The boat scraped stone. The door waited ahead: ancient wood and iron.
Ava stepped through first.
The sub-basement felt impossibly mundane after Hell. Dripping water. Lantern shadows. The smell of damp stone and old concrete.
Her legs wobbled on the stairs. Victor caught her arm.
“I can walk.”
“I know.”
They climbed together, up through levels of bedrock, past the foundation, back into the firm’s parking garage. Manhattan waited above them, ordinary and oblivious, continuing on as if nothing had happened.
Victor’s phone buzzed the moment they had signal. Then again. Then continuously.
“Malphas,” he said, scanning the messages. “Confirming we’re alive. Cassandra. Derek.” He paused. “Your mother. Twelve times.”
“I told them Chicago. Legal conference.” Ava leaned against his car, suddenly exhausted. “How long were we gone?”
“Six days.”
Six days. Her parents had been calling for six days.
“Friday,” she said. “I’ll see them Friday. I can’t—I need to sleep first. Figure out what to tell them.”
“What are you going to tell them?”
She looked at her reflection in the car window. Gold and silver eyes staring back.
“I don’t know yet.”
Friday came too fast.
Ava stood outside her parents’ restaurant, Victor beside her. Through the window, her mother wiped down tables. Her father prepped in the kitchen, visible through the service window.
“They’re going to see my eyes,” she said.
“Yes.”
“And ask questions I don’t know how to answer.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I’m being honest.” He took her hand. “Whatever you decide to tell them, I’ll follow your lead.”
The bell chimed as they entered. Her mother looked up, smile already forming—then froze.
“Ava?” She crossed the restaurant slowly, eyes fixed on Ava’s face. “What happened to your eyes?”
“It’s a long story.”
Her father emerged from the kitchen. Saw her face. Set down his knife with careful precision.
“You look different,” he said. “Not just the eyes. You look like you’ve been somewhere.”
“I have.”
