“Julian Blackthorne. Sigma-seven-seven-alpha.”
“One moment.”
The hold music is Bach. A few of the Council knew Bach personally. They said he was just as insufferable as his music suggests.
“Mr. Blackthorne.” The voice that comes on is different—older, more formal. Someone high up. “This is Aldric. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I need to file a formal complaint. Against Damien Ashworth.”
Silence. The kind that carries weight.
“Damien Ashworth,” Aldric repeats. “The Council ruled on Prague, Mr. Blackthorne. The matter was considered closed.”
“Damien doesn’t agree. He’s in Los Angeles. He’s been surveilling me.”
“Surveillance isn’t a violation.”
“He’s threatening someone under my protection.”
“A human?”
“Yes.”
“Humans aren’t protected under Council law unless—” He stops. “Is this human a potential Turning candidate?”
“No.”
“A thrall?”
“No.”
“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing the Council can do. Damien has the right to observe. To communicate. To remind you of past grievances.” Aldric’s voice carries the particular satisfaction of bureaucrats everywhere. “As long as he takes no direct action against you or your formally registered dependents, he’s within his rights.”
“His rights end where my peace begins.”
“No, Mr. Blackthorne. They do not.” A pause. “Is there anything else?”
I hang up without answering.
The photograph sits on my desk. Poppy’s smile. My hand on hers. The evidence of everything Damien wants to destroy.
I don’t sleep. I never sleep, but tonight the hours feel longer than usual.
At 4 AM, I sit at my desk reviewing everything Celeste has sent—Damien’s known aliases, his property holdings, his movement patterns. He’s been careful. Patient. The last confirmed sighting before Los Angeles was São Paulo twelve years ago, but there are gaps. Years-long gaps where he could have been anywhere, doing anything.
Building something.
Planning something.
At 5 AM, Marcus sends the security footage. I watch myself move through my own building, checking timestamps, looking for anomalies. Nothing. Whoever delivered the photograph knew exactly how to avoid the cameras.
At 6 AM, my phone buzzes.
POPPY: Can’t sleep again. Nervous about the flight.
I stare at the message. She’s awake, thinking about me, completely unaware that somewhere in this city, something old and malevolent is thinking about her, too.
ME: Nervous about flying?
