NOLA
The basement of the manor was humming with a low, bone-deep frequency that made my teeth ache and the hair on my arms stand up. Silas was hunched over a console that looked like it belonged in a submarine, his fingers dancing across a keyboard with a speed that defied his age. Every few seconds, a deep thrum would pulse through the floorboards, signifying that another layer of the dampening field had locked into place. We were effectively erasing ourselves from the map, turning the sprawling estate into a blind spot that not even the most sensitive tracker could find.
"Is it working, Silas?" I asked, leaning against the cold stone wall while I clutched my mother’s research folder to my chest.
"The biological signatures are being masked as we speak, Miss Nola," Silas replied without
