Page 21 of Echoes From the Void (Shadow Locke Shifters #3)

Chapter 20

Frankie

Blood magic pulses against Bishop’s tactical maps, each coordinate burning like a dying star. I’ve spent three hours staring at these patterns, watching Matteo extract information from the rescued child’s corrupted blood. Through our newly sealed pack bonds, I feel his struggle to be gentle with the extraction despite his rage. Three hours of piecing together a horror I should have seen years ago.

“Here.” My finger trembles as I touch a familiar location, making my shadows writhe and coil. The void’s presence pulses against Shadow Locke’s barriers, making reality shimmer at the edges of my vision. “The strongest trail leads to Morrow Bay Shelter.”

Through our twin bond, I feel Finn’s attention shift from where he’s helping Matteo’s mother tend to the child—another victim of Valerie’s experiments, barely ten years old and already showing signs of corrupted essence. His horror bleeds into mine as memories surface—his clinical cage in Blackwood’s lab, my supposed sanctuary at the shelter.

Different cages, same monsters.

“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’s predatory 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 lights look 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.”

“How do you know?” Bishop asks, his Guardian marks pulsing as he scans for threats.

“Because he made sure I saw him locking them up. Every night after bed checks.” The basement door’s hinges squeal as I push it open, the sound carrying years of warning. “He wanted me to know there were consequences. For breaking rules. For asking questions.” Through our twin bond, I feel Finn’s understanding—how captors use knowledge as another form of control.

The stairs disappear into darkness. Not shadow realm darkness—just the ordinary kind. The kind that hides ordinary monsters wearing suits and carrying clipboards.

My flashlight beam catches metal filing cabinets lining the walls. Dozens of them, each labeled with years, names, case numbers. A bureaucrat’s dream of perfect organization. Through the pack bonds, I feel their horror building as they realize the scope of Marcus’s operation.

“He documented everything,” Finn says softly, running his fingers over a drawer labeled ‘2018-2019 Transfers.’ His light dims as he adds, “Just like Blackwood.”

The drawer slides open with a sound like screaming children.

Inside, the files are meticulously organized with a precision that makes my stomach turn. Color-coded tabs. Cross-referenced numbers. Each folder a child’s life reduced to data points and evaluation scores. Through our bonds, I feel the pack’s mounting horror as they realize each file represents another lost child.

My hands shake as I pull out the first one. Emily Chen, age 13. “Shows promising adaptation to stress scenarios.” Below that, in Marcus’s precise handwriting: “Responds well to isolation techniques. Recommended for preliminary trials.” Something about the name stirs a memory—Dr. Chen who helped me escape, his desperate urgency, the way he seemed to know exactly what Valerie was doing. Like he was looking for someone.

The memories hit hard—Emily teaching younger kids math, her quiet smile, the way she’d share her meager portions with new arrivals. Disappeared three months after arriving. Marcus said she’d been placed with a foster family in Oregon. Through our bond, I feel Finn’s light pulse with recognition. He’d seen her in the labs.

The next file. Trevor Santos, 15. “Excellent physical resilience. High pain threshold.”

Trevor, who got into fights defending smaller kids. Who made sure bullies targeted him instead of weaker ones. Who I thought was moved to a group home in Seattle. The pack bonds surge with shared rage as they understand—every disappearance, every transfer, all of it planned.

“Frankie.” Finn’s voice is gentle. Through our bond, he tries to shoulder some of my guilt, his light wrapping around my shadows.

“I should have known.” The words taste like ash. “All those kids. All those convenient explanations. I was so focused on protecting them from outside threats that I never saw...”

“You were a kid too,” Bishop says quietly, his Guardian marks pulsing with protective fury. But I’m already pulling out more files, each one a failure I can’t ignore.

Sarah Williams. Michael Torres. Destiny Jackson. Names and faces blur together, each file telling the same story—vulnerable kids, evaluated like lab rats, shipped off to become evolutionary experiments. Through the pack bonds, their horror mingles with mine, making my shadows writhe with helpless rage.

My fingers brush another file and stop. The tab reads ‘Vale, Francesca.’ Through our twin bond, Finn’s light flares with protective instinct.

“I wondered when you’d find your way down here.” Marcus’s voice cuts through the darkness. “Always poking around where you don’t belong.”

He stands at the top of the basement stairs, silhouetted by hallway light. Still wearing that same pressed suit, that same polished smile. Like this is just another night catching me out after curfew. But through our bonds, I feel the pack’s reaction to his presence—Bishop’s cold fury, Leo’s shadows darkening, Matteo’s predator nature rising.

“How long?” I ask, my voice steady despite the rage building in my chest. “How many kids did you send to Valerie?”

“From the beginning.” He descends the stairs with measured steps, adjusting his tie. Each footstep echoes with years of calculated cruelty. “That’s what shelters are for, Francesca. Finding the right children. The ones with potential.”

Through our bond, I feel Finn’s fury mix with mine as memories surface—his cage in Blackwood’s lab, my false freedom here. Marcus reaches the bottom step and pauses, studying us like we’re particularly interesting specimens. The pack bonds pulse with protective rage as they sense his clinical detachment.

“You know, you were actually quite useful,” he says, straightening his clipboard. “All those nights you spent playing protector, watching over the others. It helped me observe them. See how they handled stress. Which ones showed... promise.”

The realization hits like a punch. All those times I thought I was keeping watch, I was just helping him gather data. Every interaction, every conflict, every moment of strength or weakness—he was documenting it all. Through our twin bond, Finn’s horror matches mine as we understand the depth of manipulation.

“You used me to monitor them,” I say, the words tasting like ash. My wolves pace restlessly, responding to the pack’s growing fury.

“Efficiently, too.” He smiles like he’s offering praise. “Your presence created such interesting dynamics. Really helped identify the strongest candidates.”

Bishop moves to flank left, while Matteo and Leo take right. Through our bonds, I feel their coordinated movement, shadows extending to cut off escape routes. Marcus doesn’t even glance their way. His attention stays fixed on me and Finn, his eyes fever-bright with purpose.

“The realms are dying,” he says, as if explaining something simple to a child. Through the pack bonds, I feel Bishop’s rage spike at Marcus’s twisted interpretation of Guardian knowledge. “Evolution is the only path forward. Sometimes that requires... sacrifice.”

“A sacrifice,” Marcus muses, tapping his pen against the clipboard. His clinical detachment makes my shadows writhe. “That’s all it would take. One perfect hybrid to bridge the realms. To stop the decay.” His eyes fix on Finn with academic interest. “Valerie was close with you. So close. If you hadn’t escaped...”

Through our twin bond, I feel Finn’s light pulse with remembered pain. The pack bonds surge with protective fury—Leo’s shadows darkening despite his bright nature, Bishop’s Guardian marks blazing, Matteo’s predator instincts rising.

“You’re insane,” I cut in, but Marcus just smiles.

“Am I? The prophecy speaks of twins. Light and shadow merged. A perfect bridge.” He gestures at the files surrounding us, each one a testament to his methodical cruelty. “Every child I selected, every subject I sent to the labs—it was all to understand the process. To perfect it. To find the right combination.”

“By torturing children,” Finn’s voice carries years of laboratory pain. His light reaches for my shadows, seeking balance against old trauma.

“By advancing evolution.” Marcus flips through his clipboard, unbothered by the pack’s growing rage. “Take Subject 23—remarkable shadow affinity, but couldn’t handle the light infusion. Subject 45 showed promise with light manipulation, but the shadows consumed her. Each failure brought us closer to understanding.”

His clinical detachment makes my wolves bristle. All those kids, reduced to numbers and data points. Lab rats for his twisted interpretation of prophecy. Through our bonds, I feel the pack’s unified purpose crystallizing.

“The prophecy isn’t about forced evolution,” Bishop says, Guardian marks pulsing with centuries of true knowledge. “It’s about natural balance.”

“Balance?” Marcus laughs. “Nature is failing. The realms are collapsing. We need to force evolution, to create perfect hybrids who can bridge the divide. And now...” His gaze slides between me and Finn, making our twin bond flare with protective instinct. “Now we have the original twins. Imagine what we could learn from studying you both. How many realms we could save with your sacrifice.”

“Prophecy.” Matteo’s voice cuts through Marcus’s zealous rambling. Cold. Final. The pack bonds thrum with deadly intent. “You keep using that word. Like it justifies everything.”

Before Marcus can respond, Matteo moves. Not with shadow or magic, but with pure predatory grace. One moment he’s across the room, the next his hand is around Marcus’s throat. Through our bond, I feel his perfect control—the healer choosing to end a source of pain.

“The blood reveals everything,” Matteo says softly. “Every child. Every experiment. Every moment you played savior while selling kids to labs.”

A quick twist. A sharp crack.

Marcus crumples, his clipboard clattering against the basement floor. His perfectly pressed suit wrinkles as he falls. In death, he looks smaller. Just a man who thought he could play god with children’s lives.

“Well,” Leo breaks the silence, his shadows finally lightening, “that was anticlimactic.”

Through our various bonds, I feel their grim satisfaction. No dramatic showdown. No grand battle. Just swift justice for a bureaucrat who forgot that monsters aren’t always the ones in cages.

“We need to—” Bishop starts.

“Burn it,” Finn says quietly, his light pulsing with certainty. “All of it.”

The pack bonds resonate with unanimous agreement. No grand speeches about justice or vengeance. Just the quiet work of erasing a monster’s legacy, file by file.

The prophecy can wait. The dying realms can wait.

Tonight, we burn the evidence of one man’s twisted vision. Tomorrow, we figure out how to save the kids he left behind.

But for now, watching the files turn to ash, feeling the pack’s unity and my twin’s understanding, I feel something close to peace.

Sometimes justice is quiet.

Sometimes it just sounds like a clipboard falling in a dark basement.

Sometimes that’s enough.