Chapter 18
Chapter
Eighteen
Vincent met Summer at the service entrance to Le Sang just after sunset; his expression was drawn, clearly carrying the weight of a decision he knew could cost him everything.
“You understand what you’re asking,” he said without preamble. “If Master Delacour discovers I’ve helped you investigate?—”
“I understand.” Summer adjusted her backpack, feeling the reassuring heft of her medical kit and the tracking app humming silently in her phone. “Vincent, I know this puts you at risk. If you’d rather not?—”
“No.” His jaw tightened, and his eyes shone. “What’s happening in those facilities, what they’re doing to people… it’s wrong. Even if Master Delacour believes the ends justify the means.”
They drove through New Orleans in Vincent’s sedan, taking a circuitous route to avoid the main Halloween celebrations.
The city pulsed with supernatural energy tonight, the approaching holiday making the veil between worlds dangerously thin.
Summer caught glimpses of real magic among the costumes—illusions shimmering a little too convincingly, fangs evidently far too sharp for plastic, eyes which glowed with their own light.
“The facility we’re visiting,” Vincent said as they entered a district in Marigny near the river. “It’s not the main operation. More of a… processing center. Where they handle the specimens before moving them to the primary location.”
“Specimens.” Summer’s mouth twisted in annoyance over the clinical term. “You mean people.”
“I mean what they’ve become. What’s been done to them.” Vincent’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Master Delacour believes he’s preventing greater suffering by working with the Vatican hunters. Controlling the process rather than letting it run wild.”
“And you?”
Vincent was quiet for a while, lost in thought. “I think some forms of control are indistinguishable from the evil they claim to prevent.”
The building Vincent led her to had once housed a medical supply company, its loading docks and industrial interior perfect for concealing the kind of operation Summer was beginning to understand.
Vincent produced a key from his coat, opening a side entrance to reveal a corridor lined with sterile white tiles.
“Stay close,” he murmured, his vampire senses alert for any sign of danger. “The facility should be empty tonight, but we can’t be certain.”
The first room they entered made Summer’s medical training recoil in horror.
Her palms flared as she inspected the kit.
Her Le Voile magic screamed in anguish. The room had the appearance of a surgical suite, but the equipment was wrong—IV stands modified with restraints, operating tables with built-in shackles, monitoring devices to track vitals alongside other readings she was less familiar with.
“This is where they perform the reversals,” Vincent explained, keeping his tone neutral. “Transforming hybrids back to human form while documenting the process.”
Summer moved to examine one of the modified surgical tables, noting the restraint points and the stains that no amount of cleaning would ever eliminate. “The level of medical sophistication here is incredible. Whoever’s running this operation has access to serious resources.”
“Vatican hunters have extensive funding. And they’ve been studying supernatural physiology for centuries.” Vincent opened a nearby cabinet, revealing vials of blood labeled with dates and specimen numbers. “They’re not just reversing transformations—they’re perfecting them.”
Summer picked up one of the vials, noting the way the liquid seemed to shimmer with its own internal light. “Supernatural blood. They’re using it to enhance the transformation process.”
“And to create more stable hybrids. Ones that don’t immediately go feral from the forced change.” Vincent’s expression was grim. “The ultimate goal is an army of controlled supernatural beings. Creatures who can be activated and deactivated at will.”
The implications made Summer’s stomach churn. An army of hybrids under Vatican control could destroy every supernatural community in the country. Perhaps even the world. The careful balance between human and supernatural worlds would collapse into open warfare.
“Vincent,” she said, her Le Voile senses picking up an aroma; it made her breath catch. “Can you smell that?”
Vincent’s nostrils flared, and his expression darkened. “Wolf. Fresh enough to suggest recent presence.”
Summer followed the scent deeper into the facility, her heart racing as she recognized the familiar bouquet beneath the antiseptic smells. The smell of cedar and leather. Rowan had been here. Recently.
They found more evidence in what appeared to be a recovery room—restraint marks on the bed, traces of silver burn on the metal framework, and blood stains which made Summer’s senses sing with recognition. The claiming bite on her neck burned, and she lay cool fingertips against it to ease the pain.
“It’s him,” she whispered, touching the stained fabric with trembling fingers.
Her palms flared as she breathed in the stench of his corrupted blood; she dropped the textile before it burst into flames.
“Rowan was here.” She ran her hands over the silver burn marks.
Tears clouded her vision; not only was Rowan held here.
This room was where her mate had been tortured.
Vincent moved to examine a nearby chart, his face growing pale as he read. “Specimen twenty-one. Werewolf, alpha bloodline. Underwent blood extraction and bond interference procedures. Status: transferred to primary facility for Phase Two experimentation.”
“Phase Two?” Summer’s voice was barely audible.
“I don’t know. But the dates…” Vincent looked up from the chart. “Dr. Vale, according to this, he was here yesterday. The transfer happened twelve hours ago.”
Summer held a clenched fist to her chest. Her vision cleared as the tears she’d been holding back ran down her face. Rowan was alive, but he was also in greater danger than she’d imagined. Phase Two sounded ominous. But while she’d been racing around the wrong district, Rowan had been held here.
A sound from somewhere deeper in the facility made them both freeze—metal scraping against concrete, followed by a low growl that raised every hair on Summer’s neck.
“We need to leave,” Vincent said urgently. “Now.”
But it was too late. The growl became a roar as something burst through the doors at the far end of the corridor. Summer caught a glimpse of what had once been human—pale skin stretched over unnatural musculature, limbs bent at wrong angles, eyes with no trace of sanity or recognition.
“Feral hybrid,” Vincent breathed, positioning himself between Summer and the approaching nightmare. “It would appear the transformation failed.”
The creature moved with inhuman speed, its claws scraping against the tile as it launched itself toward them.
Vincent met it halfway, his vampiric strength allowing him to grapple with the hybrid’s unnatural power, but the beast fought with desperate fury as it succumbed to the madness created by its forced transformation.
Summer pressed herself against the wall, cataloging the hybrid’s condition even as her survival instincts screamed at her to run.
The scarring patterns were similar to what she’d seen on the morgue victims, but these were fresh, angry, still weeping fluid and suggested Vincent was correct; the reversal process had been attempted and failed.
She peered closely at the creature, trying to ascertain if she recognized any part of the animal in front of her.
Even if this wasn’t Rowan, what had happened to this poor soul could be what awaited her mate.
The creature lashed out, its claws catching Summer’s forearm. She bit back a squeal of anguish and clamped the opposite hand over the parallel gashes on her arm. The wound burned from the magical poison on the creature’s claws.
As Vincent struggled with the feral hybrid, Summer caught movement in her peripheral vision. A figure in black tactical gear moved through the shadows at the corridor’s end—not vampire pale or werewolf fluid, but precise military movements. A Vatican hunter.
The armor was matte black, free from any identifying insignia but clearly designed for supernatural combat. Silver-reinforced gauntlets gleamed with consecrated metal; a full helmet concealed the wearer’s identity. The hunter’s gear was just as Vincent described.
“Vincent!” she called, but the vampire was still struggling with the hybrid. Unable to help him, Summer ran, her medical bag bouncing against her hip as she raced toward what she hoped led outside.
She burst through an emergency exit into the New Orleans night, sucking the humid air into her lungs. Her phone was already in her hand, the tracking app pinging her location to Vincent and any of the pack who might be looking for her.
But as she stumbled into the alley behind the building, Summer finally saw the true scope of her discoveries. This operation was evidence of a full collaboration between vampires and Vatican hunters, using hybrid experimentation as a weapon against the entire supernatural community.
Somewhere in this network of facilities and experiments, they were holding Rowan while perfecting techniques to destroy every werewolf pack in Louisiana.
The processing center was just the beginning. Somewhere else in the city, the real horror was taking place, and she was running out of time to stop it.
Behind her, the sounds of struggle continued, and Summer prayed to her witch ancestors that Vincent would survive his rebellion long enough to help her find the primary facility.
Because now she knew with absolute certainty saving Rowan meant dismantling an operation which threatened every supernatural being in New Orleans.