The smell of a hospital is a specific kind of violence. It's the scent of industrial bleach trying—and failing—to mask the metallic tang of blood and the sour, lingering note of old fear. It's a sterile, white-washed lie that tells you everything is under control while the fluorescent lights overhead hum with a persistent, headache-inducing frequency.
I stood in the hallway of Mystic Ridge General, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of my oversized hoodie. I hadn't slept. After finding the gold coin on my pillow, sleep had become a luxury I could no longer afford. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the floorboards of my room settle under a weight that wasn't mine. I felt the gaze of Jax Thorne—icy, predatory, and amused—tracing the line of my throat.
I am walking through a dream, I thought, my internal monologue sounding hollow, as if it were echoing in a vast, empty marble hall. Or maybe I'm the only one who finally woke up. Everyone else is still dreaming that the world is safe, that the girl in Room 312 was just attacked by a stray dog.
I reached the door to Vicki's room. A small, plastic sign hung on the handle: No Visitors Except Family.
"She's resting, Lyra."
I jumped, spinning around to see Matt Donovan standing by the vending machine. He looked like he had aged a decade in a single night. His eyes were bloodshot, his jaw covered in a dark stubble that made him look ragged. He held two cups of lukewarm coffee, the steam curling around his tired face.
"Matt. How is she?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"The doctors... they're confused," Matt said, rubbing his face with his free hand. "They say she lost a lot of blood. A lot. But they can't find the entry wound. Just these jagged tears on her neck that they're calling 'animal bites.' But have you ever seen a wolf leave two perfect puncture marks, Lyra?"
He looked at me then, his eyes searching mine for an answer I wasn't allowed to give. I felt the weight of the secret in my chest—a cold, heavy anchor. If I told him the truth, if I told him that I saw a man with black eyes drinking from his sister's neck, he'd think I had finally snapped. And yet, the silence felt like a betrayal.
"I don't know, Matt," I lied, the words tasting like copper. "It was dark. The rain... it was so hard to see anything."
"Right. The rain." He looked down at his coffee. "Silas Thorne was here earlier."
My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. "Silas? What was he doing here?"
"He said he wanted to check on her. Said he felt responsible since he was at the party." Matt narrowed his eyes. "There's something off about that guy, Lyra. He's too quiet. Too perfect. And the way he looks at you... it's like he's trying to memorize your soul."
"He's just new, Matt. He doesn't know anyone."
"Yeah, well, tell that to the hair on the back of my neck," Matt muttered. "Go on in. The nurse is on break. Just don't stay long."
I nodded and slipped into the room.
The air in the room was cold, kept at a clinical temperature that made me shiver. Vicki lay in the center of the bed, her pale skin nearly the same shade as the white sheets. She looked fragile, like a porcelain doll that had been dropped and glued back together. A thick bandage was wrapped around her neck, but I could see a faint, dark stain seeping through the gauze.
I sat in the chair beside her bed, my eyes fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest.
You're lucky, I thought, reaching out to touch the railing of the bed. You get to forget. Silas said Jax didn't finish. He left you with a memory of shadows and a thirst you won't be able to name. But I have to remember. I have to carry the weight of what I saw.
Suddenly, Vicki's hand twitched. Her eyes flew open, but they weren't the eyes of the girl I had known since kindergarten. They were wide, dilated, and filled with a frantic, animalistic terror. She gasped, her fingers clawing at the sheets.
"Vicki? It's me, Lyra. You're in the hospital. You're safe."
"No," she rasped, her voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "Not safe. He's still here. I can hear his heart. It doesn't beat like ours. it... it thrums. Like a machine."
"Who, Vicki? Who are you talking about?"
She turned her head toward me, her gaze locking onto mine with a terrifying intensity. "The one with the ice. He took it. He took the red. He told me it was a gift. He told me I'd never be hungry for food again."
She started to hyperventilate, the monitors beside the bed beginning to beep in a frantic, high-pitched rhythm.
"Vicki, calm down! You're going to hurt yourself!"
"He's coming back!" she shrieked, her body arching off the bed. "He needs more! He said I'm the best vintage he's had in a century!"
The door burst open. I expected a nurse, but it was Silas.
He moved with that same impossible, blurred speed, reaching the bedside before I could even stand up. He didn't look at me. He placed his hand on Vicki's forehead, his fingers splayed wide.
"Look at me, Vicki," he said, his voice dropping into that low, hypnotic frequency I had heard in the classroom.
Vicki's thrashing slowed. Her eyes drifted toward Silas, the terror in them beginning to dissolve into a dull, vacant fog.
"You were in the woods," Silas whispered, his emerald eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the hospital room. "You were attacked by a wolf. A large, grey wolf. It happened so fast you didn't see its face. You don't remember any men. You don't remember any brothers. There was only the dog, and the rain, and the dark."
I watched, mesmerized and horrified, as Vicki's expression went slack. Her hands fell limp against the sheets. The monitors slowed their frantic pace, returning to a steady, rhythmic beep... beep... beep.
"A wolf," Vicki repeated, her voice a hollow echo. "It was a wolf."
"Yes," Silas murmured. "Now sleep. When you wake up, you will feel better. You will forget the hunger."
He stayed there for a moment, his hand still on her brow, before finally turning to face me. The glow in his eyes faded, leaving them a dark, troubled green.
"You shouldn't be here, Lyra," he said, his voice flat. "I told you to stay away."
"You're brainwashing her," I whispered, my horror competing with a strange, dark fascination. "You're rewriting her mind."
"I am saving her life," Silas countered, stepping toward me. "If she remembers what Jax did, she will never sleep again. She will spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder for a monster that she can't fight. This is the only mercy I can give her."
"And what about me? Why don't you do it to me?" I stepped closer, my heart pounding. "Why don't you make me forget the bridge? Why don't you make me forget the portrait of Kora? Or the way Jax looked when he was drinking from her?"
Silas looked down at me, and for a second, I thought I saw a tear glimmer in his eye. He reached out, his thumb brushing my jawline. His skin was like ice, but the touch sent a jolt of warmth through my entire body—a contradiction that made no sense.
"Because I tried," he confessed, his voice breaking. "On the bridge. After I pulled you out of the water, I tried to take the memory away. I tried to give you back your life without the shadow of me in it."
"And?"
"It didn't work. Your mind... it's different, Lyra. It's like a fortress I can't breach. I don't know if it's because you died and came back, or if it's something else. But I can't hide the truth from you."
I stared at him, the clinical silence of the room pressing in on us. I'm a fortress, I thought. A fortress for a history I don't understand.
"Jax was in my room last night," I said, the words falling between us like a challenge.
Silas's entire body went rigid. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "What?"
"He left a coin. A gold phoenix. He stood over me while I slept, Silas. He wanted me to know that he could get to me whenever he wanted."
Silas didn't swear. He didn't shout. He simply closed his eyes, and a wave of pure, unadulterated cold radiated from him, frosting the glass of the window behind us. When he spoke, his voice was a jagged blade.
"He is trying to provoke me. He wants me to lose control. He knows that if he touches you, I will break my vow. I will become the thing I've spent a century trying to bury."
"And what is that?"
"A killer," Silas whispered.
He looked at the door, his senses clearly picking up something I couldn't hear. "Matt is coming back. You need to leave. If Jax is watching you, stay in public places. Don't go anywhere alone. I will... I will deal with my brother."
"Silas, wait—"
But he was already moving toward the window. He opened it, the cold night air rushing in, and in a blur of shadow, he was gone.
I stood there alone as Matt walked back in, holding a fresh tray of water. He looked at the open window and frowned.
"Did you open that? It's freezing in here."
"I... I needed some air," I said, my voice shaking. "I'll see you tomorrow, Matt."
I walked out of the hospital, the automatic doors sliding shut behind me with a hiss. I stood in the parking lot, the asphalt still wet from the afternoon rain. I felt the gold coin in my pocket, pressing against my thigh.
I am not safe, I realized, looking up at the dark silhouette of the mountains. I am the prize in a war between two brothers who have been fighting since before my grandparents were born. And the only thing I have to protect me is a mind that refuses to forget.
I drove home, my eyes constantly darting to the rearview mirror. Every pair of headlights felt like a threat. Every shadow on the side of the road looked like a man in a leather jacket.
When I reached my house, I saw a black car parked down the street. It was a Camaro. A 1968 Camaro.
My heart skipped a beat. Was it Silas? Or was it Jax?
I pulled into my driveway, my hands trembling as I fumbled with my keys. I didn't look back at the black car. I ran inside, locked the door, and slid the bolt into place.
I went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, my hand shaking so hard the ice clinked against the glass. I leaned against the counter, trying to breathe, trying to find the "normal" girl I used to be.
Thump.
The sound came from the basement. A heavy, rhythmic thud, as if someone—or something—was moving a piece of furniture.
I froze. My internal monologue went silent, replaced by a cold, white noise of terror.
"Jeremy?" I called out, my voice cracking.
No answer.
"Aunt Jenna?"
Silence.
I grabbed a steak knife from the wooden block on the counter. It felt absurdly small, a toy against the kind of power I had seen in the woods. I walked toward the basement door, my heart hammering so loud I was sure it could be heard across the street.
I opened the door. The darkness of the stairs yawned like a mouth.
"Who's there?"
I flicked the light switch. The single, bare bulb in the basement hummed to life, casting long, jagged shadows across the concrete floor.
There, standing in the center of the room, was Jeremy.
He was standing in front of his easel, his back to me. He was drawing with a frantic, violent energy, the charcoal snapping in his hand. The floor was littered with crumpled papers.
"Jeremy? What are you doing? It's three in the morning."
He didn't turn around. "I can't stop, Lyra. The bird... it won't stop screaming."
"What bird?"
I walked around him to look at the canvas. My breath hitched in my throat.
It wasn't a bird. It was a face. A face with emerald eyes and skin of marble. But the eyes were crying blood, and the background was a swirling vortex of fire and shadows.
It was Silas. But it was Silas as a demon.
"Where did you see this, Jer?" I asked, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
He finally turned to me. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face gaunt. "I didn't see it. I feel it. It's like there's a broadcast in my head, Lyra. A signal from the ridge. Something is coming. Something that's been hungry for a very, very long time."
He looked past me, his eyes widening.
I spun around, but the basement was empty.
"What? What do you see?"
"The shadow," Jeremy whispered, pointing to the corner of the room. "The one that doesn't have a body."
I looked, and for a split second, I saw it—a ripple in the air, a distortion in the darkness that looked like the silhouette of a man. Then, it was gone.
"Go to bed, Jeremy," I said, my voice trembling. "Just... go to bed."
I watched him walk upstairs, his movements stiff and robotic. I stayed in the basement for a long time, staring at the drawing of Silas.
He's in our heads, I realized. They both are. They've woven themselves into the fabric of our lives, and we're just the threads they're pulling to see when we'll break.
I picked up one of the crumpled papers from the floor. It was a sketch of a bridge. Wickery Bridge. But in the drawing, the car wasn't falling. It was being held up by a thousand dark, skeletal hands rising from the water.
I stuffed the paper into my pocket and turned off the light.
I went to my room, but I didn't get into bed. I sat in the chair by the window, the steak knife in one hand and the gold coin in the other. I watched the black Camaro down the street. It stayed there until the sky began to turn a pale, sickly grey.
The sun was coming up, but it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like a countdown.
I looked at the coin in my palm, the phoenix rising from the ashes.
We are the tragedy that never ends, Jax had said.
I closed my eyes, the clinical silence of the night finally being broken by the first, lonely caw of a crow.