POV RUBY
The interior of the Cónclave hunter felt less like a ship and more like the inside of a ribcage. The walls were ribbed with black composite piping, and the floor hummed with a predatory, low-frequency vibration. Standing in the docking bay, surrounded by the scorched remains of the umbilical bridge and the scrap of our lost sanctuary, I felt a shift in the air. The "human" part of the neural bridge—the part that held my memories of art, of Florence, of the soft Tuscan sun—was being pushed into a corner.
In its place, something cold and crystalline was rising.
Nevan was standing beside me, his hand a vice around my fingers. Through our link, I didn't feel his pain anymore, even though blood was still matted in his hair from the explosion. I felt his hunger. The serum in his bloo
