Chapter 26
Daxen
The wood in the fireplace crackles steadily, but does nothing to brighten the room itself.
My head pounds painfully behind my eyes. It won’t quit, no matter how much blood I drink or painkillers I pop.
Two days.
I’ve been at this for two days, and I’m no closer to figuring out what the hell is going on around here than I was when I started.
What’s worse, the insanity that caught my attention shortly after we rescued Caelan is no longer relegated to this region.
I glance at the map spread out on top of a table. It’s one of three placed sporadically around my second-floor library.
Initially, I really thought—hoped—the anomalies I discovered were local. At the very least, I hoped they’d stay local.
They didn’t.
What started as a few instances throughout the coastal region of Massachusetts has spread rapidly. The entire world is on the damn playing board now.
I glare at the screen of my laptop, and I swear it glares back. Or maybe I’m hallucinating. I’ve been reading and re-reading the list over and over. So often, I might actually go mad.
At this point, I can recite the entire multi-page document—a compilation of detailed reports of each strange occurrence over the last forty-eight hours.
I compiled the damn thing myself.
Each time I think the reports are starting to slow down, I come across another random comment, or Reddit post, or Youtube clip. Each one is random. Each one, strange as fuck.
Sighing, I scroll up and start at the beginning. Again.
Seismic anomalies in Southern Italy. Despite an absence of major fault lines in the area, according to the USGS. A mirrored tremor that hit upstate New York less than four hours later. Glitches in the atmosphere above northern Japan.
It started like that. Small, strange things. Odd, but not terribly concerning. Then, reports started coming in of bigger, messier events, all over the globe.
Events that don’t simply set off warning sirens, but are more like an F4 tornado ripping down the road outside your house, demanding your attention.
I navigate to another program on my laptop, pulling up a secondary list. This one contains everything reported by various legitimate organizations around the world: The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the USGS, the European-Mediterranean Seismological Centre, the FAA, and plenty of local and state law enforcement.
My eyes scan the document, landing on a particularly odd entry.
Almost thirty-six hours ago, tremor levels spiked in Iceland. Right before a cluster of migrating birds flew straight into the ocean.
Not over it. Fucking into it. Like something scrambled their brains mid-flight.
Last night, three cows in Montana were found dead with burn marks under their hooves. Their internal organs were cooked. They didn’t have a mark on them otherwise.
Then, there’s my personal favorite. Early this morning, a satellite picked up heat signatures in the Highlands of fucking Scotland.
In an area that hasn’t seen foot traffic in decades.
Images show a perfect circle, fifty feet across in diameter.
The fire burned for exactly eleven minutes, then disappeared. There wasn’t a single mark left behind.
All different countries, all different situations. And, no obvious connections, except they all took place in the last thirty-six hours. And quite a few included heat or fire.
I groan, rubbing my temples.
I’ve run logistics, checked maps, been down Reddit message boards, and even hacked into the UN’s internal disaster coordination system. Just to find out what the hell is happening.
I’ve found zero fucking answers.
This is the problem with Gav ordering me to “get information.” I tend to hyper-focus. As soon as tremors ran through the compound here, I looked into the supposed seismic activity at the Varenthrall estate. My mind latched onto the two incidents and refused to let go.
They’re connected. I know it. The same way the other weird shit happening around the world is connected.
Somehow. I just can’t figure out how.
There’s one upside, at least. My obsession with data and patterns keeps my mind from wandering to Caelan every few minutes like a train running off its tracks.
I scrub a palm down my face, letting it rest there for a beat.
There’s been no news on Caelan. I took two breaks to check on him, but he looks exactly the same as he did yesterday. Pale, wan, exhausted. In pain.
Two days since he nearly died. Two days since I sat here and listened to him walk into a trap, and did nothing because he asked me to ‘trust him.’
The memory makes my chest ache.
I should have stopped him. Should have knocked him out, or pulled the op, or—
I shake my head, forcefully shoving the thought away.
I need to work. Work is something I can focus on. It’s something I can control. If I keep thinking about Caelan, I’ll fucking break.
My gaze drifts to the mounds of chaos surrounding me. The piles of books, ledgers, iPads and laptops, not to mention the maps strewn across three tables. There are empty blood bags, overflowing trash cans, and leather Moleskines full of half-legible scribbled thoughts I don’t trust to memory alone.
Front and center, tacked up so I can’t miss them, are the ravings of the two Omegas. The ones who possess what we’re apparently referring to as “abilities.”
At the top are Daniella’s words. “Four became one. One became light. Light wakes the gate. She is the gate.”
Right below are Calla’s: “One thread bound, but one thread frays. She is the flame. She burns to give light. She is the light. The light wakes the gate. The gate is awake.”
Vaelenor keeps running his mouth about “the gate,” and while I can admit it’s creepy as fuck, I’m not ready to jump aboard the Magical Prophesy Express just yet.
I’m still leaning toward the idea that they’re something related to trauma-induced hallucinations. Or a chemical breakdown from whatever cocktail the Omegas were injected with.
Two Omegas were kidnapped, trafficked, and injected with an unknown substance that fucked with their physiology. Changed it enough that my brothers want to call the sparks and glowing byproduct “special powers.”
The strangeness of their new party tricks doesn’t make them magic, though. It just means whatever happened to them, they were both injected with something that’s running the same code.
I’m pouring myself another finger of whiskey I probably don’t need when the door to my library swings open.
I spin around, prepared to lay into whoever’s stupid enough to interrupt me while I’m in the middle of research.
My muscles coil tight. Hot rage floods my veins.
It’s the godsdamned Omega.
The female who got my brother shot. The Omega who lured him into a trap. The reason he’s in a coma, instead of here with me, putting that sharp mind of his to work.
She walks in like she’s allowed to be here, eyes fixed firmly on her feet. She doesn’t even glance up, just sets down her shit and smooths her palms down the leggings someone apparently procured for her.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to make her hurt. To make her feel even a fraction of what Caelan felt. What Vae and I have been feeling every second of every day since we pulled him out of that basement.
“What,” I snap, my tone halfway to a bark, “do you think you’re doing in here?”
Her head jerks up, eyes wide and terrified. Her hands fly over her head, and she drops to the floor in a crouch. Her body curls over to protect her middle, like she’s shielding herself from a blow.
I narrow my eyes.
Does she think I’m about to hit her, or is this just another attempt to get under my skin? Some tactic to make me feel bad for her?
I huff in irritation.
That’s probably exactly what it is. Another manipulation. Another chance for her to play the role of the poor little victim.
Like I haven’t seen that before. Like I don’t know exactly what an Omega pretending to have emotional trauma looks like. She thinks she’s clever, but she has no idea the shit I’ve seen over the centuries.
Her little act won’t work on me.
When I don’t move, the Omega straightens warily until she’s back on her feet. Her cheeks are flushed with what might be embarrassment.
The girl stands there, eyes still wide, gaze jumping around the room but never landing on one area for long. Her mouth opens and closes silently, like she doesn’t know what to say.
I can’t help but study her. I tell myself I’m being tactical. That it’s ignorant not to study your enemies. I need to be prepared for whatever game she’s going to try next.
What I see makes me frown.
Her hair is in need of a brush, the ends tangled and snarled where they hang over her shoulder in a thick, messy braid. She has dark circles under her eyes, and her lips are red and chapped like she’s been biting on them for hours.
She looks like shit, and part of me feels vindicated seeing her this way.
The other part of me, the part that’s attached to my biology, urges me to purr for her. To wrap her in my arms and purr until she loses some of the tension in her shoulders.
No. That. That, right there! That’s how Omegas reel you in.
That’s exactly how this female was able to convince my most pragmatic, logical packmate to ignore every one of my warnings and put himself in danger. For her.
I will not make the same mistake.
I can’t help my biological reactions, but I’ll be damned if I allow them to rule me. Letting my biological instincts rule will get me killed. I learned that a long time ago from an Omega far more beautiful than the human standing in front of me.
Liar.
Look at her.
She’s beautiful.
She looks like magic given flesh.