“You have one job, Silas,” she says. Her words are not loud, but they carry a chilling weight, a blade honed sharp by years of practice.
“Helena—”
“The Council spent the entire day in session. An emergency session, I might add, debating the merits of sending a full task force to that quaint little town. All because you sent a message suggesting the situation was ‘complex.’” Her tone is laced with a contempt that stings more than any shout could. “And what do I have to tell them? That my brother, the Council’s appointed envoy, can’t even manage to complete a simple census.”
“It wasn’t a simple day,” I say, forcing my own tone to remain neutral. I stop walking, leaning against the cold brick wall ofa closed-down shop. “The Rift flared again. Violently. We were containing the damage.”
“A flare-up,” she scoffs, the sound sharp and dismissive. “That’s what this town does. It is why you’re there. To observe, to report, to get a precise count of the unbonded Omegas in the immediate vicinity. That’s the mission. It’s not complicated.”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. A headache is forming, a tight band of pressure around my skull. “There was an explosion at the Brass Lantern. Familiars attacking their owners. The wind nearly took the roof off the library. It was not a normal day.”
“Father is equally disappointed,” she continues, ignoring my explanation completely. “He expected more. He believed you had the fortitude for this.”
The mention of our father is a low blow. It always is. I can picture him now, in his study, surrounded by leather-bound books and the ghosts of our ancestors, his face a mask of stern disapproval.
“Helena, listen to me?—”
“And to make matters worse,” she talks over me, “all flights into your regional airport have been grounded. Some absurd story about a localized hurricane. So you’re now, by default, the only representative of the Council we have on the ground. The only one. Try not to cause an international incident before morning.”
The line goes dead.
I lower my phone from my ear, my hand hanging limply at my side. The conversation has drained the last of my reserves. The anger, the frustration, the weight of my family’s expectations—it all coalesces into a profound, bone-deep weariness.
I rub my temples, the pressure in my head intensifying. I want to go back to my room at the hotel. I want to strip offthese damp, cold clothes and fall into a dreamless sleep. I want to forget about Willowbrook, the Rift, the Council, and my own failure.
I push myself off the wall and start walking again, my steps heavy. The station is just a few blocks away. Then food. Then sleep. That’s the new, simplified plan.
That’s when I smell it.
It cuts through the scent of rain and ozone, a fragrance that’s both out of place and utterly captivating. Sage and roses. The clean, earthy scent of a purification spell mixed with the sweet, intoxicating perfume of blooming roses.
It’s an Omega scent, but unlike any I have ever encountered. It’s complex, layered, and it pulls me up short.
I lift my head, my gaze scanning the street. And then I see her.
She’s standing in the middle of the road, directly under a sputtering streetlight. She’s tall, with a willowy frame that seems almost fragile. Her hair is a stark, raven-black curtain that falls down her back. She’s almost glowing, with what looks like luminous skin.
She’s dressed all in black—jeans, a leather jacket, heavy silver jewelry glinting at her wrists and throat.
She’s staring up at the bruised, swirling sky, her lips moving, forming silent words. She’s mumbling to herself, a low, constant stream of sound.
This isn’t a good place for her to be.
“Hey,” I call out. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s not safe.”
I start toward her, my hand raised in a gesture of peace. She doesn’t seem to hear me. She just keeps mumbling, her eyes fixed on the sky. I get closer, close enough to hear the fragmented words.
“…threads unwinding… the scythe is sharpened…”
“Miss,” I say, reaching out, intending to gently touch her arm, to get her attention.
The moment my fingers make contact with the cool leather of her jacket, she reacts.
A scream tears from her throat, a sound so high and piercing it feels physical, like a shard of glass in the ear. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated terror. She wrenches away from me as if I have burned her, stumbling backward, her arms flailing.
She spins around, her wide, wild eyes locking onto mine. The green of them is startling, almost luminous in the dim light.
“Death is coming,” she shrieks, her words a ragged, panicked gasp. “He is coming for all of you!” She points a trembling finger at me, then at the empty street behind me. “I saw it! The veil is tearing! He is coming!”
