Page 15 of Echoes From the Void
“Please,” my mother sniffs. “A good healer knows how to handle a scalpel. For medical purposes only, of course.”
“Of course,” Leo agrees solemnly, though his eyes dance with mischief. “Just like Matteo only growls at people for medical purposes.”
The potential pack bonds pulse with increasing tension, cutting through our banter. Through them, I feel the sense of urgency—something needs to be done now. Frankie’s exhaustion, Bishop’s strategic focus, Dorian’s irritation—all of it compels me forward.
And Leo, right beside me, sunshine wreathed in shadow. His presence has always been my anchor, even before these new bonds started forming. He reaches up, tracing my jawline where the bone structure seems to be shifting. The touch sends heat through my veins despite the situation.
“That’s new,” he murmurs. “Kinda sexy though.”
“Only you would flirt during a security threat,” I growl, but lean into his touch anyway.
“What can I say? Danger turns me?—”
Another scent hits me—blood. Not the normal medical wing smell of bandages and antiseptic, but something... wrong. It carries the sour stench of corruption, reminding me of infected wounds I’d watched my mother treat in her Delhi clinic. The memory is vivid: her steady hands, the careful way she’d drawn poison from flesh, always gentle even when it hurt.
The campus might be empty, evacuated as the shadow realm’s collapse creates dangerous rifts, but our medical supplies are all that stand between us and disaster. Especially with the barriers between realms growing more unstable by the hour.
“The blood stores,” I realize, my new fangs making the words sharper. “They’re contaminating our healing supplies.”
My mother’s hands falter in their healing patterns for just a heartbeat, though her voice remains steady in her chants. Through our growing connection, I feel Frankie stir at my alarm.
“Those supplies are all we have until the rifts stabilize enough for deliveries,” my mother says, her professional calm wavering slightly. “Without them...”
“We lose our only backup plan,” Leo finishes, his usual playful demeanor falling away. He shifts automatically to guard the door, a move we’ve perfected since high school. “Go. I’ve got them.”
“Leo—”
“Dude, how many times have I watched your back?” His grin carries an edge now. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Dr. Sharma can throw a scalpel faster than I can run.”
“Three milliseconds to deploy,” my mother confirms without looking up from her work. “Four if I’m wearing a formal sari.”
The predator in me roars, but it’s not just mindless violence now. This is the same fury I felt watching thieves steal medicine from my mother’s clinic, watching bullies target Leo in school. The need to protect twisted into something darker but no less purposeful.
Still, I hesitate, torn between hunt and protection. The potential pack bonds pull at me—the twins need guarding, but this threat needs ending. My mother’s gentle healing and my violent nature war inside me.
“Beta,” my mother’s voice catches me. When I meet her eyes, I see no fear of my fangs, my shadows, my darkness. Only understanding. “Sometimes healing requires a warrior’s heart.” She touches the henna patterns on her wrist, the same designs she used to draw on my skin. “Why do you think I learned to throw scalpels?”
A shift occurs in my chest—something clicks into place. All these years watching her heal, learning the body’s meridians and pressure points—they weren’t just lessons in healing. They were lessons in how bodies work.
How they break.
Permission or understanding or something else entirely settles into my bones. My mother has always taught through example, through quiet wisdom. Even her violence served a healer’s purpose.
“If you die,” I tell Leo, already moving toward the storage area, “I’ll kill you.”
“Aw, you say the sweetest things.” His smile carries steel beneath the sunshine. “Try not to terrorize them too much. Unless they deserve it.”
“Children,” my mother sighs, but her lips twitch. “Less flirting, more protecting.”
I flow through the medical wing shadows, following the corrupt scent to the storage room. The fluorescent lights flicker, casting uneven shadows that respond to my passing like eager pets. The predator in me moves with a healer’s precision—another gift from watching my mother work. Every step calculated, every movement efficient.
A figure in Shadow Locke medical scrubs methodically works their way through rows of hanging blood bags with a syringe, each injection precise and practiced. Their own shadow gives them away—too sharp, too hungry, writhing against the wall with unnatural malice.
Not a shifter. Something else. Something that reeks of Valerie & Blackwood’s corruption.
They sense me too late. I have them pinned before they can reach for what’s probably a weapon, my hand around their throat. My new fangs ache with the need to tear, to destroy thethreat before it can hurt what’s mine. The predator howls for blood.
But my mother’s voice echoes in my memory: “The body is a system, beta. Everything connected, everything flowing. To heal—or harm—you must understand the paths energy takes.”
