13. Elena
The door leading to the rear of the shop slams shut behind us, the sound ricocheting off the walls and rattling the shelves. A cloud of dust drifts from the ceiling.
“Secure it,” Lance orders.
Metal screeches as Braydon drags the bolt across. The deadbolt snaps into place with a final, ugly click.
The noise outside swells instantly, voices piling over one another a rising tide of confusion pressing against the walls. Camera lights spill under the door in a thin white line, slicing across the floor like a blade.
Lance pivots, already raising his comm. “Blake, initiate downtown lockdown. Possible Wendell sighting. Repeat, possible Wendell sighting. Seal the perimeter.”
My heart slams hard enough that my vision blurs. Each beat lands sharp and almost painful, like my body knows something my mind hasn’t caught up to.
“He won’t run far,” I say, more than anyone else. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “He never does.”
Lance’s jaw tightens. “That’s what concerns me.”
“It’s not recklessness,” I insist. “It’s a performance.”
Braydon steps in front of Hannah and me, his broad shoulders squared, weight settled into his heels. Ready to absorb whatever comes.
“How could he know you’re here?” Hannah asks. Her words are calm, but her hand tightens around my sleeve.
Lizzie pulls Arabella against her chest. The girl all but disappears against her, small fingers fisting fabric. The guards slide into position without a word, front and back, a living shield.
The sight burns.
I drop my gaze to the scuffed tile beneath my feet. This… this is why I wasn’t supposed to leave the palace.
“Lizzie, I’m scared,” Arabella whispers.
Lizzie presses her cheek to the girl’s hair. “I know, baby. But we’ll be out soon.”
“If Wendell’s here,” Braydon says, his eyes sharp as they scan the alley, “he knows our response patterns.”
“He’ll anticipate containment,” I say. “And he’ll push where it bends.”
Sirens rise in the distance, not panicked, but deliberate. Layered. Controlled. The sound rolls through the city like a signal flare, stirring the crowd outside into an even louder frenzy.
Lance turns to the guards. “We split. Get them out.”
The confirmation comes quickly. The door unlocks. Weapons are raised. Lizzie meets my gaze with one firm nod.
I catch her arm as she passes. “I’m sorry.”
Her grip tightens around mine briefly. “Don’t be. Be safe.”
Then she and Arabella disappear into the alley.
Lance turns back to me, his mouth set. “You’re not going back out there.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“He left the brooch,” I remind him. “He wanted me to feel him watching.”
“That’s exactly why?—”
“If he wanted blood,” I interrupt, “It would already be on the floor.”
The room hums as the comms whisper, fabric shifting, weapons adjusting inch by inch.
Braydon exhales. “He’s baiting.”
The silence between us stretches.
Lance finally speaks, “You don’t leave my sight.”
I nod. “I won’t.”
We step back out into the street.
Heat. Noise. Movement.
The crowd presses against the barriers as police redirect foot traffic with clipped commands. A drone hums overhead, low enough that I can feel the vibration in my teeth. Its shadow sliding across the stone like a searching finger.
“Tighten the perimeter,” Lance murmurs.
I scan faces around us: fear, curiosity, irritation. Hannah loops her arm through mine. Her presence is grounding. Comfortingly familiar.
Then… the pull hits.
Not a thought. Not a voice.
A pressure intensifies behind my sternum. A tightening, like an invisible thread pulling taunt.
I stop.
The sensation sharpens the closer we get to the fountain. Water crashes down in fractured arcs, the sound almost too loud, too constant. The crowd thickens, bodies pressing closer together, heat radiating from skin and fabric.
Someone shouts. A woman stumbles to the ground. Braydon pivots.
The drone dips lower.
I halt so abruptly that Hannah jerks backward.
Lance’s hand closes around my arm. “Your Majesty?”
“He’s here,” I whisper.
The fountain ripples.
And the pull locks into place.
In the water, a reflection forms—too steady, too calculated to be a coincidence.
Tall. Fedora pulled low. Reddish-blond hair glinting in the light.
Wendell.
My breath catches before escaping in a sharp, shallow burst.
“There,” I murmur, stepping forward and releasing Hannah without realizing it.
Lance follows my gaze just as the reflection shatters. The water shivers, the image tearing apart as though it was never meant to stay.
“He’s moving,” Braydon snaps.
The crowd surges. Police lights flash, blue and white strobes slicing through faces. The barriers close in. The noise crescendos.
Something shifts beside me.
Wrong.
I turn.
Empty space.
My head snaps left. Then right.
Scarves. Hats. Sunglasses.
No Hannah.
My lungs seize. “Where’s Hannah?”
Lance and Braydon react instantly, voices sharp into comms.
“Confirm eyes on Hannah.”
Nothing.
Braydon’s hand clamps onto my shoulder, firm and anchoring, holding me back.
Seconds. Only seconds.
“She was right here,” I cry, my voice breaking. “She didn’t move.”
My thumb scrapes over my wedding band harder and harder until the metal bites into my skin.
Movement at the edge of the square snags my attention.
Purposeful. Controlled.
Hannah.
Her hat tumbles to the ground. Her scarf hangs loose as a hand locks around her arm. She fights, her steps skidding, each breath tearing free.
“Hannah!” I scream.
She twists, her eyes wild, and then she’s yanked sideways.
Into the alley.
The pull inside me flares, sharp… almost satisfied.
I lunge, but Lance hauls me back as the crowd crashes between us.
“Braydon—go!”
Braydon is already sprinting.
“That alley,” I gasp. “There are tunnels… he knows?—”
“I know,” Lance says grimly into his comm.
The drone banks toward the alley.
“Empty,” Lance says seconds later.
The pull finally loosens.
Hannah is gone.
My fingers reach for her on instinct, grasping nothing but empty air. The space she’d occupied only seconds ago felt impossibly large, and somehow... unbearably final.
And somewhere beneath the city, I can almost feel Wendell smile.