Page 42 of My Neighbor Literally Bites

"She built a deadfall," Hannah whispers. "Not to protect the archive. To protect me." Her hand presses flat to the paper. "If I die wrong—suspiciously—it all goes outward at once. To Ben. To Clara. To lawyers I've never met. Sealed civic records nobody's touched in years. She would have made my death the loudest thing that could possibly happen."

And the whole shape of it opens under me, cold and complete.

"That's why there's patience," I say. "Why Nathan smiled and offered to help. Why they searched instead of burned. Lucien removes things quietly—but he can't remove you quietly. Kill you outright and Elspeth's hand reaches up out of the ground and names him before noon. So they couldn't take it. You had to give it. Every threat, every man at your fence, every word out of Nathan's mouth—it was never robbery. It was a hand closing slow enough that you'd hand over the key just to make the fear stop."

Hannah doesn't flinch. She folds the index back into her coat, deliberate, and her voice when it comes is level as a set stone. "Then the one thing they can't survive is the thing they've spent weeks trying to prevent."

"Daylight," I say. "Not the kind that burns me. The kind that names them both. We don't hide the archive. We open it. Town, lawyers, Ben—all at once. The way she meant to."

Across the room Ben turns from the iron door. "Surface is clear topside. No engines. They've fallen back to wait us out somewhere they think we'll come up."

"Then we come up where they aren't." Hannah is already on her feet, my good arm over her shoulder, and Lily's lamp swings toward us. "Home first. All of it goes home."

We climb. The drainage gives onto a culvert mouth choked with laurel, and then the open dark, wet pine and the long ridge of the Marlowe roof black against a graying sky. No one on the road. No one at the gate. We all enter, and Hannah demands I go upstairs and rest straight away.

31

HANNAH

The house feels like it's breathing with us—old wood creaking under hurried footsteps, the faint metallic tang of bloodroot still clinging to coats slung over chairs. Mud streaks the hallway. Lamps burn low because the gray afternoon light slanting through the tall windows isn't enough. I move between the dining table and the sideboard, Elspeth's index open like a map to the end of this nightmare.

Ben's on the phone in the corner. "No, this isn't a request for comment. This is evidentiary material. Chain of custody starts now. I need it logged with the county clerk and the state investigator I gave you yesterday." He glances at me, nods once. Practical. Solid. The kind of anchor this house needs right now.

Vivienne paces near the window, her elegant fingers flying over her phone screen. She speaks in rapid, precise French to someone on the other end, then switches to English that cuts like glass. "Lucien's network is compromised. The ledgers, the transfers, the names—send them through the old covenant lines. He cannot burn every bridge at once." Her eyes meet mine. She doesn't smile, but there's respect there, hard-won.

Elias sits at the far end, laptop glowing. He's quieter, typing code and routing files through channels I don't pretend to understand. "Vampire councils hate surprises," he says without looking up. "This one will burn slow. They'll see what Lucien's been feeding them for decades."

Lily leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, still wearing the same mud-splattered jacket from the mines. She looks shaken—cheeks pale, eyes too bright—but her voice stays sharp when she speaks. "You're really doing this. Not hiding it. Just… letting it out."

I nod, sealing another envelope with trembling fingers. My hands are filthy, but the fear has burned down to something cleaner. Fuel. "We're not waiting for rescue, Lil. This is how we start the fall. They can't bury it if enough people know the truth."

She watches me a moment longer, then pushes off the frame and comes over. Her hand brushes my shoulder—brief, warm. "I trust you. Both of you." The words land soft, but they matter. She glances toward the stairs. "He's still up there?"

"Resting," I say. The word feels too small for the weight of Alaric in my bed, healing from wounds he took protecting us.

Lily's mouth quirks, almost a smile. "Good. Don't let him play martyr again." She squeezes my arm once and steps back, letting the others pull her into the next task.

We don't read every page aloud. The index guides us—specific names, dates, accounts that tie Nathan's hunters to Lucien's quiet control. Enough to crack the silence wide open. Ben's contacts will lock down official channels. Vivienne's people will tighten their network. Elias' messages will ripple through the shadows where Lucien thought he was untouchable. Their plan is starting to collapse, but I know something is still coming. I feel it in my bones—the shift. Nathan and Lucien aren't thick.

As I climb the stairs the light outside has gone bruised and golden. The house downstairs fades to a low hum of voices and keyboard clicks as I reach the landing. My bedroom door stands ajar.

Alaric lies propped against the pillows, shirt unbuttoned and pushed off one shoulder. The bloodroot rash has faded to faint red lines across his chest and arms, but he still looks like a man who fought the dark and won by inches. Evening light filters through the storm-dark windows, catching on the dusted mirror above the dresser and the faint scar along his jaw. He's not helpless. Never that. But the exhaustion sits heavy on him.

He turns his head as I enter. Those sexy eyes find mine, and something in my chest cracks open—relief, want, terror.

"You should be resting," I say, voice low.

"I am." A faint smile ghosts his lips. "Your bed is more persuasive than mine has ever been."

I shut the door and cross to him, kicking off my boots. The floorboards creak familiarly under my feet.

I sit on the edge of the mattress. "Let me see."

He doesn't argue. I peel the shirt the rest of the way off, careful where the residue still clings. My fingers trace the fading marks, not clinical, not distant. Just touch. I fetch a damp cloth from the basin I left earlier and wash the last traces from his collarbone, his ribs. He watches me the whole time, breath steady but eyes dark.

"You're hiding how much it hurts," I murmur.

His hand covers mine, stilling it against his chest. "Doesn't matter now."