A cold fear ran down Hayes's spine as the words cut through the silence of the vault. She didn't move, her muscles coiled, waiting for a heartbeat of an opportunity that felt miles away.

  “I can tell by your dressing,” the voice continued, the tone examining and unimpressed, "you don't belong here. It's a wonder how you got past the gates at all.”

  The pressure of the steel against her back didn't waver.

  “So, before I lose my patience: who are you, and what are you doing in my private quarters?”

  Hayes swallowed hard, her mind racing through her training. She held her hands up slowly, palms out.

  “I’m here for the exhibition,” she said, her voice remarkably steady for a woman with a blade at her kidney.

  She gestured vaguely to the pocket where the flyer was tucked. “I was looking for the bathroom and I got lost. I didn't realize this was a bedroom.”

  “Is that so?”

  The woman stepped back, the sound of the door lock clicking into place echoing like a gunshot. She retracted the weapon; a small, sharpened metal hair clip that she held with the practiced grip of an assassin.

  “Turn around.” The woman said calmly.

  Hayes turned slowly.

  When she saw the woman's face, she froze. Jessica Blackwood looked back at her, let out a sharp, melodic laugh, and tucked the hair clip back into her messy bun. Hayes let out a breath, her own laugh sounding forced and ragged.

  “Detective,” Jessie said, her eyes dancing with dark amusement. “You must have really needed to go to climb all the way to this wing of the mansion.”

  Hayes's expression hardened, her gaze dropping to the "weapon" that had just held her hostage.

  “A hair clip?” she asked, the sarcasm masking her lingering adrenaline.

  “You should have seen your face,” Jessie shot back mockingly. She waved a hand toward a hidden door in the paneling. “The bathroom is at the end on the left. Try not to get lost in the shower.”

  Hayes walked slowly toward the edge of the room, her eyes darting toward the shining figure she’d seen in the far end of the room.

  She stepped into the bathroom, waited a beat, then turned the taps on full blast. She let the water run, a mask for her thoughts, before flushing.

  “So…” Jessie said, standing by a floor-to-length mirror, pinning her hair up. “Care to tell me why you're really here?”

  The water stopped. Hayes opened the door slowly. “I told you. I took a wrong turn.”

  “Oh, please. I can tell when someone is lying, and you're a terrible liar, Hayes.”

  The air in the room stiffened. Hayes knew she was cornered; the "lost guest" act was wearing thin. A sharp knock cut through the tension. Hayes instinctively moved toward the door, but Jessie raised a finger to her lips in a sharp shush.

  The door opened slightly, and Kyle Blackwood’s voice drifted in. “Sorry, Jessie. It would seem your door handle is broken again.”

  He stepped into the room, his expression a mask of calm. Jessie matched it with a soft, feline smile. “When is it not?”

  Kyle’s eyes shifted, landing on Hayes. He didn't look surprised. “There you are, Detective. I assumed you had gotten lost. I see I was right.”

  Jessie paused, her gaze flicking between her brother and Hayes, confusion finally clouding her amusement. Hayes let out a nervous, breathless chuckle, smoothing her jacket.

  “Shall we?” Kyle asked, stepping back and gesturing for Hayes to follow him.

  Hayes walked toward him, her pulse still drumming in her ears. She took his hand, a formal, cold gesture.

  Kyle turned back to his sister. “We’ll see you at the exhibition, right?”

  “Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Jessie replied, her eyes never leaving Hayes as the door closed between them.

  They walked in silence until they reached the grand staircase. The music from the hall below began to swell again, but Kyle stopped at the landing. He let go of her hand, his voice low and devoid of the "host" persona he had been wearing.

  “I’m not going to ask you why you’re here, or what it is you're looking for,” he said, his eyes staring into hers. “But I will tell you one thing: We are not your enemy, Detective.”

  He didn't wait for her to answer, he took a step and said. “I hope to see you at the main event.”

  His voice echoed in the stairwell as he disappeared down the steps. Hayes stood frozen on the landing, his last words ringing in her mind like a warning.

  Down in the city, the elevator hummed to a stop. Jackson stepped out into the foyer of his penthouse, the brown paper bag of food clenched in his hand. The silence of the suite was a welcome relief after the sensory assault of the diner, but the smell of sawdust still lingered in the air.

  Jackson entered the penthouse quietly. "Eva?" he called out. No answer. He called again, his voice echoing against the new glass. He scanned the room and found her, crouched at the very edge of the bed, a small, wary shadow.

  He sat on the mattress beside her, moving with deliberate slowness. He opened the bag and held out a plate. Eva’s eyes locked onto the food; she remembered the scents from the night before. She began to eat, examining each piece with a scientist’s precision before taking a bite. Jackson ate beside her in a companionable silence, simply watching her.

  He slid a coffee toward her, opening his own and taking a long drink to show her how it was done. Eva imitated him, but the liquid was still steaming. As the heat hit her tongue, she hissed and spat it back into the cup.

  Jackson let out a soft, genuine laugh. Eva tilted her head, confused by the sound, and then, to Jackson's shock, she let out a small, melodic laugh of her own. Jackson’s eyes widened. It was the first time she had ever laughed. He remained frozen, afraid that if he spoke, the moment would vanish.

  After the meal, Jackson retreated to the living room. He peeled back his shirt, grunting as he tore away the blood-soaked bandages. The wounds were still weeping that dark, unnatural red. Eva appeared in the doorway, her hair a wild mess, watching him with an expression that bordered on guilt, as if she realized the man who was feeding her might die from the very marks she had given him.

  Jackson caught her eye in the mirror. "Don't worry," he said, forcing a smile. "I'll be fine."

  He cleaned the injury, gritting his teeth as he wrapped fresh gauze tight around his ribs. He stood and walked over to her, resting a hand gently on her head. "I have to get some supplies. I’d take you with me, but where I’m going is far noisier than the workers here were." He gave her a soft pat and headed for the elevator.

  The Porsche screeched to a halt at the Blackwood Estate. Jackson stepped out, his dark shades masking the exhaustion in his eyes. He ignored the bouncer, ignored the guests, and headed straight for the front doors.

  "Jackson. A pleasure you could join us." Isaac said, standing in the foyer, his presence like a wall of stone.

  Jackson tried to brush past him, but in a blur of motion, a literal gust of wind, Isaac appeared directly in his path.

  "Are you really going to ignore me like that?" Isaac asked.

  "I thought if I ignored you hard enough, you might magically vanish," Jackson replied dryly. "But I guess the world isn't that kind, is it?"

  Isaac narrowed his eyes. "You've been gone a long time. You look terrible. Are you alright?"

  "Does he care?" Jackson shot back. "Since when do you care if I’m alright?"

  "It’s always a storm with you, Jackson," Isaac sighed.

  "I’m not interested in the exhibition, Isaac. If you’ll excuse me, I have business."

  Jackson turned to walk away, but Isaac’s hand clamped onto his arm like a vice. "You will be present tonight, for the main event?"

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  The silence between them was thick enough to choke the room. Jackson didn't answer. He simply offered a cold, thin smile, wrenched his arm free, and climbed the stairs. He passed several guests on the way up, but he didn't see them, his mind was on the vault. He burst into his old quarters, throwing open drawers and cabinets, searching frantically.

  "Wow. That’s odd. I thought I smelled something familiar." Jessie said as she stood by the door, watching the chaos.

  Jackson didn't even look at her. "Not in the mood, Jessie."

  "What are you searching for?" she asked, her voice sharpening. "And why do you smell… familiar?"

  Jackson stopped, a heavy wooden box in his hands. "Familiar?"

  "I never forget a scent, Jackson. Especially not this one. Where have you been? Who have you been spending your nights with?"

  "Since when did you care about my bedfellows?"

  "You know the rules," she snapped. "You don't mess with mine, I don't mess with yours."

  "The rules don't apply to me, Jessie. I’m not bound by mindless followers like the rest of you."

  "If we bend the rules whenever we want, they aren't rules anymore!"

  "But when Isaac did it, it was fine?" Jackson hissed.

  "Don't you dare," Jessie growled, her face pale. "That was a long time ago."

  "Yeah? And look what it cost. Maybe if you’d had a 'rule' back then, she’d still be alive."

  "You have no right!" Jessie shouted. "You weren't even there when it happened!"

  Jackson flinched, the memory hitting him like a physical weight. "I know. I shouldn't have brought it up. I'm sorry."

  He turned back to his search, finally finding a small vial tucked behind a false panel. He tucked it into his pocket with a flicker of approval.

  "Jackson," Jessie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Just tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you aren't out there ruining the balance. Do you have any idea the risk?"

  "Do you really think me to be that careless?"

  "I don't know what to think of you. You're a mess of contradictions."

  Jackson stepped toward the door. "I’m glad my reputation precedes me."

  "The rules, Jackson!" she called after him.

  He paused at the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. "I don't expect you to understand. But if you're worried about the balance, digest this: The Order of Valkyrie has returned."

  Jessie froze, the blood draining from her face as Jackson vanished into the hall. He descended the stairs, nearly running into Kyle at the bottom.

  "Wow," Kyle mocked. "The brother who never stays down."

  "I don't have time to play with you, little brother," Jackson said, walking past him. Some of the nearby guests chuckled, but a single look from Kyle silenced them in terror.

  "You're supposed to be at the exhibition!" Kyle shouted.

  "I care nothing for the 'do's and don'ts' of this house," Jackson called back.

  Kyle clenched his fists, looking toward Isaac for permission to strike, but Isaac’s expression was a warning. Jackson reached his car and tore out of the driveway, heading back to the safety of the Grand Heights.

  He took the elevator up, his vision blurring as the world tilted. The wound was taking more out of him than he wanted to admit. He stepped into the penthouse, staggering slightly, when a voice drifted from the shadows of the living room.

  "My Lord... I daresay I’ve arrived not a moment too soon.”

  Jackson looked up, and through the haze of pain, he saw Elena standing by the window. Before he could form a reply, the darkness claimed him.

  When he finally blinked his eyes open, his head was throbbing with the rhythm of a war drum. Elena was there, moving with a calm, predatory grace.

  "Thirty-five minutes," she noted, her tone light but precise. "Quite impressive. It would seem your constitution hasn’t been entirely vanquished by the toxin just yet."

  Jackson sat up, a mask of confusion tightening his features. "What...?"

  "During our previous correspondence, I caught a glimpse of the blemish upon your hand," Elena said, walking toward the bar stand. "It looked familiar, though not in any manner I’d call pleasant."

  She began to pour two glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the afternoon light.

  "There is a certain faction utilizing this particular 'gift' across the globe," she continued, her accent sharpening. "They call it the Phoenix Touch. A most ghastly bit of business. It is a weapon designed to kill with excruciating sloth, leaving a scorched brand at the point of impact while it literally parches the victim from within, reducing them to cinders.”

  She paused for a second.

  “In a mere mortal, the process takes half an hour at most, and in the most gruesome agony imaginable. It has been documented in Venezuela, Australia, Germany, and even the bleakest parts of Russia."

  She turned, offering him a glass. "When I saw your arm, I took the liberty of digging a bit deeper. There is no known cure in the medicinal world, but I knew your form required something more... unconventional than a mere antidote. You needed a way to suppress the alchemical reaction."

  Jackson touched the fresh bandages on his chest. "And you discovered a way to suppress it in three days?"

  "Hardly," she replied with a small, knowing smile. "There were very few chemicals to contend with to begin with. The 'Touch' is... magical in nature."

  Jackson paused, rage and confusion flickering in his eyes. "How? There aren't many practitioners of the craft left in this age."

  "Precisely my thought. However, the Quadron, and even Atia herself, confirmed the suspicion. Fortuitous for us, you possessed more of the ingredients she prescribed for me than I anticipated. All that was required was the application and the recitation of the proper words."

  He took the whiskey, but his gaze immediately darted toward the bedroom. He saw Eva sprawled on the floor. His heart hammered as he shoved the glass back at Elena and rushed to the girl’s side to check her pulse.

  "She is quite alright, My Lord. Merely a touch of sleeping gas," Elena said, taking a composed sip of her drink. "You know, for once, I am glad I chose to disregard your instructions. Had you been caught in that gas in your state, I shudder to think what else might have claimed you. You were perishing, my lord. Simply at a more dignified pace than the average human."

  "If you hadn't arrived," Jackson asked, his voice low as he looked at Eva’s rising and falling chest, "how much time would I have had?"

  "A month, perhaps, given your legendary resilience. But I fear it is a weapon designed to fell even one such as you."

  "And there are multiple weapons like this circulating?"

  "'Circulating' is perhaps too generous a term," Elena corrected. "More like... being field-tested. Only one collective utilizes this weapon. No one else has managed to procure it, not even the most desperate of bidders."

  "The Order of Valkyrie."

  "Precisely." She studied his troubled expression. "What is our move now, My Lord?"

  Jackson let out a heavy, weary sigh. "For now, nothing. That is the only card I have left to play."

  "Are you not intending to draw them out? You have exactly what they covet," she gestured toward the sleeping girl.

  "Correction," Jackson said, his eyes hardening. "That is the only sane card left. Using Eva as bait is not an option."

  "Understood." Elena set her glass down. "It appears she is beginning to stir. I shall prepare a bath for her."

  "Elena," Jackson said softly, "thank you."

  "Please, My Lord," she replied, a flash of genuine warmth softening her formal exterior. "You have done far more for my family throughout the centuries. It is the very least I could offer."

  Jackson reached up and peeled away the bandages. Beneath them, the black, pulsating edges of the wounds were gone. The skin was knitting back together, smooth and pale. He looked at his reflection in the glass, the bright afternoon sun finally feeling warm instead of like a burn.

  He let out a soft smile as he watched the city continue undisturbed.

  On the other side of town, the old library stood like a decaying monument to forgotten things. Cannon’s car groaned to a halt. He stepped out, the cool afternoon air doing little to settle his nerves. He pulled the photograph from his pocket, staring at it once more before folding it away. With his flashlight in one hand and his pulse thrumming in his ears, he headed inside.

  He went straight for the basement. He spent an hour in the damp, claustrophobic dark, pushing against bookshelves and tracing cracks in the stone. He was searching for the ghost of the path Hayes had taken. Just as frustration began to boil over, he leaned heavily against a particular shelf.

  The wood groaned and the shelf shifted. Rats scurried from the sudden movement, their claws clicking on the stone. Cannon froze, then flashed his light into the narrow gap that had appeared. He squeezed through and found himself in a space that felt frozen in time, a man’s private study, hidden behind the world.

  On a heavy oak table sat a candle lamp. Cannon reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter; he had come prepared. The wick caught, and strangely, the wax seemed fresh, as if it had been lit only hours before. Beside the lamp lay an old-fashioned oil pen and several stacks of books.

  Most were unreadable, the ink faded into meaningless ghosts of words. But as he searched, a thin journal slid out from between two larger volumes. He untied the rotting twine that bound it and stared at the cover.

  JW. The monogram was unmistakable. The journal of Juan Winchester.

  He opened the first page, the paper brittle as dried leaves. “To whom may find this,” he read, the handwriting frantic. “If you are seeing this, then Grayhaven is in serious danger.”

  Clang!!

  The sound of metal hitting stone echoed from the main basement. Cannon didn't wait to read another word. He shoved the journal into his coat and drew his weapon, his back against the study wall.

  Footsteps approached. Heavy, disciplined.

  “Burn it down,” a voice commanded from the other side of the shelves. “The boss can’t afford this falling into the wrong hands.”

  “Are you sure that’s all of it?” another man asked.

  “Yes. Torch it. We don't want anyone else finding this place.”

  Cannon held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. He heard the splash of accelerant and the roar of a flame catching. The basement door was slammed shut and locked from the outside.

  Thick, black smoke began to pour through the cracks in the secret study. Cannon choked, the air quickly turning into a toxic soup. He scrambled back deeper into the study, his flashlight beam cutting through the haze. He found another door, this one bearing the same JW monogram on the handle.

  He threw his shoulder against it. Once. Twice. The wood splintered, and he tumbled into a narrow passage that smelled of ancient dust and rot. He ran, his light bouncing off the walls, until he stumbled over something white and jagged.

  Skeletons.

  He shined his torch further ahead. Dead end. The passage didn't lead out; it ended in a wall of solid rock.

  “Is this it?” Cannon gasped, his lungs burning. “Is this how you died, Juan?”

  He turned back, the smoke now filling the passage, making his vision swim. He reached the study again, but the heat was unbearable. He collapsed near the shifting shelf, the world turning grey. He felt the air leave his lungs, his eyes fluttering shut as the roar of the fire became a dull hum.

  Then, a sudden, violent gust of wind.

  Cannon gasped, his eyes snapping open. He wasn't in the basement. He was standing by his car in the cool evening air. He stumbled, leaning against the hood, his chest heaving as he stared at the library.

  Flames were licking the roof, orange light dancing against the darkening sky. He looked at his car window, trying to understand how he had gotten out. In the reflection of the glass, two glowing red eyes stared back at him from the shadows behind his shoulder.

  Cannon spun around, his gun raised. "Who's there!?"

  Nothing.

  The alley was empty. Only the crackle of the burning library answered him. He turned back to the car reflection, but the eyes were gone. He stood there, shivering despite the heat of the fire, the weight of the Winchester journals heavy in his coat. He had the truth in his pocket, but he was being watched by something that didn't want the truth to breathe.