Page 120

She does as he asks–one shaky inhale, then another.

“Was it a dream?” DK asks. “Or a memory?”

Her eyes flutter, still heavy with sleep, the fog clinging to her voice when she finally speaks. “It was the room again,” she whispers. “The one with the cold stone walls covered in ancient carvings. There were black candles everywhere.” Her nose wrinkles. “I could smell the incense and something else… copper?” Blood. “There were shelves full of things.”

“What kind of things?” Timothy asks.

“Human skulls etched with runes, vials of dark liquid, dried herbs, daggers with bone handles.” She takes another deep breath and releases it. “In the middle of the chamber was a big black marble altar.”

We’ve heard pieces of these recovered memories before. The same details that never quite give us enough to act on. Damon keeps rubbing her back. Timothy pulls her gently against his chest, letting her rest there while her breathing slowly steadies.

The nightmare passes quickly this time. That’s progress. Her eyes flutter shut again within a few minutes, the tension leaving her body as she sinks back into sleep between them.

I watch for another moment as the three of them settle down for the night–Damon on one side, Timothy on the other, Arianette tucked safely in the middle. I could feel jealous, I realize, that I’m not in the bed with them, but I don’t. What Arianette needs from each of us is different.

They can protect her while she sleeps.

I can keep doing what I know best: studying, researching, and coming up with a plan to end this once and for all.

The radio station is quiet the following night, the low hum of equipment the only constant sound under the soft glow of the machines. Ares is curled up in the oversized chair by the window, his muscular brindled chest rising and falling with each deep breath. His head rests on the armrest, one ear twitching every now and then like he’s still half-listening even in sleep.

Arianette is tucked in beside him, her legs folded under her, one hand gently stroking the soft fur behind his ears. She’s wearing one of my old hoodies–the black one with the faded station logo–and it swallows her small frame, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. Her dark hair is pulled behind her head, a few loose strands falling across her cheek. She looks tired, but not the good kind. The restless kind. Bored. Anxious. I know her focus is on the performance, her schedule packed with last-minute practices and costume fittings. She even spent an hour earlier in the day, locked in the bathroom with a hairstylist, prepping for an appointment in the morning..

The truth is that she should be in bed, but DK and Timothy are driving around, checking tunnel access points, and it’s safer for her to be here with me.

I lean back in my chair, one boot propped on the edge of the desk, taking a drag of my second cigarette of the night, watching the two of them. The sight settles me, which is weird considering we’re in the middle of total chaos. Everything around us has been going wrong, but Ari? She’s exactly right.

My phone pings on the desk.

I pick it up and see the notification: Royal Dysfunction.

Yes. We have a group chat.

It’s encrypted, something Pace set up after the meeting at the House of Night, a way to keep everyone in the loop as the plan with Sofia falls into place. No more scattered calls or missed information. One thread, one rep from each House. Mostly bullshit. Occasionally useful.

I open it. The first text is from Pace.

Pace: The Snake slithers past the gate.

We get these throughout the day, usually when Pace’s surveillance picks up Sofia’s movements on campus. I’m about to set the phone down when it pings again, and again.

Rath: It's too fucking early for this.

Pace: Not my fault Martinez hits the gym at the crack of fucking dawn. Besides, JJ's been awake since four.

Bruin: Yeah? My cat's been tap dancing on my face since 3 a.m.

Pace: Did you just compare your cat to my son?

Bruin: No. My cat's cuter and shits in a box.

Rath: Christ. If you two are done measuring pussies…

Pace: Taking care of something helpless isn't gender-specific, asshole.

Pace: She's across campus. Heading into the gym. No issues.

I type back.