Page 4

“He also mentioned blood. And royalty. And something about being lost.” Each word delivered factually. “Satisfied? Or would you like me to conjugate the verbs too?”

The team exchanges glances. Davis steps closer, invading my space.

“You understood all of it.”

“I understood enough.” Truth. I understood every syllable, butenoughcovers that without lying. “Amazing what context clues can do.”

Before Davis can try again, Litvak laughs—a sound of wonder rather than mockery. His eyes lock with mine, pupils expanding until darkness swallows reason. He speaks again in that same impossible language.

“Tá tú caillte le fada an lá, iníon na cuirte fiáine. An bhfuil a fhios agat cé tú féin?”

You have been lost for so long, daughter of the wild court. Do you know who you are?

The words don’t just echo—they illuminate pathways through my consciousness I never knew existed. Ancient familiarity settles into me, keys unlocking doors I’ve kept sealed my entire life.

My hands shake so violently I have to dig my fingers into Litvak’s shoulders to keep him pinned. Knuckles blanching white with effort.

“Speak English, asshole,” Davis says, roughly hauling Litvak to his feet. The movement breaks my grip.

Litvak ignores him, his eyes never leaving mine—seeing through me. Into me. Beneath me to something I’ve spent a lifetime burying.

He switches to English, his voice lilting with an accent I can’t place. “They have hunted you across lifetimes.” His accent makes each word feel deliberate. “All that iron discipline, all that careful training... and still your true nature bleeds through like wine through silk. Does Graves know what you really are?”

What the actual fuck?

“Is that why he’s kept you close all these years, hm? His perfect little weapon?”

“Shut him up,” I order. Voice cracking like thin ice under pressure. Suddenly terrified of what else he might say. Not because I think this is the rambling of a mad man but because his words ring true, resonating at a frequency that makes my bones ache.

Cold sweat erupts across my skin in a sudden wave, soaking through my clothes. Saliva floods my mouth with the bitter warning of impending sickness.

Davis clamps a hand over Litvak’s mouth as the team secures him, but Litvak’s eyes stay locked on mine. Filled with a terrible knowing that makes me want to disappear into shadow.

I step back, examining my arm where the blade cut me. The wound doesn’t bleed like it should. Patterns crawl from the cut. Not bleeding—burning. Racing up my arm like living tattoos carving themselves into my flesh. Each line sears hot enough to make me dizzy.

It’s beautiful in its terribleness. Brown swirling lines curl like ancient script across my skin, glowing with greenish blue light, pulsing in time with my heartbeat—growing brighter with each panicked acceleration.

My stomach lurches at the sight. Bile rises hot and bitter in my throat. My fingers tingle, nerves firing without reason as the patterns spread upward, reaching my elbow in delicate spirals.

Each new line that appears whispers of forests I’ve never walked, rituals I’ve never performed, a home I’ve never known.

I yank my sleeve down. Fingers trembling so badly I can barely grasp the fabric. Whatever this is, I don’t want anyone else to see it. Especially not Davis, who’d insist on a medical evaluation.

“You okay, Ash?” Davis asks. Concern obvious even in darkness. He reaches toward me, and I flinch away before conscious thought, skin crawling at the thought of his touch.

“He barely grazed me,” I snap. Words brittle as frozen leaves. Then force my voice to soften into something resembling normal. “Just a scratch.”

The blade did graze me. The fact that it’s turning my arm into a damn garden feels like a separate issue.

Davis nods toward the altar. “What the hell is all this? Looks like something from a bad horror movie.”

“Above our pay grade,” I reply, collecting the files and the small stone object from the altar. My fingers tremble as I reach for it, hesitating millimeters above its surface. “We retrieve, we don’t analyze.”

The stone burns cold against my palm. My pulse syncs to something else—something older. Words form in my head but in my own voice.Not yet. Not here. Soon.

I nearly drop it.

The stone feels alive against my palm, vibrating at a frequency that makes my teeth ache and sets my nerves jangling like plucked strings. I wrap it in a containment bag without touching it directly, hands shaking so violently I almost fumble it twice.