"Last week in Alaska, sir. That thing's claws shredded her tactical gear to ribbons. But not a mark on her. No one is that lucky." A pause. "And today in the courtroom—she moved differently under the dreamwalker's control. Like she was fighting it, but not the way a normal person would. Almost like she was arguing with the monster."
"You're suggesting one of my top agents—an agent who has hunted these creatures for five years, who watched her father die at their hands—is one of them?" Hayes' voice turns sharp. "Be very careful, Chen."
“I don’t want to be right, sir. There’s just regular inconsistencies.”
Hayes grunts something I can’t understand.
"Something else, sir. Look at this photo from the Rome briefing. These puncture wounds—double canines, half-inch apart. Just like the other victims."
My heart stops. The Rome briefing. Why would Sherlock have that first? He’s not the team lead. I am. That brief should’ve been on my desk first.
"Just like her father's wounds," Hayes says quietly.
"If this really is..." His voice softens and I can’t hear the end.
A long pause. "Keep watching. Document everything. But do not stop her from taking this monster down. It has killed agents on two different teams. We need her, inconsistencies or not, luck or not. Consider that an order."
"Understood."
I wait until their footsteps fade before letting out the breath I've been holding. Sherlock—my teammate, my friend, the man I trust like a brother to watch my back—has been spying on me. Son of a fucking bitch, I think, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
My phone buzzes. The Rome briefing documents pop up in my inbox.
I open the pictures and look at the bite marks. They look the same. After sixteen years of searching, could this finally be the one? The creature that killed my father?
But in the back of my mind I’m worried that Sherlock will figure out what I am before I can find the creature. And if he does, will he turn on me?
CHAPTER 6
Vengeance Will Be Mine
* * *
Astrid Mathieson
The pictures from the Rome briefing fill my phone screen as I sit in my car outside Mom's house, engine off, streetlights casting long shadows through the windshield. My hands shake as I zoom in on the wounds—two sets of puncture marks, exactly half an inch apart. For years, I've measured every bite pattern we've come across, hoping to match the wounds from Dad's file. None have ever been right. Until now.
The attack pattern is messier than Dad's was, more chaotic, like the creature was injured or desperate. There's a blurred security photo that shows something impossible—what looks like a lion's body, but massive, with strange horns or spikes. Nothing like any creature we've catalogued before. My heart pounds as I swipe through the photos again.
After all these years of searching, could this finally be a real lead?
Mrs. Jacob’s from next door peers through her curtains for the third time since I pulled up. She recognizes my car—has for years—but still maintains her vigilant watch until she sees me enter the house. The neighbors have grown fiercely protective since Dad died, especially when I'm away on missions. They bring Mom casseroles, check her mail, invite her to book club.
Sometimes I wonder if they'd still deliver those homemade pies and concerned smiles if they knew what I really am—magickal.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ghost: Flight assigned. Wheels up at 0600 Friday. Don't be late and bring me a gingersnap. I snort and shake my head. Both Ghost and Sherlock love Mom's cookies. Ghost, who trusts me to watch his back and tells me about his daughter's report cards. Sherlock, who catalogs my every move now, documenting all the times I've walked away from fights without a scratch.
The bitter irony burns in my chest.
These people I've fought beside for years, shared meals with, protected—they'd turn their weapons on me in an instant if they discovered the truth. The same neighbors who bring Mom casseroles would call GUIDE to report us.
My stomach twists with the knowledge that every relationship I have beyond my mother exists on the knife edge of a lie. I've built my entire life on quicksand, and the foundations shift a little more each day.
I glance back at the house again.
A light flicks on in Mom's kitchen, warm yellow spilling across her herb garden. The front door opens. "Astrid." Mom's voice carries from the front porch, soft but clear. "Come inside, sweetheart. It's late."
I lock my phone, darkness swallowing the images. The same unnatural awareness I've felt since the courthouse incident buzzes under my skin as I grab my go-bag. It's different from the usual post-case jitters—more like an inexplicable pull, a compass needle spinning without finding north.
