Page 2 of Echoes From the Void (Shadow Locke Shifters #3)

Chapter 1

Dorian

Perfect organization is a sign of a superior mind. Or perhaps a fracturing one.

Silver cracks spider across my wrist as I align the spines of ancient texts for the third time this hour, each tome positioned with mathematical precision. My fingers trace the leather bindings, seeking comfort in their familiar texture even as the realm monitoring crystals pulse an unsettling rhythm around me. Their usual steady azure glow now flickers amber to crimson, like a failing heartbeat.

The basement archives of Shadow Locke’s library have been my sanctuary since freshman year. Here, among carefully categorized grimoires and meticulously labeled artifacts, I can pretend I’m in control. That I’m worthy of my father’s legacy. That I’m not slowly fracturing like the realms themselves.

A flash of memory intrudes—Frankie’s blood staining the healing spring crimson, my carefully maintained composure shattering as I shed both designer suit and rigid control to save her. The pack bond had barely formed then, yet seeing her broken had cracked something in me far deeper than the silver lines marring my skin. I adjust my sleeve, hiding the evidence of my curse—a gift that ensures I’ll be perpetually twenty-two while watching everyone I care for grow old and die.

I check my pocket watch—Father’s watch—for the third time in ten minutes. 9:47 AM. Time moves differently when you’re running out of it.

The evacuation order came three days ago. I shadow-step to the narrow window near the ceiling, watching void-touched shadows creep across the once-pristine grounds of Shadow Locke. The darkness writhes unnaturally, consuming everything it touches. Already half the dormitories stand empty, their windows dark and accusing. Only those of us directly involved with the twins remain—the pack, key faculty, and a handful of shadow guardians maintaining the barriers.

The sight makes my stomach clench. Four years of college, pretending to be normal, pretending the curse wasn’t eating me alive—all of it crumbling like the realm barriers. We’ve abandoned all the pack houses, retreating to the tower like cornered prey. The thought of the pack sends another pulse of longing through the incomplete bond. I push it away, focusing instead on straightening a stack of papers that’s already perfectly aligned.

“Your organizational system is spreading,” Uncle Everett announces, deliberately dragging a chair across my pristine floor—a sound he knows sets my teeth on edge. Just as he did when I first arrived at Shadow Locke, trying to organize his entire library by publication date and lunar phase to prove I belonged here. “The librarian mentioned finding color-coded tabs in the mortal philosophy section before she evacuated.”

“The mortal philosophy section was a disaster,” I say, trying to channel Father’s aristocratic tone rather than betray how much the void’s presence unnerves me. “Kant mixed with Nietzsche. It was philosophical anarchy.”

“Mhm.” He picks up one of my monitoring crystals, ignoring my flinch at his casual handling of delicate equipment. “And I suppose the alphabetized card catalog was also saving lives? The east wing barrier fell an hour ago, by the way. Thought you might want to know.”

The news hits like a physical blow. I snatch the crystal from his hand, placing it back in its precise position. “The readings are getting worse. Look at these energy spikes in the twins’ wing.” My voice doesn’t shake. I won’t let it.

“I’m more interested in why you’ve reorganized that same shelf three times in two hours.” He leans forward, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes soften with an understanding that makes me want to shadow-step away. “You’re worried about them.”

“I’m worried about the data.” I pull up the latest readings on my modified screens—because yes, even at my age I’ve had to adapt to modern technology, much as it pains me to admit it. The blue light casts harsh shadows across my notes, making the cracks in my skin more visible. “Finn’s light signature is destabilizing, and Frankie’s shadows are becoming erratic. The realms are responding to their reunion in ways we didn’t expect.”

“Like father, like children.” Uncle Everett’s tone shifts, becoming serious. He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair—a gesture I’ve learned means he’s debating how much to tell me. “Speaking of inherited traits...”

I automatically adjust my sleeve, hiding the silvery cracks that have spread past my wrists. Four years of hiding them beneath designer suits and carefully curated control. “I have more important concerns than cosmetic issues.”

The pack bond pulses faintly, a distant echo of Frankie’s presence. The reminder is like a knife twisting in my chest. She’s accepted us as her pack, but the bond isn’t complete—not until she bites us. And she can’t, not while she’s preoccupied with saving her brother. Every pulse of the incomplete bond feels like something vital slipping through my fingers. I want to protect her, protect them all, but I can’t demand anything from her now. Not when she’s carrying the weight of two realms.

“Cosmetic issues?” Uncle Everett barks out a laugh that holds no humor. “Is that what we’re calling signs of realm instability manifesting in your immortal curse now? Tell me, does practicing that aristocratic deflection in the mirror help? Because you sound exactly like your father at your age.”

The monitoring crystals emit a concerning series of beeps. I frown at the readings, trying to ignore how the cracks in my skin seem to pulse in time with the energy spikes. Another section of campus lost to the void, no doubt.

Something heavy thumps onto my desk, sending several perfectly arranged papers fluttering. The sound of impact makes my eye twitch.

“Here. Maybe this will help with the bigger picture,” Uncle Everett says.

I look up, ready to deliver a scathing commentary on proper document handling that I definitely didn’t practice in front of my bathroom mirror at age sixteen. The words die in my throat. Sitting on my desk is a leather-bound journal, its cover worn smooth by time and handling. The grimoire I’ve only glimpsed in old photographs. My father’s personal journal.

“You said this was lost.” My voice comes out embarrassingly young.

“I said it wasn’t ready for you yet. Different thing entirely.” He drops into the chair across from me, propping his feet up on a priceless 15th-century tome. I resist the urge to shove them off. Barely. “Your father was brilliant, but he was also an idiot. Kind of like someone else I know.” He studies me for a moment. “Though you dress better. He had this thing for polyester in the 80s. It was tragic.”

I run my fingers over the grimoire’s cover, tracing the embossed patterns that match the cracks in my skin. Magic pulses beneath my touch, familiar yet foreign—like looking in a mirror and seeing your father’s face instead of your own. “Why now?”

Uncle Everett pulls up his sleeve, revealing spiderweb-like cracks running along his skin. “Because you’re not the only one feeling it. The realms are unraveling, kid. And those twins upstairs? They’re just the beginning.”

I open the grimoire, hit by the scent of old leather and something distinctly otherworldly. Father’s elegant script fills the pages, diagrams and notations crammed into every available space. The handwriting shifts through the decades—from careful academic notes to increasingly frantic observations. One entry catches my eye, the ink still dark as if freshly written:

“The curse of immortality is not merely about endless life. It is about stagnation in a universe meant to flow. We have become stones in a river, and the water is beginning to overflow its banks.”

The words seem to pulse on the page, resonating with something in my cursed blood. My hands shake slightly as I trace diagrams showing ley line convergences, realm barriers, power flows that look disturbingly similar to the cracks spreading across my skin. Father’s brilliant mind laid bare—and all I can think is how many of these same patterns I’ve been drawing in my research notes.

The monitoring crystals shriek suddenly, their light shifting to blood red. The temperature in the archive plummets, frost crystallizing on my meticulously organized papers. My breath fogs in the air, and the shadows... the shadows move wrong.

“How fascinating.” A feminine voice echoes around us, ancient and amused. “Another little Gray playing at power in the dark.”

I jerk back, papers scattering across my pristine floor. A woman made of shadows stands in the corner—no, through the corner, her form rippling like smoke caught in a draft. Power rolls off her in waves that make my curse marks burn. She’s draped in shadows that seem to absorb light, wearing them like a couture gown.

Uncle Everett’s feet drop from the tome as he sits up straight—the first time I’ve ever seen him abandon his deliberate slouch. “Nyx. Been a while.”

“Not long enough, Everett darling.” Her midnight eyes fix on me with ancient amusement. “The son looks so much like him. Same arrogance. Same desperation.” Her form flickers as she circles my desk, trailing fingers through my perfectly organized papers. “Same adorable attempt at control.”

I straighten instinctively, adjusting my cuffs to hide how my hands tremble. Four years of practicing Father’s mannerisms come automatically. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Though you seem to take quite the liberty with familiar critique.”

“Dorian,” Uncle Everett warns, but there’s something like pride mixing with his exasperation. He hadn’t seen that particular smirk since Nyx had helped him contain Father’s more... ambitious experiments with immortality. The shadow goddess had always had a soft spot for the Gray family’s particular brand of controlled chaos.

“Oh, let him posture.” Nyx’s laugh sounds like shattering ice and broken promises. “He’s so young. They’re always so young at first. Even immortality has to start somewhere.” She glides closer, and I force myself not to step back. The shadows around her bend wrongly, as if reality itself objects to her presence.

“Tell me, little Gray,” she purrs, reaching out to trace one perfect shadowy finger along my jawline. Her touch burns cold. “Have you figured it out yet? Why the curse manifests so differently in you than it did in your father? Why these delightful little cracks keep spreading despite all your... organizing?”

She gestures at my meticulously arranged shelves. “The light realm was always so obsessed with order. With containing things. But darkness?” Her smile shows teeth made of starlight. “Darkness flows. It seeps. It finds every crack and fills it. You’re fighting your own nature, little Gray. Just like your father did.”

“If you’re quite finished critiquing my family’s habits—” I begin, trying to sound bored rather than terrified.

“Oh honey,” she cuts me off, patting my cheek condescendingly. “I haven’t even started. But then again...” Her eyes track to the window where the void writhes closer. “Neither has the darkness.”

“Such precious little barriers you’ve all put up.” Nyx waves a hand lazily at the window, and the monitoring crystals shriek in response. “Like using paper to hold back a flood. Creative, I’ll give you that. Your father tried similar tricks.” She perches on my desk, somehow scatting even more of my carefully arranged papers without seeming to move them.

“If you’re here to help—” I start.

“Help?” She throws back her head and laughs, the sound like broken wind chimes in a graveyard. “Oh, sweet baby immortal. I’m here to watch. The void is meant to consume. To devour. To return all things to darkness.” Her midnight eyes glitter. “Including those fascinating twins upstairs. Especially the girl. Now she...” Nyx’s smile shows too many teeth. “She understands darkness in ways you can only dream of.”

The pack bond pulses at the mention of Frankie, sending a surge of protectiveness through me that has nothing to do with duty or obligation. “The twins are under my protection,” I say, my voice carrying more steel than I feel.

“Are they? And how’s that working out for you?” Nyx examines her shadow-nails. “Tell me, did reorganizing that shelf for the fourth time help stabilize the realms? Or were you just hoping if you color-coded the apocalypse, it might decide to follow your filing system?”

“Now see here?—”

“No, you see, little Gray.” All pretense of amusement vanishes as she flows off the desk, darkness rippling around her like a living cloak. “The void isn’t just coming. It’s already here. In every crack, every shadow, every dark little space you try so hard to organize away. It’s in your blood, in your bones, in those lovely little fracture lines decorating your skin.”

Above us, something roars—a sound that shouldn’t be possible this close to the school. The grimoire in my hand pulses with sudden warmth.

“Shadow beast,” Uncle Everett mutters, standing. “Near the medical wing.”

My heart stops. The twins.

“Oops.” Nyx’s smile returns, sharp and satisfied. “It seems your filing system missed one. Better run along, little Gray. After all...” She gestures at the darkness writhing beyond the window. “The void does so love to play with broken things.”

I clutch the grimoire tighter, mind racing. Everything I’ve researched about realm stability, everything I’ve learned about my family’s curse—it’s all connected. The diagrams of ley lines intersecting with notes about immortality weren’t just my father’s ramblings. They were warnings.

“Uncle,” I say, already moving toward the stairs. “Keep researching. I need to?—”

“Go.” He’s gathering my research notes, his movements deliberately casual despite the tension in his shoulders. “Try not to do anything stupid. And Dorian?”

I pause at the base of the stairs.

“Your father would be proud. Probably. He was kind of a jerk about emotional displays.”

Despite everything, I feel my lips twitch. “Must run in the family.”

“Along with the terrible timing and questionable taste in companions.” He glances at Nyx, who merely examines her nails with exaggerated innocence.

“Darling, I’m the best taste this family has ever had,” she drawls. “Now run along, little Gray. The void waits for no one, not even immortals trying to organize it into submission.”

Another roar shakes the building. I take the stairs two at a time, the grimoire pulsing against my chest like a second heartbeat. Behind me, I hear Uncle Everett say something sharp to Nyx, who responds with that shattered-glass laugh.

The pack bonds pull at me—Frankie’s distress, Leo’s warmth trying to comfort her, Bishop’s guilt, Matteo’s vigilance. The cracks in my skin spread further with each step, spider webbing up my arms. The memory of Frankie in the healing spring flashes again—how letting go of control that one time had saved her. Perhaps it’s time to stop fighting what I am, what we all are together.

This is going to completely ruin my organizational system.

But then, some things—like pack, like love, like the fierce need to protect burning through my carefully constructed walls—are worth a little chaos.

Even if my color-coding may never recover.