Chapter 24 #2
February had arrived without any of us noticing, and Soren, Asha, and I had become a family living one ordinary day at a time, stealing a future from people who believed neither of us deserved one.
My promise to him no longer felt like words I’d spoken in the heat of the moment.
It had become the shape of my life. Every meal I cooked, every patrol I walked, every bottle I warmed, every time Soren looked at me across the room with quiet trust instead of fear, I was keeping it.
And for the first time in three years, tomorrow wasn’t something to endure.
It was something I wanted to build.
“Have you heard from Ronan?” Soren asked me every evening.
“Nope,” I said, same as always, trying not to let the fear change my tone. “He’s just had to go dark.”
Or he’s dead.
Along with Brec’s calls, The Archivist checked in every couple of days, and I’d gotten used to it.
Sometimes it was nothing more than confirmation that no chatter pointed toward me.
Other times, he brought scraps of intelligence that never quite fitted together.
Hunters were still searching. He couldn’t find Ronan.
More names appeared on the private boards.
More money changed hands. Most of the world assumed Soren was dead, but that damn bounty still didn’t move.
I made sure Soren was sleeping, up in his nest, Asha in her crib right inside with him before I logged in to find the latest message.
SKINSIDE // PRIVATE MESSAGE
THE ARCHIVIST: Your ghost story is holding.
IRONPINE: Can you show me?
A link followed. I clicked through to a thread three days old, buried under two hundred replies from people who’d never once cared about a nameless omega until he’d become a tragedy instead of a rumor.
Confirmed unaccounted for since the raid.
Presumed lost in the blizzard that followed.
A moderator had pinned a message asking people to stop speculating about the identity out of respect for a family already grieving.
A grieving family.
IRONPINE: Respect.
THE ARCHIVIST: People like a clean story better than an open one. Give them a body they can mourn, and they stop looking for one they can sell.
IRONPINE: And the Kastor Family?
The pause lasted long enough that I checked the connection hadn’t dropped.
THE ARCHIVIST: The SED closed their file last week. Quietly. No press release, but a closed file doesn’t get resourced, and that’s what matters.
IRONPINE: But?
THE ARCHIVIST: The private bounty went up again this morning. Six point five million.
The knot in my stomach that never fully unwound these days pulled tighter.
THE ARCHIVIST: The increase came out of the Kastor accounts, which implies the Emric Kastor isn’t buying the story I sold everybody else.
IRONPINE: Or he’s chasing ghosts
THE ARCHIVIST: Desperate
IRONPINE: I need information on the Dalton family.
The typing indicator blinked for several seconds before the reply arrived.
THE ARCHIVIST: Interesting choice.
IRONPINE: Why?
THE ARCHIVIST: Depends on what they’re looking for.
On paper, the Kastors and the Daltons are almost identical.
Foundations. Hospitals. Political donations.
Enough philanthropy to convince the outside world they’re pillars of society.
Underneath, they’re still two of the three bloodline Houses controlling the northeast, and nobody reaches that level with clean hands.
I leaned back in my chair.
IRONPINE: So, there’s no difference.
Another pause.
THE ARCHIVIST: I didn’t say that. People who survive working for the Kastors rarely speak about them. People who leave the Daltons sometimes do, and the stories aren’t the same.
IRONPINE: Meaning?
THE ARCHIVIST: The Kastors inspire fear.
The Daltons inspire loyalty. Whether that loyalty is earned or bought…
I still don’t know. I don’t have an answer, but I know this: Malachai, the Dalton alpha, died in a car accident along with his omega.
Rumor is it wasn’t an accident, but intel says the Dalton family shut down the investigation.
The typing indicator blinked.
THE ARCHIVIST: Watch for Malachai’s omega brother, Wren Dalton. He has feelers out for information on the accident. Incidentally, he was last seen in the same city as your missing Ronan.
I hesitated before typing.
IRONPINE: You’re tracking him?
THE ARCHIVIST: I track everyone.
IRONPINE: And you think Wren is tracking Ronan
THE ARCHIVIST: I didn’t say that.
The conversation closed before I could ask more. My phone vibrated, and I snatched it up, hoping it was Ronan, but it was Brec.
“The north route should reopen at the end of the month,” Brec said. “I’ve got a contact who’s keeping an eye on the crossings. As soon as there’s a safe corridor, he’ll let me know.”
“The bridge will open soon. I need to get Soren and Asha out of here as soon as we can.” Despite there being too many unknowns waiting beyond the mountain, I had good, sensible reasons why we needed to leave.
I already had a destination in mind—Raff’s family just outside of Quebec would shelter him and the baby long enough for me to find something else.
The thought of leaving this house, this place that Raff and I had chosen, hell, leaving Raff’s grave, was an ache that wouldn’t leave, but I knew what I needed to do.