Page 59 of Echoes From the Void
“Marcus?” His voice carries years of captured children’s screams. Through our bond, I feel him instinctively reach for the child, his light trying to soothe corrupted shadows.
Bishop moves closer, Guardian marks pulsing with barely contained rage as he examines the blood-data. Even through our new bond, his careful control threatens to crack. “A shelter would be ideal for their purposes. Steady supply of subjects. No family to file missing persons reports. No one to notice when kids disappear into the system.”
My wolves pace restlessly as I force myself to look deeper. Every disappearance I’d written off. Every time Marcus threatened to call state services. Every calculating look he gave the most vulnerable kids. Behind me, I feel Leo’s shadows darken despite his usually bright nature, responding to memories of his own work with troubled youth.
The realization hits like acid in my veins. “He wasn’t getting rid of them. He was... selecting them. For Valerie.”
“For evolution,” Matteo corrects, his voice carrying the weight of blood-truth as he returns from checking the rescued child. In the dim light, his fangs catch shadow as he adds, “The blood shows years of careful choices. Testing compatibility markers before transferring subjects to the labs.” Through our bond, I feel how each revelation from the blood tears at his healer’s nature.
Beside me, Finn goes preternaturally still, his light dimming in a way that makes my shadows reach for him instinctively. Through our bond, I feel him processing the implications – how many children like him were selected for their potential. How many were deemed compatible for corruption. The child’s whimpers from the other room echo through our connection.
It’s a sick feeling that just won’t go away, one that exists in my core and slowly unfurls. The pack bonds pulse with shared fury – Bishop’s cold rage, Leo’s darkened sunshine, Matteo’spredatory focus. All of it feeds into my shadows, making them writhe with deadly purpose.
“We should go to the shelter.” I walk over to the window that overlooks the university grounds. The tower still stands strong against the void, though reality shimmers where the barriers grow thin. One step through the shadows would show me how close the collapse truly is, but I resist the urge. We have more immediate monsters to face.
“I’ll go.” Matteo says, his fangs lengthening at the prospect of hunt.
“We all go,” I say, turning from the window. The pack bonds strengthen with shared purpose.
“Could be a trap,” Bishop says, already gathering his maps, Guardian marks pulsing in time with our connection.
“The shelter’s been investigated before,” Leo points out, his usually bright presence carrying an edge of shadow. “Nothing ever stuck.”
“Because he had a system.” Matteo’s voice is cold, the blood-truth making his shadows writhe. “Nothing about this was random.”
Finn stands beside me, his light reaching for my shadows in unconscious comfort. Through our twin bond, I feel his quiet understanding. He knows what it means to be marked, to be chosen. To be seen as nothing more than potential.
“We need to know how deep this goes,” I say, feeling the pack’s agreement pulse through our bonds.
“The Council—” Bishop starts, but I can feel his own doubt through our connection.
“No.” I cut him off. “Not until we have something concrete.”
The drive to Morrow Bay feels longer than usual, reality shimmering at the edges where the void bleeds through weakened barriers. Our convoy of cars hits the bridge just as fog rolls in from the coast, thick enough that even the bridge lightslook dim and distant. Through the pack bonds, I feel them taking tactical positions—Bishop leading in his Bentley, scanning for threats; Leo and Matteo bringing up the rear in Leo’s beaten-up Honda, their shadows extending a protective perimeter around us all.
Finn rides shotgun in my Jeep, his light pulsing with tension that echoes through our twin bond. “You lived here?” he asks as we pass the ‘Welcome to Morrow Bay’ sign, its paint peeling and faded. The question carries deeper meaning—how did you survive this place?
“If you can call it living.” The familiar streets look different now, each corner holding a new kind of darkness. Through our bond, I share flashes of memory—the gas station where I used to count change for coffee, the library where I’d hide during winter storms, the park where kids from the shelter would play while Marcus watched, making notes on his ever-present clipboard. Each memory now tainted with new understanding.
We turn onto Harbor Street, past closed shops and dim streetlights. The shelter sits at the end, a three-story Victorian that probably looked grand once, before neglect and budget cuts took their toll. Now it just looks hungry, like something waiting to devour more lost children.
Bishop parks across the street, keeping sight lines clear. Through our bond, I feel his Guardian training assessing angles, exits, potential threats. Smart. Through my rearview mirror, I watch Leo pull up behind us, his car’s dying sputter making Matteo wince even as their shadows extend to guard our flanks.
“Ready?” Finn asks quietly. His light reaches for my shadows, offering strength.
I stare at the shelter’s dark windows, remembering all the nights I spent watching them from outside, counting shadows, making sure everyone was safe. The pack bonds pulse with protective fury, responding to my memories of false security.
What a joke that seems now.
“Let’s find out what Marcus has been hiding.”
The shelter’s front porch creaks under our weight, wood worn smooth from years of desperate footsteps. My key still works in the lock—of course it does. Marcus probably wanted me to come back. To see his masterpiece of systematic cruelty.
The front hallway assaults my senses with memories—industrial cleaner barely masking mildew, ancient wallpaper peeling in the corners to reveal layers of institutional paint beneath. Green, then blue, then that sickly beige all government buildings seem to favor. Through the pack bonds, I feel their reactions to this place of false sanctuary—Bishop’s tactical assessment, Leo’s shadows curling protectively, Matteo’s predator nature rising.
Our footsteps echo on warped floorboards. Down the hall, Marcus’s office door stands closed, his name plate gleaming like it’s just been polished. Always so precise about appearances. Always so careful to maintain the illusion of order.
“Check the basement first,” I say, fighting memories of late-night footsteps and clipboard scratches. “That’s where he kept the records.”
