Page 11

I pause, my mind racing to come up with a lie before I divulge something I’m not ready to address.

“All clear.” Volt’s voice interrupts us. “They’re moving off. I caught something about equipment malfunction over their comms. Between my weather manipulation and Marina’s Water Sprites, we must have shorted out their sensors.”

“We should…” Dante steps back, though his tail seems reluctant to uncoil from my waist. The fact that, again, I wasn’t even aware his tail was there bears further consideration. “You’re pale, Blair. Probably bone tired. Why don’t you lie down while I check the perimeter?”

As we head back to the main cavern, I mentally review the information I learned in that ancient book, hoping it has another meaning than what seems obvious.

Some research requires careful observation.

Some data reveal unexpected patterns.

And some truths blaze hotter than any temperature reading could measure.

Chapter Eight

Dante

After checking that all of our surveillance cameras are still in order, I return to my desk. As I slip my hand into the bottom drawer, a small velvet pouch tumbles from my hoarded collection, spilling a bracelet I definitely didn’t steal from Blair’s medical area.

My tail curls with guilt as I hastily tuck it away with her other missing items—a hair tie, two pens, a white lab coat, and various small trinkets I couldn’t resist collecting.

The hoarding started small. A pen here, a notebook there. But lately, the urge to gather her things has become nearly impossible to control. The bottom drawer of my desk in the library is practically a shrine to her presence—filled with items that carry her scent, her essence.

“Your temperature is demonstrating fascinating patterns.” Her voice from the doorway makes me jump. “The spikes correlate perfectly with emotional stress indicators.”

Of course, she’s documenting my physiological responses. Because that’s safer than acknowledging what’s really happening between us. My skin darkens as I casually close the drawer with my tail.

“More variables for your spreadsheets?” The words scrape out as she approaches with her ever-present tablet.

“The data suggests…” She frowns at her screen. “That is, the numbers indicate…” For once, scientific precision seems to fail her.

“Having trouble quantifying something, Doc?” My tongue emerges to wet suddenly dry lips as she steps closer.

“My research indicates the rapid temperature fluctuations may be related to whatever is going on with your wing. If I could draw a little more of your blood—”

“Please, Dr. Frankenstein, collect a few more gallons of my Jersey Devil blood. I do so enjoy being reduced to a fascinating specimen.” My tail lashes, betraying the tension beneath my sarcastic tone. “Should I pose dramatically for your research photos? Perhaps shed a few scales for your collection?”

It hits me now—she’s absolutely right. I use snark as a shield to keep people from getting too close.

“That would actually be quite helpful for the analysis,” she responds literally, already reaching for a sample container.

I can’t contain my surprised laugh. “You know, most people would recognize that as sarcasm.”

“Most people don’t havea cure to develop,” she counters, still holding up the syringe hopefully, her eyes scanning my wing with clinical precision.

I sigh but hold still as she sets down the needle and reaches for her salve instead.

“Your wound,” she observes, her voice carrying that blend of clinical interest and genuine concern that makes my skin heat. “The edges are still discolored, and the pattern is spreading in a way that suggests more than a simple injury.”

“Your observational skills continue to astound,” I snark, but hold still as she gently applies the salve she developed for me. Her proximity sends heat waves shimmering through me. “Next, you’ll tell me wings aren’t supposed to have holes in them. Please, dazzle me with more of your medical insights.”

“Actually, the discoloration pattern suggests—”

“That was rhetorical, Doc. Though your ability to miss social cues is oddly endearing.”

Our gazes collide, her expression… confused. Could her almost obsessive preoccupation with spreadsheets be a coping mechanism, I wonder. Are facts and figures her way of quantifying her observations to understand human—and cryptid—behavior? This is her neurodivergent brain working hard to make sense of feelings and confusion.

“The healing patterns aren’t consistent with any documented cryptid injury response. I wish you would tell me what really happened with that wing injury. The tissue samples show traces of an unknown toxin, something that’s actively preventing healing. The chemical structure suggests something engineered,possibly weaponized. Whatever did this was designed to cause lasting damage.”