Page 9 of A Voice of Silver and Blood (Crown of Echoed Dreams #1)

GLASS AND GHOSTS

A lump closes my throat. My fingers tighten on the phone, and some small, rational part of my brain is aware and surprised that I don’t crack the screen. I blink, reading the message for a third time.

No. No. No.

Where? Where are u?

I wait, counting the beatings of my heart that are too loud in my ears.

This isn’t the first time he’s sent a message like this.

Milo is fragile. He can’t deal with the world as it is.

Too much loss, too much pain, he’s not built for this.

And though he drives me nuts, weighs me down, and breaks my heart more times than I care to count, I love him.

He is my brother, sure, but when he’s not hiding, there is a beautiful soul inside of him. Sometimes I think that’s the problem. That he’s too good for this world which is why he can’t take the pain of living. He feels everything and it overwhelmed him long ago .

I chew the inside of my lip, waiting. Hoping. And maybe, not that I know how, praying. No dancing dots appear to indicate he’s answering. I know, all the way to my core, he’s in trouble. I know his haunts, though. I slip my boots back on and rush out the door.

The Ship, a dive bar in West Bottoms is one of his favorite haunts. Unfortunately it’s also Nico’s home base. If Milo isn’t there, then Nico will probably know where he is.

It could be him…

I pause, one hand on the tarnished door knob. Nico’s threat echoes in my ears. Quiet. Resigned. Not a hint of animosity, but also no doubt that he meant what he said.

“Fuck,” I growl, slamming the door shut as I leave.

I pause only long enough to make sure it’s locked—not that it will keep anyone out. Did shit all to keep Faelan from wandering in, or Corvin. But it’s habit as much as anything and no point inviting assholes inside. Make them work for it, at least a little bit.

I jog down the stairs two at a time, skipping the last three and slamming hard into the door with my shoulder forcing it open. The alley behind our building smells like hot garbage and wet cement, and the rusted-out bin near the fence buzzes with flies. I barely register any of it.

By the time I hit the street, I’m running—but I stop short.

It’s quiet. An uneasy kind of quiet making me think of a breath before a scream.

I look left, then right. Hoping, though I know that it’s stupid, to see Milo, but of course he’s not there.

When has anything in my life worked out the way I want it to?

There’s a stray cat perched on a fire escape across the alley, blinking slowly in the shadows like it knows something I don’t. I continue walking toward the street when the hairs on the back of my neck lift and my steps falter.

Trusting my instincts, I spin, expecting to see someone…or some thing behind me, but the street remains empty. Still, the sense doesn’t go away. I scan the street and, finding nothing, I look up. There—on the rooftop of the corner building across from mine.

A man. Standing so still he almost disappears into the dusk, but I know that silhouette now.

Not Faelan. Corvin.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t make any sign he’s actually here for me. But he must be. Why else would he be up there?

There’s something deliberate in the way he stands, like he wants me to see him. He’s letting me. I open my mouth to call out—his name, or something like it—but in the blink of a breath, he’s gone.

I stumble a step back, heart knocking against my ribs like it wants out. Was he really there? Yeah. He was. The heat of his gaze lingers on my skin like the ghost of a brand.

I should be afraid, but I’m not. Not of him, anyway. He’s watching over me and I think, or maybe I hope, that was the point of him letting me see him. To know he’s close because I have a feeling, one I’m trying to deny, that I’m heading into trouble.

Pushing everything else aside, I hoof it toward the Ship.

I race down 5th Street, my boots echoing off the concrete.

The few streetlights that are working flicker, blinking out and then coming back on as I pass each one.

Part of my mind registers this oddity but then I don’t have the breath or attention span to give it any more thought.

I check my phone. Still nothing.

Fuck. Damn it Milo.

I mix jogging, running, and walking to catch my breath until, at last, The Ship comes into sight.

Once I hit Union Avenue the crowds are forming.

The pleasure seekers mixing with the downtrodden who call the Bottoms home.

The strange mix of overdressed girls in their glittery dresses clashing with the tattered shirts and jeans of those who live, work, and survive here.

The well-to-do love to come to the ‘slums’ and sling their cash around because around here money will get you pretty much anything you want. If you have enough of it. One of the residents will be willing to destroy their soul to have it.

The light of the blue neon of The Ship’s sign stretches around the corner of the dilapidated brick building.

The drunken crowds huddle in groups outside, laughing too loud.

As if they can fool the world into thinking their willful ignoring of how bad things are isn’t a lie if they force it hard enough. If they’re loud enough.

I weave between the groups until I reach the entrance, climb the four steps and step inside.

I know the doorman, Evan. He’s overweight, bald, with a thick beard that hangs onto his chest. He’s wearing a sleeveless jean vest covered with patches and no shirt, leaving his large, hairy belly and chest exposed.

He has his arms crossed and a glower on his face until he sees me.

“Skye,” he shouts to be heard over the crowds and the thundering music. “What you up to?”

“Milo,” I shout back .

He frowns and shakes his head.

“He hasn’t been in,” he says.

That small hope I was clinging to? Gone.

“Where’s Nico?”

He narrows his eyes, frowning, then holds up a finger.

“Back off, now,” he shouts looking past me.

I glance over my shoulder. A young guy in expensive clothes stares at Evan, opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut. The young lady with him jerks herself free and goes back inside, mouthing a ‘thank you’ to Evan. He turns his attention back to me, leaning in close.

“His office,” he says. “But don’t do it Skye. He’s in a shit mood.”

“You haven’t seen shit, yet,” I mutter, knowing he won’t hear me over the noise in the bar.

I give him a nod and move into the bar.

The music is even louder inside, hitting like a freight train—bass thudding like it’s trying to replace my heartbeat.

The distorted synth screaming from rusted speakers barely holding on to the walls.

The lights strobe in pulses of red and blue, making it hard to see more than snapshots of the chaos.

Bodies pack the floor wall to wall, swaying, grinding, shouting, laughing loud and hard.

They’re all trying to drown something. Someone knocks into me and beer sloshes over my coat.

I shove past a pair of girls dancing on top of a broken-down booth, their glitter eyeshadow smudged like warpaint, screaming lyrics to a song no one can hear anymore.

Everywhere I look, it’s too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too desperate .

A guy grabs my arm, grinning with pupils blown wide.

“You look like you need to dance.”

I shove him off with a snarl. “You look like you need a lobotomy.”

He laughs like I flirted with him and disappears back into the sea of bodies.

The air reeks of sweat, spilled liquor, and smoke—something synthetic and wrong curling under it like ozone after lightning. Or blood.

It takes too long to cross the floor. They keep pressing in, all of them, hands and hips and eyes trying to outrun the truth. I get it. Pretend the world won’t fall apart if you dance hard enough. Scream loud enough. Get drunk fast enough. If you can’t feel the pain, maybe it won’t catch you.

I know a secret though. One they clearly haven’t come to terms with. It always catches you.

I finally break free and duck behind the bar, ignoring the glare the bartender shoots in my direction.

The hallway behind the bar is narrow, dimly lit by a single flickering bulb.

The throb of the music is dulled to a low pulse by the insulated walls.

My boots echo on the cracked tile as I head toward the door at the end—the one marked PRIVATE with peeling gold letters and a big, ugly dent where someone tried to kick it in.

I don’t bother knocking, twisting the handle and walking inside, uninvited. Seems to be the way of things lately anyway. Might as well join the parade.

Nico’s office is lit by a desk lamp and nothing else. The blinds are drawn. Smoke curls in the air, heavy and stale. It’s not a big space—a battered desk, two folding chairs, and Nico himself leaning against the front edge of the desk as if he’s been expectantly waiting for me to arrive.

He wears a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos wind up his forearms. He looks relaxed—smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers—but his eyes are sharp. Cold.

“Skye,” he says, voice like gravel dipped in honey. “I heard you were coming.”

I cross the room without being invited and stop two feet in front of him, crossing my arms.

“Where is he?”

Nico raises an eyebrow. “Milo? Haven’t seen him.”

“Bullshit.” My voice cracks on the word. “This is his haunt. You know exactly where he is. Or what’s happened to him.”

He watches me for a beat, then sighs, flicking ash into the tray on the desk.

“You think I’d lie to you?”

“Yes.” I stare him down. “I think you’d lie if it suited you.”

That earns me a smile—thin and joyless.

“If I wanted your brother dead, Skye, he’d be dead. He owes people who are a hell of a lot less patient than I am. Maybe one of them caught up to him.”

I flinch before I can stop it. Nico sees. Of course he sees.

“But I haven’t heard anything. If I had…” He shrugs. “You’d know. I don’t keep secrets from you.”

“You don’t keep anything unless it benefits you. ”

His smile fades.

“You’re grieving, Skye. You’re tired. I get that. But you’re also about two seconds from pissing me off.”

“Good.” I lean in closer. “I want you pissed off. I want you rattled enough to start talking. Milo sent me a message that read like a suicide note. And you’re telling me you don’t know where he is?”

“I don’t,” Nico says, too calm. He blinks, meeting my eyes but not staring. “But I’ll find out.”

He taps his cigarette out and stands. He’s taller than me, broader, and he uses every inch of it now, stepping close enough that I have to tilt my head to hold his gaze.

“I like you, Skye. You’ve got teeth. But bite the wrong person, and you’ll lose them.”

I don’t back down. “Then tell me where to sink them.”

We stare each other down, the room thick with tension and smoke. Then—without looking away—he reaches for his phone and types something one-handed.

“I’ll send a few people out,” he says. “No promises.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’s what you’re getting.”

I want to scream. But I don’t. I turn, jaw tight, and head for the door.

“Skye,” Nico calls behind me.

I stop.

“If he’s in trouble…it’s not the kind I can protect him from. ”

I glance back.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking for your protection.”

I slam the door behind me.

The pulsing music punches me in the face, sudden and brutal. It was quieter, but no longer. My vision blurs. I can’t breathe. The hallway shimmers like heat rising off asphalt. Pressure builds behind my eyes—sharp, bright, splitting—like my skull’s about to burst open.

I move on instinct, striding down the corridor with furious purpose, but my legs feel wrong. The floor shifts under me. I shove through the wall of bodies, their sweat-slick limbs sticking to mine, their laughter cracking at odd angles like broken glass.

Lights strobe, flickering like dying fireflies. It’s too fast, too bright, and then too dark. Everything stutters.

My stomach twists. My mouth floods with saliva—too much, too fast. I choke it back, tasting bile. I try to breathe through my nose. Try to focus. But the world keeps shimmering—like the edges are melting, like someone’s wringing the air in their fists.

Shapes distort. Faces morph. I stumble into a man with half his face slack and melting, eyes rolling in opposite directions. Then he’s gone—just a drunk guy with a busted lip and too much eyeliner.

The music swells. I swear the bass is alive, crawling under my skin. My knees are watery. The lights are candle-flames. Or maybe stars. Everything bends.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

I see the exit. Evan. He’s watching me from the door, body tense. His face swims, flickers—then changes .

Beady black eyes. A heavy brow. Tusked teeth curling from his lower jaw. Something not-Evan stares at me.

I jerk sideways, crashing into a table. Glass shatters under my boots.

Then he’s just Evan again. Bald. Bearded. Familiar.

“Skye,” he calls, voice sharp, worried.

“Dr-ugg-edd,” I slur. The word tastes foreign.

“Shit,” he mutters, barreling through the crowd toward me. “Come on.”

His hands are strong under my arms, lifting me like I weigh nothing.

He half-drags, half-guides me toward the door.

People don’t move fast enough. One girl sneers at me like I’m ruining her night.

Another guy tries to grope me, laughing, until Evan growls something low and dangerous and the guy stumbles back.

The moment the door cracks open, the night air rushes in—cool and damp, sharp with city rot—but it’s real. Solid. Familiar and blessedly still.

We stagger outside. My lungs suck in oxygen like I’ve been drowning.

“Sit,” Evan says, lowering me to the steps.

I collapse into a crouch, elbows on knees, head down. The world spins. My stomach heaves, but nothing comes up. Sweat soaks my back. My hands tremble.

“What the hell did you take?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I gasp. “Didn’t drink. Didn’t…anything. ”

Evan crouches beside me, frowning. “Then someone hit you with something.”

“Or…something’s wrong. With the world.” I look up at him, eyes wild. “I saw…you…but you weren’t you.”

He goes still. Not confused. Just quiet.

“Eyes don’t always see what they’re ready for,” he says, and it’s not a joke. Then he glances across the street. His jaw clenches and one hand goes to his side, touching…something. “Shit. You got eyes on you.”

I follow his gaze.

There. On the rooftop again.

Corvin.

Still. Watching. A shadow among shadows.

But this time—I feel it. Not just eyes. Connection. A pull like a tether between my ribs that I’ve felt before but never understood. My breath catches.

I don’t say anything. I don’t wave. I watch him watching me.

He nods once. Then vanishes. Like a ghost. Like he was never there in the first place.