THE OTHER BLOOD
Calla’s POV
The Paris skyline was just beginning to bleed gold when I stepped away from the wall of screens. My knees felt unsteady, not from exhaustion, but from the weight of what I’d just seen.
A boy.
Next to my mother.
Next to me.
But I didn’t remember him.
And that terrified me.
The photo in the encrypted message wasn’t dated, but the background—the alpine peaks, the lake, the black iron railing—told me everything I needed. It was taken in Lucerne. Switzerland. The retreat house. The one Lillian had taken me to as a child. I remembered the daisy curtains. The way she whispered stories about wolves and queens who bled stars. I remembered her perfume. Her smile.
But not him.
Not the boy with thick dark hair and a wary scowl who stood protectively in front of
