“It feels like… cool, thick air,” he says, his hand moving over her gently. “Like touching mist but with weight.” He strokes between her ears, and Mischka’s eyes close in contentment.
Then she flickers, her form suddenly becoming more solid, more present, almost like a living dog before fading back to her usual translucent state.
“What was that?” Malachi’s eyes snap up to meet mine, startled. “Did you see that?”
“You saw it too?” I ask, my own surprise evident. This is new, even for me.
“Yeah, she was completely solid for a second there, like she was alive again,” he says, continuing to pet her as she curls up into a contented ball against his leg.
I chew my lip, considering how much to tell him. “Ever since I went through Bash’s machine, things have been… different. Evolving. Spirits have seemed more substantial at times—more real than ever before. I’ve been able to touch them more clearly, and they can interact with the physical world in ways that used to be impossible. Like at the party.” I pause, uncertainty creeping into my voice. “I’m not sure if it means I’m getting stronger, or if something else entirely is happening to my gift.”
His expression shifts, lips pressing together in that familiarlook that means he doesn’t like what I’m telling him. It’s his protective face, the one that appears whenever he thinks I might be in danger.
“Have you told Bash about these changes?” he asks, concerned.
I nod quickly. “A little bit, but honestly, we’ve been so busy with training and mission prep. He told me that gifts naturally evolve over time and to keep monitoring things as they develop.”
Malachi doesn’t look satisfied by my answer. I can see the wheels turning in his head, probably planning to have his own conversation with Bash about this. Mish suddenly vanishes without warning, and he jumps slightly, his head whipping around to look for her.
I can’t help but laugh at his startled reaction. “Does that happen often?” he asks, his eyes wide with alarm.
“All the time. She has her own agenda, coming and going as she pleases. I’m used to it by now.” His shoulders relax slightly at the explanation.
“Kat…” he says suddenly, his voice taking on a strange quality.
He gets to his feet, and something in his tone makes me follow suit, standing slowly beside him. I find myself looking around the garden, scanning for threats, expecting Damien or some other danger to emerge from the shadows.
“What are you looking at?” I ask, wondering if my Avidian is affecting him in ways we didn’t anticipate.
“Don’t you feel that?” He tenses up.
I freeze, every nerve in my body suddenly alert. Goosebumps erupt across my flesh like ice water spreading through my veins. I hadn’t noticed it before, too caught up in watching him with Mischka, but I feel it now. That familiar, dreadfulchill working its way up my spine like cold fingers tracing my vertebrae.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“Is this normal? Is this supposed to happen with your Avidian?” he asks urgently, and I instinctively step closer to him.
“This is how I feel right—” Before I can say more, the world tilts sideways.
The garden begins to wobble around us like we’re looking through water. Malachi throws his hand out for balance. Our beautiful, magical surroundings start to flicker in and out of existence. One moment, I’m seeing the willow tree and starlit pond. The next, something else entirely is trying to break through.
Without warning, we’re somewhere else completely.
I know we’re still physically in the garden, because I can feel the soft grass beneath my bare feet, can smell the lingering scent of the flowers Atlas grew for us. But visually, we’ve been transported. She’s brought us here, shown us this place.
I look up to see Malachi taking an unsteady step toward what appears to be a large two-way mirror, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stares through the glass. His face has gone pale, jaw slack with shock.
On the other side of the mirror is the Project Viridian woman—the same one from the photograph, the same face I’ve seen in my visions before. But this time, she’s not standing or walking or trying to talk to me. She’s strapped down to what looks like a medical bed, thick leather restraints holding her wrists and ankles immobile. Her head is tilted back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat.
The room beyond the glass looks sterile and cold—all-white walls and gleaming surfaces, like a hospital operating room. Banks of monitors line the walls, their screens displayingreadouts I can’t interpret. Medical equipment I don’t recognize hums quietly in the background.
“What’s happening?” Malachi whispers.
I’m transfixed by the scene unfolding before us. Two men in pristine white coats enter the room. The first carries a clipboard, making notes as he observes the restrained woman. The second holds something that makes my blood run cold—some kind of syringe device with a long needle on it. It gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights, and whatever liquid is inside it seems to swirl with an unnatural luminescence.
The woman on the bed turns her head slightly, and I catch a glimpse of her eyes.
They don’t look afraid—they’re defiant and eerily calm for someone strapped down to a medical bed.
