Chapter 8
1067 Words
The shop felt wrong after they left.
Too quiet. Too bright. Every sound too sharp, like the world had been turned up a notch without my consent.
I stacked wrenches just to hear metal clink. It didn’t help. In my head, the tall man’s words looped on repeat.
A girl leaves her pack at sixteen. No further records. Unusual.
I’d spent eight years pretending that history was buried under motor oil and rent payments. Apparently the Council’s idea of “buried” was “filed for later use.”
Close the shop, Nyra urged. Lock the doors.
“For once, we agree,” I muttered.
I flipped the “Closed” sign early, rolled the bay door down halfway, and killed the overheads. The garage sank into dimness, lit only by the office and a single work light over the tool wall. Shadows pooled under the lift, in the corners, on the steps that led up to my apartment.
“Power-saving mode,” I told myself. “Gotta be green.”
Liar, Nyra said.
My phone buzzed on the counter. A text from Jake: Crashing at Eli’s. Don’t blow anything up without me.
From Rosa: three bread emojis, one heart, and take leftovers from fridge, don’t argue.
Normal. Human. Safe.
I clung to that.
Paperwork should’ve been easy. Numbers. Dates. Checkmarks. My pen felt too heavy in my fingers; the lines on the invoice blurred if I stared too long. I rubbed at the dull ache behind my eyes and forced myself to finish at least one sheet.
Halfway through, a soft scrape came from the bay.
Not the compressor. Not the fridge. Not the familiar creaks of the building settling around me.
A shoe on concrete.
Every muscle in my body locked. I listened.
Another step. Slow. Careful.
“Jake?” I called, too loudly. “If you forgot your keys again, I’m charging you rent.”
Silence answered.
Nyra’s voice went razor-quiet. Not Jake.
I moved to the side of the office door, where I could see out without giving whoever it was a full view of me. The door had a narrow pane of glass; beyond it, the garage was a wash of shadow and dim light.
A figure stood just inside the half-open bay door.
Dark clothes. Dark cap pulled low. Not as tall as last night’s investigator, narrower shoulders than his brick of a partner. Someone new. He didn’t look at the tools, or the register, or the busted frame.
He was looking up the metal stairs to my apartment.
Cold slid down my spine in a slow, ugly drip.
I stepped into the doorway. “We’re closed,” I said. “Can’t you read?”
His head turned toward my voice. I couldn’t see his eyes under the cap, but I could see the curve of his mouth. It wasn’t friendly.
“Ms. Thorn,” he said. The voice was smooth, with an edge that hadn’t been there last night. “You weren’t very cooperative today.”
My fingers dug into the doorframe. “And you people weren’t very invited.”
He took a step closer. The office light caught the edge of a badge clipped inside his jacket. Same logo. Same authority. Lower rank, different attitude.
“I’m here as a courtesy,” he said. “The Council would prefer you answer a few questions somewhere… quieter.”
My heart started to hammer. “Pretty sure we covered this. I already talked to your boss.”
“You talked around him,” the man corrected. “You didn’t answer why a girl with no records smells like the ghost of a wolf.”
Nyra slammed against my ribs. Let me—
“Get out,” I snapped, louder than I meant to. “Or I call the cops.”
He laughed softly. “Do you really think local police outrank us?”
He closed the last few steps in two easy strides. Up close, his scent hit me—sterile, metallic, threaded with something chemical. My skin crawled.
He stopped just shy of the office door, one hand coming up to rest casually against the glass. I heard the minute creak in the frame, like the building itself flinched.
“Come quietly, Ms. Thorn,” he said, voice dropping. “The Council can be very… persuasive. Or very thorough, if they feel ignored.”
Images flashed behind my eyes—white light, straps, a needle sliding into my arm while I couldn’t move.
My throat closed. “No.”
He sighed, like I was a stubborn child. “We hoped you’d be reasonable.”
His other hand flashed. The door handle jerked under a sudden vicious twist. Old metal shrieked. The lock snapped with a sick little c***k.
The door flew inward, slamming into the wall behind me.
I stumbled back a step. He stepped forward, one foot already crossing into the office, his shadow stretching over my paperwork and coffee mug.
“Last chance,” he said softly. “You can walk out, or we can drag you. Either way, you’re coming with us. You’ve already been tagged once—”
The word hit like a fist. Tagged. Not healed. Not helped. Tagged.
Nyra roared in my head, a full-bodied, furious sound that shook my bones. Not again.
The man’s hand clamped around my upper arm, fingers bruising.
Move, Nyra screamed.
I yanked back on instinct. His grip tightened.
And from the dark of the bay behind him, something else moved—fast and low, a blur of muscle and fur.
A deep, feral snarl ripped through the garage. Not in my head. Real.
The intruder’s eyes widened. He started to turn.
Too slow.
A massive wolf launched out of the shadows, all teeth and momentum, hitting him side-on. They crashed into the concrete just beyond the office threshold in a tangle of limbs and shattered balance.
My arm tore free.
The flashlight on my desk rattled to the floor as I scrambled backward, heart slamming against my ribs, while two bodies fought and the sound of claw on concrete screamed through the dark.
For a heartbeat, all I could see were gold eyes and white teeth.
Then the wolf planted himself between me and the broken door, hackles up, growl rolling through every metal beam in my shop—
—and outside, more engines roared to life.
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