CHAPTER 4
THE harsh fluorescent lights make the deep, jagged lines on the steel table stand out. I trace them with my eyes, fingers itching to follow the contours, as if doing so could make time move faster. The walls are lined with bulletin boards displaying mugshots and wanted posters.
There’s one that looks like my brother. In fact, it is him—the paper old and slightly scratched up, like someone had been close to giving up. The chief of Penn City finally walks in, sliding a cup of water across the interrogation table, a tablet clutched under her arm.
“Seraph Rosen,” she says, sitting straight-backed in her chair, her calloused hands folded in front of her.
On her lapel, a golden pin shaped like a scale stands out against the dark fabric beneath, a symbol of her high rank on the council.
She’s an older woman with a few wrinkles around her brown eyes and mouth, her dreads styled into a bun.
“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.”
I stare at the water, not touching it. My mind keeps replaying Max’s lifeless state as the medical team wheeled him away from me.
“Your partner is stable,” she continues, reading from her tablet. “At least for now.”
“Stable?” I snort. “He died and is being reborn as something he hates.”
The chief’s face remains impassive. “Let’s start from the beginning,” she says, tapping her screen. “You were at Hot Shot when—”
My elbow lands on the table with a loud thud, head resting against my hand. “I’ve already told two different officers what happened. Max was attacked. The Ravens showed up. Keepers failed to protect us. End of story.”
“The Ravens. Including your brother?” she asks, her eyes narrow.
She already knows the answer. She just wants me to confirm it out loud.
“Yes.”
“And their leader?”
I swallow hard, the memory of him making my skin crawl. “Yes.”
“The same leader responsible for the Redmoore Massacre?”
My fingers curl into a fist under the table. “Yes.”
The chief leans forward, her voice dropping. “Yet he saved your life. Why would he do that?”
“Beats me,” I mutter, the truth of it burning like acid. Ten years of hunting, preparing, and imagining all the things I’d say when I finally faced him, only for me to be left with more questions than answers.
She leans back in her chair. “Be honest, Seraph.” There’s a weighted silence as she studies me, the kind that makes truths feel like lies, her gaze piercing, like she’s trying to dissect me, to understand how I’m still sitting here in front of her.
It is the same look I’ve seen a hundred times before, from people who think they know what it means to survive. “Would you die for your brother?”
The words hang in the air for a moment as I process her question. What is she digging at?
“Yes,” I finally say. Because it is true.
“Do you think he would do the same for you?” She taps her fingers on the table, releasing her words like calculated weapons.
I grit my teeth. As much as I want to believe that he would, I haven’t been convinced of it since the night he left me. “I’m not sure,” I reply, a lump forming in my throat. “I’m not the one who ran.”
Unfazed, she types notes into her tablet.
The door swings open as General Lee strides in, his pristine uniform a stark contrast to my rumpled skirt and overall disheveled appearance.
He carries numerous pins and badges that display his high rank, ability, and dedication to the human race. In other words, he’s a supporter of my father and an adversary of my brother.
His black hair is combed back and slightly graying, his square jaw framed by a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.
His expression gives nothing away of his thoughts or intentions.
A scar runs down the side of his face, serving as a reminder of his years in battle.
Despite his intimidating presence, there’s a subtle kindness in his gaze that hints at a strong sense of duty and justice.
My father rarely spoke of his professional relationships, but the general had come up often enough in casual conversations for me to understand they were more than just colleagues.
Someone called them the Ro-Bros once, and I remember laughing.
Where I’m concerned, his gift has always taken the form of preferential treatment—whether at Redmoore or here in Penn City—a favor I’ve never minded cashing in.
And won’t now.
“Chief Penn.” He nods in her direction before turning to me. “Miss Rosen.”
“General,” I acknowledge, my posture correcting itself before I can stop it. Redmoore training runs deep.
He places a folder on the table between us. “We have a situation.”
The chief reaches for the folder, but the general quickly places his hand on it. “Thirty-seven civilians were turned tonight. All within a four-hour window.”
My breath catches.
Thirty-seven humans turned within the safe walls of Penn City.
“How?” the chief asks, leaning forward. “Even with a coordinated attack, they shouldn’t be able to pull that off without getting caught. Not in this city.”
“Unless they had inside help,” the general says, his eyes never leaving my face.
“If you’re implying I had something to do with this—” I say, anger flaring.
“I am stating possibilities,” he cuts me off. “The Ravens appeared precisely when you were attacked. Your brother is among them. Their leader saved your life.”
“My brother and I haven’t spoken to each other in years,” I retort, adamant on defending myself. “And if you think I’d let them turn Max, you’re delusional.”
“Fair enough,” he says in admission. “Speaking of, the doctors have managed to stabilize all thirty-seven victims, including Maxim Sinclair, but you know as well as I do that the transition can only be completed in one of two ways.”
Either they drink their sire’s vitae within forty-eight hours, or they’re left to die in agony.
This is due to vesia, the vampire venom naturally injected into a human’s bloodstream with every bite and harmless while its host is alive, save for the numbing tingle it leaves behind.
But if the host dies before the venom is flushed from their system—through either sweat or urine—the vesia resurrects them and kickstarts the transformation process.
Only by drinking their sire’s vitae can the change be stabilized.
Without it, the venom has only one path to follow: death.
“The female Whiteshade that led the attack,” the general continues, opening the folder to reveal a heavily discolored piece of paper. “She’s left us a message.”
An elegant script flows across it, the composition of it all reminding me of the time Revenant had done the same. It was the very letter that urged us to meet up with him, claiming to want to help us search for our mother. My brother, as gullible as he was, fell for his trick.
To this day, our mother has yet to be found, and my brother has pretty much vanished along with her. They have got to be some sort of cult.
I reckon this is what they do: incite trauma, act as a catalyst for some sort of closure, then brainwash and recruit them. The female Whiteshade could be the leader of an opposing cult.
The chief picks up the piece of paper, skimming it. “She’s offering her blood, enough to complete all thirty-seven transitions,” she says, reciting the letter out loud. “In Blackham. Midnight tomorrow.”
The abandoned mining town that sits like a festering wound along the border between our Northcross and the vampire lair, Mythcrest. Once a thriving community, now a haven for outcasts and criminals too dangerous for even Penn City’s liberal policies.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, knowing she wants something in return.
The chief’s lips part in something between shock and understanding as her eyes lock with mine. “You,” she says softly. “She wants you.”
“It’s a trap,” I blurt out, more to myself than anyone else.
“I agree,” the general says, “but it’s also the only chance those people have.”
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of all those lives pressing down on me.
Thirty-seven innocents. Thirty-seven loved ones.
Thirty-seven futures hanging in the balance.
And my Max, who had planned our life together in his meticulous way, who had probably hidden an engagement ring somewhere in his apartment, waiting for the perfect moment.
I open my eyes to find both the chief and the general watching me intently. “Why me?”
“It could have something to do with why Revenant spared you that day,” the general says, contemplating, his expression hardening, “and saved you tonight.”
“They want to recruit me into their cults,” I say, confident of my imputation.
The general sighs, then nods. “Yeah, that’s what it looks like. Don’t worry, we won’t let that happen.”
The chief taps her watch. “The clock is ticking. By midnight tomorrow, all thirty-seven victims will be entering the final stages of transition. We need to come up with a plan. Fast.”
The general stares me down with calculating eyes, as if weighing my worth against thirty-seven innocent lives. “They think of Seraph as our bargaining chip. We’ll implant a tracker on her, deploy a tactical team to back her up, and once the deal is done, slayers will move in to secure the target.”
“What could go wrong?” Without waiting for an answer, I push back from the table and stand, pacing the confines of the interrogation room.
The lingering scent of Max’s blood still clings to my skin, mingling with the antiseptic smell of the police station. My mind races through possibilities, none of them good.
“What if she doesn’t uphold her end of the deal?” I think out loud. “What if our treachery makes her kill them anyway? Or kill more? Turn more? What if the Ravens show up again?”
“Those are risks we’ll have to take,” the general answers, pragmatic as always.
I press my palms flat against the cool metal table, trying to calm my mind. “I need to see Max.”
The chief and the general exchange glances.
“That’s not advisable,” says the general.