Chapter 13
EIRA
Umbra’s internal database doesn’t look like a vampire’s criminal empire.
It looks like a multinational corporation that swallowed five others and smiled while doing it.
The terminal Malachi brings me to sits inside a glass-walled operations suite, lighting low, secured servers humming beneath the floor. Every inch whispers encryption, military-grade code with occult embellishments, and layered firewalls.
Valentin’s information bank is vast, sexy and heavily fortified.
And I want inside it so badly my fingers twitch.
I learned useful tricks when I was running.
Men who thought they were teaching a frightened girl how to survive never realised I was memorising backdoors, exploit patterns and how to disguise intrusion as maintenance.
Two weeks with a disgraced cyber-forensics consultant in Baton Rouge bought me more than safety.
It bought me options.
If Malachi weren’t standing at my shoulder radiating suspicion, I’d already be ghosting through Umbra’s restricted sublevels.
Instead, I behave.
For now.
The Lyra Hannigan file is stuffed to the terabyte with data.
Financial histories. Property records. Social event registries. Gambling markers signed by my father in increasingly frantic handwriting. Lists of known associates. Travel manifests. Unconfirmed sightings.
No photographs.
Every physical image burned in the Hannigan house fire that conveniently consumed the estate weeks after I disappeared and Dad died.
Officially electrical.
Unofficially strategic.
Someone, possibly Valentin, erased the past neatly.
But the rest is astonishingly complete. Psychological profiles.
Behavioural projections estimating where a girl like Lyra Hannigan might resurface.
Speculative marriage probabilities cross-referenced with elite circles in Europe and South America.
Height, weight, medical summaries compiled from paediatric records.
There’s even a note about the crescent-shaped scar near my left ankle, the one I covered with a discreet starburst tattoo three months into my first year at the Agency.
My stomach tightens.
He’s rebuilt me from paper and pixels while I thought I had erased myself.
‘You look nervous,’ Malachi says smoothly from behind me.
I resist the urge to reach for my Widow’s Fang and lean back in the chair instead. ‘I’m impressed. Your boss doesn’t do things halfway.’
‘Don Moretti does nothing without purpose.’
‘I gathered.’
I scroll further. Then I see it. Thin. It’s borderline invisible. Tangible. But more importantly, chaseable.
I lean back slowly, allowing my expression to sharpen just enough for Malachi to notice.
Then grimace.
He watches the screen, then my face. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I turn and let my gaze drop to his hand. ‘How’s the wrist?’
He’s too disciplined to lose control, but I feel him bristle. ‘You are stalling,’ he says quietly.
‘Am I? Or are you just unused to seeing someone think?’
His mouth curves faintly. ‘We think quite effectively.’
‘Oh, I don’t doubt that. The Black Twelve have quite the reputation.’ I glance at him deliberately. ‘How old are you, Malachi?’
His expression doesn’t shift. ‘Old enough.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘It is the only one you require.’
‘So mysterious.’ I tap another key. ‘How does one get recruited? Is there an interview process? Or does he just bite you and hope for the best?’
His eyes flash, faint red threading through the dark. ‘Careful, bounty hunter. Or I’ll be doing some hunting of my own. Not today, or tomorrow. But soon enough.’
I smile sweetly. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t threaten a girl just because she’s curious.’
‘You’re not curious. You’re fishing in dangerous waters.’
‘Hierarchy fascinates me. So you filter candidates, manage invitations and enforce compliance. But you don’t know why he’s searching for her, do you?’
A muscle tics in his jaw. ‘You overestimate your insight.’
‘Do I? Because you stiffen every few minutes.’ I tilt my head. ‘Is that him checking in?’
His eyes sharpen. ‘You presume much.’
I grin.
Hit something.
Excellent.
‘You don’t like not knowing either,’ I say softly. ‘That must itch like a motherfucker.’
He steps closer, looming just enough to test whether I’ll flinch.
I don’t.
‘If the Master chooses to withhold information,’ he says, voice low and steady, ‘it is not our place to question.’
‘But you do. Somewhere in the quiet mind palace, you’re furiously questioning what the fuck is going on, right?’
A flicker. Gone almost instantly.
‘You are very bold,’ he says.
‘I’ve had to be.’
Because if I stop being bold, I’ll start shaking. Dissolve into a puddle of goo. And no one wants to see that.
I scroll again, pretending to focus while my mind spins. The trove Valentin has built is monstrous. Down to what kind of trauma might force Lyra Hannigan into survival work, underground employment or convent life.
He covered everything.
Everything except what actually happened.
Good.
After delivering my fabricated lead to Valentin with a confidence I don’t entirely feel, I close the database session and rise.
‘I’m heading out,’ I tell Malachi. ‘I’ll verify the housing intake anomaly and report tomorrow.’
His eyes narrow. ‘You expect me to accept that?’
‘Feel free to double-check with your boss.’ I smile sweetly. ‘I thought you eavesdropped.’
His nostrils flare.
‘Be careful,’ I add lightly. ‘Wouldn’t want him mistaking you for a threat again. That almost didn’t end well this morning.’
His expression goes stone.
I step past him but he moves just enough to block me.
‘Your insolence is infuriating,’ he says slowly. ‘And yet curiously intoxicating. I almost understand why the Master tolerates you. Personally, I would’ve snapped your beautiful neck by now and assigned a Tier Ten to finish your work.’
‘Wow,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Compliments, insults and death threats. I don’t know whether to blush or piss myself with terror. I think I’ll settle for a sandwich. You buying?’
‘No,’ he says with Arctic-cold menace.
‘Shame. You just lost yourself a true fan.’
He bares his fangs deliberately.
I laugh under my breath. ‘Nice gnashers. Bet the girls swoon.’
‘One day,’ he says softly, ‘that sass will get you drained dry. I’ll bring popcorn.’
‘You’re probably right,’ I reply cheerfully. ‘But that day is not today. Toodles.’ I give him a cutesy finger wave.
His eyes burn deeper red as I walk away.
I feel his rage on my back like heat from an open furnace, but I don’t break stride. Not until I hit the street and get five blocks between me and the Tower.
Then I allow myself one breath.
Only one.
For the first time in half a day, I’m alone. No ancient predator tracking my pulse through a psychic tether he pretends not to use. No fang-banging women before breakfast while the Black Twelve watch from the sidelines.
Just brick and concrete. Clogged air. Grease and burnt pretzels. Normal New York filth.
I lean against the cool wall of a service alley and close my eyes for exactly three seconds.
Valentin is not going to stop.
That truth settles into me with geological weight. Worse, not even his Twelve know why he’s hunting Lyra.
Hunting me.
Malachi’s hesitation wasn’t subtle. His irritation wasn’t just about me. They’re loyal and disciplined, but they’re operating in the dark.
Whatever is driving Valentin Moretti, he’s keeping it to himself.
I push off the wall.
If the most powerful vampire in the world and his elite guard are flying blind, I have a head start.
I cut down an alley marked by a flickering security light and pull my burner phone from my pocket.
Three seconds later, the air ripples.
My favourite supernatural taxi driver steps out of the distortion with an exaggerated bow, coat swirling around him like smoke. ‘Hey, Miss Cross. You good?’ Tezra asks with theatrical warmth.
My first genuine smile in what feels like forever doesn’t lighten the stone in my gut. ‘Hey, Tezra. Thanks for coming. You up for a couple of express runs?’
His brows lift.
He knows what that means.
Direct transposition. No scenic route. No staggered jumps to shave off cost.
‘Good thing I had a hearty breakfast,’ he mutters. ‘Running towards or away this evening?’
I pull up the landmark image on my phone. ‘First stop, Louisiana.’
‘Exact location?’
I show him.
He whistles through his teeth. ‘That’ll cost you a pretty penny.’
I smirk.
He says some version of that every time I summon him. It’s practically in the job description.
Licensed Transpositional Couriers are genetically altered to lose spatial memory three hours after transporting cargo or personnel. It prevents them from being coerced into revealing locations under duress.
Weirdly, if they’re travelling alone, the memory sticks just fine. Apparently the universe has a sense of humour.
‘You know I’m good for it, Tezra. Shall we?’
He nods and unfastens the looped restraint from his belt.
I step forward and secure myself into the hook lock. It isn’t strictly necessary as long as physical contact is maintained during transposition, but Tezra insists on protocol after losing one panicked rider mid-shift and nearly losing his licence.
Apparently, interdimensional liability insurance is a nightmare.
He tests the lock once. ‘Ready?’
‘Yep.’
He hears the sharp edge in my voice and says nothing.
Teleportation is not for the faint of heart. Some describe it as having your soul vacuum-sealed and dragged through a keyhole. For me, it feels like compressing every nerve in your body into a single violent pulse, then detonating it.
It lasts seven deeply unpleasant seconds.
But compared to dangling by my throat over Manhattan rooftops or having an ancient vampire test the structural integrity of my mind? I’ll take it.
Especially when it ends with me a thousand miles away from him.
The world tears sideways.
Sound inverts. Light fractures.
Then – heat, humidity, river water and stale asphalt.
Louisiana.
Tezra steadies me as my knees threaten betrayal for half a breath. I detach from the hook and adjust my jacket as though I’ve stepped out of a cab rather than through the fabric of space.
The pawn shop sits exactly where the records and my memory said it would. Sun-faded signage. Barred windows. Security camera angled lazily over the door.
I walk in and make sure the camera sees my face clearly, browse, ask pointed questions about archived sales from six years ago.
Drop the alias I used, and defended a little too vigorously today, casually into conversation.
Make it look like I’m chasing something personal. Frustrated but professional.
I let the shop owner grow uncomfortable, then irritated. Let him grouse and deny knowing anything.
To create a receipt, I buy a cheap silver chain I don’t need.
Two hours later, I step back into the heat.
Between the cameras, witnesses and paper trail I’ve planted, if Valentin’s minions check, they’ll see I came here, searched, then left.
Nothing more.
I text Tezra again.
The air ripples, and he steps out with another exaggerated bow. ‘Round two?’
I nod, swallowing an unexpected bout of homesickness. ‘Take me home.’
He studies me half a second longer than usual. ‘You okay, Eira?’
I nod and show him the next picture.
‘South Carolina?’ he asks quietly.
‘Yes,’ I murmur.
Because if I don’t get to my sanctuary soon, I might start believing there’s nowhere left I can breathe.
He reattaches the hook lock. ‘Ready?’
This time, I don’t hesitate.
‘Let’s go.’