Page 74

I hand him the letter. "The second one. She left a trail only I could follow."

As Kellan skims the parchment, his face switches from casual concern to grim understanding. "Christ, she walked straight into their hands."

"And you think you're going in solo?" He flicks the cigarette into the dirt. "This is a team effort, Morvane. We're facing an entire death cult."

"It's my fight to finish," I say, a protective edge cutting through my tone. "I won't let another strike land on you."

"I've stood beside you through worse. You're not taking this blow alone—and besides, I've already set a few things in motion."

Every instinct I have screams that we can take them, yet the strategist in me respects the sheer scale of the challenge before us. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking we light the beacon," Kellan's already typing a mass encrypted alert. "Lynn, it's Ro. Activate the network. Send the strike teams straight to the perimeter. Serenity's inside Malachai's stronghold, and we're moving in now."

While Kellan coordinates with Lynn, I find the contact list Serenity gave me on that encrypted flash drive and scroll to Nolan's number. The detective answers on the first ring, like he's been expecting bad news.

"Graves."

"It's Darius Morvane. Serenity's spoken of you." I don't give him room to question how I got his line. "She went to the coven alone. Surrendered herself in exchange for Estella and to stop the executions. You saw the broadcast?"

"I did. Three leaders dead on live paranormal television. Half the city's paranormal community is in a panic, and the other half is pretending it's not real."

A heavy exhale crackles over the line with the exhaustion of a man who hasn't slept in days. "Of course she did. She’s not the type to sit on her hands while the world burns. And God knows Chicago hasn't caught a single damn break since this nightmare started."

"I need your help," I say bluntly.

"You've got it. I’m done watching this city tear itself apart." The sharp rustle of papers echoes as he grabs his gear. "Give me a destination. Where is she?"

"Underground tunnels. She left a magical trail—I can track it. I need you at Blackhearth Avenue. The old abandoned station has access to the tunnel network beneath the district."

"Of course she did." Nolan's keyboard clicks rapidly. "I can have three unmarked units positioned topside within twenty minutes. They will hold far enough back to avoid spooking the cult while remaining close enough to contain any supernatural spillover."

"Make it happen."

Kellan ends his call and slides the phone back into his jacket. "Lynn's mobilizing her vampire contacts and every rogue shifter who owes her a favor. We meet at the tunnel entrance in thirty minutes. Don't sweat the firepower. I already packed the armory into the back. I brought the modified metal-etched hollow points you like alongside a couple of custom toys I've been tinkering with—kinetic disruptors designed specifically to shatter magical barriers. We're loaded for bear."

I nod while checking my own gear—bullets and emergency flares designed to disrupt magical barriers. Everything feels inadequate against what we're walking into.

"You need to stay behind, Ro. You’re still recovering, and this is a suicide mission."

"Like hell I'm staying behind," Kellan snaps, stepping closer. "We enter that stronghold together. I heal fast enough, and I’m walking right beside my brother into this trap."

I study his set expression, knowing an argument is pointless. "Fine, but if your stitches pop while you're saving my ass, I'm never letting you live it down."

Laughing, he nods his head. "This is insane, even for us."

"She's counting on insane." I holster the last knife. "Besides, when has sanity ever been our strong suit?"

He grins, the expression sharp and dangerous. "Fair point. Let's go save your witch."

The tunnel entrance yawns like a mouth beneath the abandoned Blackhearth Avenue station, swallowing our flashlight beams whole. The passage reeks of damp earth and something darker—blood mixed with static that sets my senses on edge.

"Cozy," Lynn mutters as she adjusts her grip on a metal-inlaid crossbow. "Nothing says 'death cult headquarters' like creepy underground architecture."

Nolan Graves meets us at the entrance, his lean frame radiating exhaustion as his tired eyes catalog threats like a man who survives by assuming the worst. Cigarette smoke and the musty tang of old case files cling to him. His check of his service weapon suggests muscle memory earned from years of policing the supernatural world in secret. "Radio contact cuts out about fifty feet down. After that, we're flying blind."

"Not completely blind." I close my fist around the protection amulet she left on the nightstand—the moonstone vibrates against my palm, holding her magical signature. "She warded the path. Follow my lead."

Kellan shoulders his rifle, though a subtle grimace betrays the strain on his magically fused ribs. "How many hostiles are we expecting?"