30. Jace
Jace
The pub appears just as the last daylight bleeds out of the sky, and I can already tell something’s different.
There are people everywhere.
Not just a few stragglers hanging around the entrance. I’m talking dozens—maybe more—crowding the street, leaning against buildings, sitting on crates. Feeders, all of them. Some I recognize from earlier, but most are new faces. They’re armed, geared up, waiting.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, slowing my stride.
Wes catches up beside me, eyes wide. “I didn’t— I mean, I knew there were more, but…”
“Half the town, huh?” I grin at him. “Undersold it, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t even have a comeback. Just stares.
Then he laughs—loud and bright—and before I can process it, he’s kissing me. Right on the mouth. Quick, warm, utterly fearless.
He pulls back, still laughing, and I’m frozen.
Bree’s laugh cuts through the air behind us, and when I glance over, she’s grinning wide at us, eyes bright.
Wes just shrugs, still grinning. “You called me sweetheart.”
I blink. Open my mouth. Close it.
The bastard just grins.
“…Fair.”
Bree steps up on my other side, and the moment she does, the crowd shifts. Heads turn. Conversations drop off. It’s not fear—it’s recognition . They see her, and something settles .
She doesn’t say anything. Just meets their eyes, one by one, and nods.
That’s all it takes.
The door to the pub swings open, and Mo steps out—arms crossed, half-grin in place, cigarette tucked behind his ear like punctuation.
“Well,” he says, voice carrying across the street. “Looks like we’re throwing a party after all.”
I laugh. Can’t help it. “You got a guest list, or are we just winging it?”
“Winging it’s more fun.” He jerks his chin toward the crowd. “You coordinate this mess, or did it just happen?”
“Little bit of both.” I step forward, scanning the faces. “How many vehicles you got?”
“Not enough.” He pulls a battered phone from his pocket and starts scrolling. “But I know people. Give me ten minutes.”
“Ten?”
“Five if you stop talking.”
I grin wider. “I like you.”
“Everyone does.” He’s already dialing, phone pressed to his ear as he walks back inside. “Yeah, it’s me. I need every truck, van, and beater you’ve got that still runs. No, I don’t care if it’s registered. We’re moving an army.”
It takes closer to fifteen minutes, but Mo wasn’t kidding.
Vehicles start rolling in from every direction—pickup trucks with rusted beds, vans with peeling paint, a couple of sedans that look like they’ve seen better decades. One guy shows up on a motorcycle with a sidecar, and I’m pretty sure that’s not going to fit anyone, but the effort’s appreciated .
The Feeders don’t wait for instructions. They just start loading up—gear in the back, bodies piling in wherever there’s space. It’s chaotic, but it works. Somehow, it works.
I’m helping tie down a stack of supply crates when Zira appears at my elbow, eyebrow raised.
“This your doing?”
“Wes’s, actually.” I nod toward where he’s standing with Bree, looking somewhere between proud and terrified. “He’s got a gift.”
“Apparently.” She glances around, assessing. “Think we’ll all fit?”
“If we get creative.”
“Creative’s one word for it.”
Mo reappears, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. “All right, listen up!” His voice cuts through the noise, and everyone stops. “We’re heading out in five. Stay together, don’t do anything stupid, and if you see trouble, you radio ahead. Got it?”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the crowd.
It took longer than expected to get everyone ready—loading the vans, securing supplies, arguing over routes. By the time the last engine started, the city lights had dimmed to a low glow against the clouds. We’d already lost a couple of hours to chaos.
He turns to me. “You riding with the Source, or you want shotgun in the lead truck?”
I glance back at Bree. She’s talking quietly with Thane and Stellan, the raven still perched on her shoulder like it belongs there. Gray’s nearby, arms crossed, scanning the street like he’s already expecting threats.
“Lead truck,” I say. “Someone’s gotta make sure we don’t drive off a cliff. ”
“Smart man.”
The convoy forms up quickly after that—vehicles lined up in a ragged procession that looks more like a junkyard parade than an invasion force. But there’s something about it that feels right . Like we’re not just moving—we’re claiming something.
I climb into the passenger seat of Mo’s truck, and he cranks the engine. It groans, sputters, then roars to life.
“Think they’ll follow?” I ask, nodding toward the line of vehicles behind us.
“They came this far, didn’t they?” He shifts into gear. “Besides, they’re not following us .”
He’s right. Through the side mirror, I can see Bree in the third vehicle back, framed by the window. Even from here, the Ether around her is visible—soft silver light threading through the air.
They’re following her .
Mo pulls out onto the road, and one by one, the rest fall in line. Headlights flicker on, engines rumble, and the whole mess of us starts moving.
I lean back in my seat, watching the mismatched convoy stretch out behind us in the mirror.
“Guess we’re really doing this,” I mutter.
Mo glances over, grin still in place. “Hell of a party.”
Yeah. Hell of a party.