No one says anything, and Keris scoffs. “We can subpoena the video footage from the vampires. You can’t hide. You might as well speak up.”
“I was there,” someone says, and Keris’s gaze turns murderous. “But I didn’t see you.”
“Neither did I,” another says.
My breath catches.Anyone could have sent those photos, but Stellan bragged about his source being on the Council. My gaze falls on one person after another. They could all be lying.
“We are losing focus,” I say, but no one listens.
“What if you sent Stellan those photos to draw the blame away from yourself that you are working with Stellan, Keris?” another councilor asks. “Your brother is Nebula. Perhaps you are trying to avenge him after what the letters revealed.”
Keris balks. “I wouldn’t send photos of myself having sexual intercourse,you moron.”
The room erupts into chaos, accusations flying.
I wish I could reassure them, but I can’t. Someone is using the War Letters to justify helping Stellan, turning the country’s leaders against each other. We won’t see eye to eye until we findthe mole . . . who could be sitting in this room or working with someone connected to Stellan.
As the shouting continues, the overhead lights flicker. A breath later, the room plunges into darkness.
Confused murmurs reach my ears as I blink, trying to adjust to the sudden darkness. As the councilors realize that the power has gone out, I go to the window and squint through the glass. I witness the lights across the city extinguish, block by block. My hands are clammy. Is this some kind of protest?
It’s happening, the ghosts whisper in my ears.
“What’s the meaning of this?” a panicked voice calls out.
“It must be an attack!” another shouts.
“Are we being invaded?” Bennett asks.
I clutch my chest above my ricocheting heart. The memory of the paw prints in Glaucus surfaces. Could this be it? Have the wolves finally arrived? Grandmother left for the north this morning, and although she called to confirm her arrival, a chilling thought grips me. What if she was too late?
As if on cue, guards shuffle into the room, their faces grim in the emergency lighting. My adrenaline spikes. One announces, “Your Majesty, Council members, the entire city has lost power. We need to get the queen to safety immediately.”
As the guards usher me out, I glance back at the chamber one last time. The dim light reveals the panic etched on every face, perfectly reflecting my rising terror. Everyone fears the worst, whatever may be happening out there. I have a strong urge to invite them all home and offer them safety and protection, but the knowledge of a traitor in our midst stops me.
Navigating through the shadowy corridors, an unsettling sensation grips me, whispering that this blackout is merely the prelude to something far more sinister. A gnawing terror of the unknown has replaced my once-unshakable certainty and I am woefully unprepared for what lies ahead.
Hebe Hospital loomslike a beacon of hope over the whispering pines beside Tsilah Cemetery. The hospital’s polished stone façade and gleaming windows paint a picture of serenity, but my vampire senses pick up the frantic heartbeats and raised voices within.
I step inside, and the world shifts. Fluorescent lights flicker, casting an eerie glow on the faces of harried staff and frightened patients. A backup generator hums a low, persistent drone that sets my teeth on edge. The hallways twist and turn like a giant maze, flooded with bodies desperately seeking care.
The call to heal pulses within me—a forgotten melody awakening after months of silence. But I’m not here to save lives. I’m here for answers. My plan is simple: find Mom, convince her to stop her research, and return to Vyvyan before she goes back to the Nest. But the citywide blackout has thrown everything into chaos. The blackout delayed my arrival, so I have no time to waste. Not if I don’t want to get locked out of the Nest.
A team of healers rushes past, pushing a gurney. The man on it is a mess of blood and broken bones. His life essence spurts from a gash in his neck. The scent hits me like a physical blow, and I grip the wall to steady myself. The lead healer’s voice cuts through the din.
“Male, late thirties, motorcycle crash, with neck hemorrhage, multiple lacerations, and right femoral fracture. Needs airway management, hemorrhage control, and a femur X-ray—prep for neck exploration and possible femur stabilization. Order four units of blood and start antibiotics. Ortho, be ready for OR. Someone page Doctor Chiara Dunn!”
“She’s finishing with our VIP patient,” is a surgical resident’s reply.
“Tell her to hurry.”
As they wheel the patient around the corner, I follow, planning to catch Mom before she disappears into sterilization. The familiar routine of the trauma team brings a pang of nostalgia. Once, I was one of them. I had interned under Mom’s watchful eye for years. After Wilder left for Aurora, I threw myself into healing, channeling all my loneliness and anger into saving lives. Still, no matter how much time and effort I put in, it wasn’t enough.
Istill wasn’t enough.
The double doors to the operating room swing shut in my face. The air carries the metallic tang of death. I scan the packed hallway—worry lines are painted on passing faces, the trembling hands of a nurse clutching a clipboard. And then I see her.
Mom appears in her mint-green scrubs, her dark brown hair—like mine before I started dying it—pulled back in a tight bun beneath her surgical cap. She doesn’t notice me until I’m right in front of her.
