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The truth is, ever since we ended the Eden Frequency, my mind has been slowly unraveling. And if I don’t get a handle on it soon, it’s going to destroy me.

4

The Watcher

I see all. I’m always watching. I’m always waiting.

I watch from the two-way viewing room as Callum Thorne and Malakai Vale kill Dorian Reilly. I watch as my plan comes together in perfect harmony. Callum stands over Dorian now, frantically checking for a pulse where we all know there won’t be one. Malakai stands to the side, watching the scene unfold as he plays the useless accomplice.

Tilting my head at the mirror, I hardly recognize my own reflection as the mask I wear to conceal my identity stares back at me. I look through it, watching with curiosity as Callum drives his fist into the wall and fractures the bone. It’s such a shame, really. All that hard-earned control, gone in the blink of an eye. Or in Callum’s case, the murder of his best friend’s father.

It turns out, Callum Thorne is nothing without the frequencies. Sonus’s frequencies made Callum whole again. They took him away from the demons of his past, allowing him to heal. I watched the evolution of a beast into a man right before my very eyes. The frequencies were magic for him. He was growing, changing by the day. That is, until recently. I didn’t know what would happen once the frequencies were abruptly stopped, but this is far better than anything I could have imagined.

I’ve been watching Callum since the Eden Frequency came crumbling to the ground, and he’s spiraling at record pace. It would seem that he is experiencing hallucinations, maybe even delusions. I saw it mere seconds ago when he accidentally killed Dorian. I see it now in the way his anger is quick to surface. He’s fidgety and anxious. He isn’t able to rein in his temper like he usually can.

Callum is the first step in possessing the keys to the kingdom, and I might not have to intervene at all when it comes to manipulating him to do my bidding. He seems to be doing a fine job at executing his downfall all on his own. He’ll make a fine accomplice.

I watch as Callum and Malakai drag Dorian’s body from the torture room and into the hallway, likely going to dispose of him in the crematory on the lower level. I know this building in and out. I know it as well as the DNA that spirals through my very blood. At least, I think it’s my own. Some days, it’s hard to say for certain. Some days, it’s hard to remember what I’m here to do.

Today, I can see it clearly. Today, I know exactly what I must do.

Sabel, Dorian, and the Eden Frequency may have fallen, but I remain. I will see to it that Sabel’s plans are executed accordingly. No one noticed me then, and they’ll never notice me now. I am the chill that runs down the back of your spine in the dark of the night, the shadow in your periphery that you tell yourself is only your imagination.

I am watching, always.

Sabel was my master, the one who made me what I am today. I will not let her down. I exit the two-way viewing room and make my way down the empty hallway and straight out of the building. The forest opens up as I stroll through it, disappearing behind the large redwoods like I was never even here.

The next part of the plan awaits.

5

Lydia

What in the stars am I looking at?

The words on that sticky note play on repeat like a bad melody as I mull them over in my mind. Who could have placed this in my desk drawer? An uncanny awareness creeps in as I scan the salon. The door chimes, clippers buzz, a blow dryer hums somewhere in the far corner, and water runs from the rinse area. All the noises collide in an overwhelming avalanche, and I feel myself on the verge of panic. It’s been ages since I’ve felt this kind of dread—this sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach. My breathing accelerates as I clutch the note against my chest.

“Lydia?” I hear Jane’s sweet, southern voice call out to me.

My head snaps to the right, realizing that she’s standing there staring at me with a worried expression on her face. Her dark green gaze drops to my hand, where the sticky note is now tightly squeezed in my palm. I loosen my grasp on the paper, but don’t fully open my hand. This isn’t something that I want to discuss with anyone right now, especially not sweet Jane. The poor woman does not deserve to be dragged into whatever the hell this is.

“Hi, Jane. I’m okay. I just … felt really hot all of a sudden. I didn’t eat this morning and might be a tad hungover.” I cringe, awaiting her reaction.

“Oh, honey. Why didn’t you come to me first thing? You know I always have food in my office, dear. Come on, I’ll get you something.”

Jane waves her hand, beckoning me to follow. I sigh, shove the note into the pocket of my skirt, and follow after her. We walk into her office and across the light wood flooring, sun bathing the space in a warm glow. I plop down onto the deep burgundy love seat along the back wall, attempting to relax into the cushion.

Jane makes quick work of grabbing a huge, homemade blueberry muffin from a cake tray on a counter in the back corner of the room. She walks toward me, stopping at the mini fridge to grab a bottle of water. Closing the fridge, she pauses, pivoting to grab something from her desk drawer before coming over to me.

“Here ya go, sweetie. This ought to do the trick,” she says, handing me the muffin, the bottle of water, and two pain relievers.

Her radiating warmth eases the tension brewing within me as I smile up at her. Closing my eyes, I bite into the muffin. The warm crumbs collapse on my tongue in the most delectable way. The sugar and butter instantly bloom across my taste buds, making everything nearly right in the world. Next, I tip the pain relievers into my mouth and chase them down with a long pull of water.

“Thank you, Jane. You know I love anything and everything that you bake.” I take another bite of the muffin, stifling the moan when this one is even better than the last.

“Just for you, sweetie,” she responds sweetly, taking a seat at her desk. “So tell me, are you sure there’s nothing else you wanna talk about? You were paler than a preacher in a bar just now.”

I stop chewing as my gaze lifts to hers, nearly spitting muffin bits across the room when I can’t stop laughing. She always comes up with the most ridiculous analogies. I like to call them ‘Jane Southern-isms.’ She’s from Southern Georgia, and anytime she gets the chance to tell a joke in that sweet, thick accent, she takes full advantage.