Fuck the truth. It’s obviously buried under clickbait, crypto manifestos, and some guy with a six-pack calling himself a “spiritual alpha.”
I’ve started a list. When I need to feed again, I know where to begin.
I pace the length of my bedroom for hours, picking up the notes I made throughout the week and leafing through ancient books. I’m missing something important, but what? There’s athread somewhere I can pull that will unravel my suspicions and reveal everything about Aurora.
And then something Thane discussed with a customer a few years ago suddenly resurfaces. It was a unique moment when someone came into the shop with the specific intent of finding a first edition written by a family member. Because Thane is, well, Thane, he asked the customer all kinds of questions about himself and the author he was searching for. The sweaty meat bag told Thane he had discovered his connection to the author on a website that helps humans track their ancestors using census records and other historical data.
Grabbing my phone from the bed, I search for the website and set up an account. I know this is a long shot, but it’s the only idea I have left.
I enter the name Adelynn Paxton, the woman the Disciples identified in the 1850s, into the search bar. My heart drops when thousands of results appear.
Hm, this might be more difficult than I expected. There’s a city listed next to her name in my notes. Maybe this is where she lived?
Jackpot!
Thank the darkness between stars that Somerset is a small town, because the tiny screen displays the image of a raven-haired beauty who looks startlingly like Aurora.
My shadows tighten, shuddering at the sight, recognition prickling my spine like a fanged whisper. Adelynn looks proud and powerful, but it’s obvious, even in the picture, that her power doesn’t compare to Aurora’s.
I follow the clues that unravel from the dark-haired woman, but I hit a dead end somewhere in the 1940s.
Trying a different tactic, I search for Ellie Hagan. I click on a picture of Aurora’s mother, who has rich brown hair and fire dancing in her soft, dark brown eyes. The similarities betweenAurora, Ellie, and Adelynn are undeniable. The same sharp nose, the same full lips, the same cheekbones. They could be triplets.
But it’s not enough.
For some reason, Ellie’s ancestral path is quite short. There’s nothing about her family prior to 1963. As I painstakingly sift through Aurora’s family history, I notice that one of her grandmother’s previous addresses was in Somerset, Pennsylvania.
And not just any address, the exact same address as Adelynn.
“Fuck …”
The thread snaps, the entire tapestry unraveling before my eyes. The shadows pulse frantically, as if they knew the truth all along.
She’s a goddess. A queen. A myth come to life.
Aurora is the Daughter of the Morning Star, a direct descendant of the rulers of Hell.
Leaning back in my chair, I place a hand over my heart as Aurora’s soul calls to mine from a few short miles away, tugging at something deep in my chest.
I exhale sharply through my nose, a slow grin curling at the edges of my mouth.
The Disciples have no idea what they’re up against.
They think they’ve seen monsters?
Wait until they see what I become for her.
But the thought barely settles before something else claws its way to the forefront. Something I should’ve realized when I had her in my hands, had her panting beneath me, her voice pulling want from the part of me even the constellations forgot.
