Chapter 7
Ivy's POV
Marcus escorted me to the elevator, his hand gripping my uninjured arm. The brass doors slid open and he stepped inside with me, pressing the button for the ground floor.
As the elevator descended, I felt my throat constrict with terror. I couldn't let them think I would talk.
"I swear on my life," I blurted out, my voice trembling but as firm as I could make it, "I won't tell anyone about tonight."
Marcus glanced at me, his gray eyes unreadable behind his gold-rimmed glasses. He said nothing, but his silence felt like acknowledgment.
When the doors opened, he guided me through the estate's foyer to the circular drive where a black sedan waited. "The driver has been instructed not to speak to you," he said quietly. "Sit. Don't cause trouble."
I climbed into the back seat, my injured shoulder protesting with every movement.
The drive back felt endless. I sat rigid, my shoulder throbbing, my swollen ankle wrapped in compression gauze. The driver maintained absolute silence as the car wound through dark forest roads, headlights carving tunnels through the gloom.
My hands gripped the leather seat edge, knuckles white. I couldn't stop my mind from circling back to the rumors—the Blackwood family could make a person vanish from legal records, erase someone's existence entirely. Bodies were found in the forest with their blood drained. No one ever came back.
I pressed my spine against the seat, curled into myself. I was certain this car was taking me somewhere remote, somewhere the forest would swallow my body.
When the car finally stopped, I looked up through the tinted windows and my breath caught.
The familiar wrought-iron gates of Nightthorn Lodge stood before me, illuminated by dim yellow security lights. The same gravel drive. The same weathered stone walls.
The driver opened my door without a word. I stumbled out, my legs barely supporting me. Cold sweat had soaked through my shirt. I stood there swaying, staring at the lodge entrance as if it were a mirage.
I was alive. I was back.
I limped toward the staff entrance, each step sending pain through my bandaged ankle.
The dormitory was dark and cold. I collapsed onto my cot, my whole body shaking uncontrollably.
"Jesus Christ, what the hell?" Tessa's voice cut through the darkness. She sat up in her bed across the room. "Do you have any idea what time it is? Some of us actually need to sleep."
I tried to respond but my throat was too tight. I pulled the thin blanket over myself and curled into a ball.
Tessa muttered something crude, then flopped back down. Within minutes her breathing evened out.
I lay awake until dawn, unable to stop trembling.
Morning came too soon. I forced myself down to the kitchen, my ankle still swollen inside my canvas shoes.
Connor looked up from delivery invoices, his weathered face tightening with concern when he saw me. He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. "Need you to organize the spice rack," he said gruffly. "Everything's a mess back there."
I made my way to the cold storage area, a cramped space that smelled of garlic and dried herbs. My frostbitten fingers ached as I sorted through jars of pickling spices, the metal shelving biting cold even through my thin gloves.
My father had been a scholarship student at Washington State University once, with a promising future. But alcohol and gambling debts destroyed him before I was old enough to remember that version. My grandparents raised me in their small Seattle house until I was sixteen, when a rogue vampire attack set their neighborhood on fire. They died in the flames. Three years later, my father succumbed to blood toxin complications.
Connor had been my grandfather's student decades ago. When he'd found me working three part-time jobs in Seattle, barely making rent, he'd offered me this position. The pay was terrible but it included room and board.
I had no dreams beyond survival. The only thing that kept me going was the thought of the S-Visa exam, the slim possibility of reaching the Solaris Sanctuary Zone near the equator, where I could exist in warmth and light without fear.
It was pathetic, probably. But it was mine.
At mid-morning, I felt the weight of the black card in my jacket pocket. I pulled it out with wet hands, turning it over. The obsidian surface was smooth and cold, gold lettering catching the harsh light: Valerius Sinclair, followed by a phone number.
I dried my hands on my apron and walked out to the service yard.
The metal drum where we burned kitchen waste still contained glowing embers. I glanced around—the yard was empty—then dropped the card into the drum and stirred the embers with a wooden stick.
The black stone began to char and crack in the orange heat, small popping sounds echoing in the quiet morning. I watched it disintegrate, the gold lettering blackening and flaking away, mixing with burnt vegetable scraps until nothing remained but ash.
For a brief moment, I felt something like relief.
I pulled my jacket tighter and turned back toward the kitchen.
By noon, the temperature had dropped further and bitter wind howled through the forest, rattling the kitchen windows. The head chef, a quiet man in his fifties, noticed me limping and ladled a small bowl of thick beef stew from his simmering pot.
"Eat," he said simply.
I cradled the warm bowl, the heat seeping into my frozen fingers. As I sipped the rich broth, tasting chunks of tender meat and soft carrots, I found myself thinking about what Marcus had said—that Lucien had injuries to both his leg and his heart, that he was suffering.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the stew.
At three in the afternoon, Connor burst into the kitchen, his face ashen. "We're closing tonight," he announced, his voice tight with panic. "Nocturnal Enforcement and tax auditors are coming."
By four o'clock, two black enforcement vehicles had pulled up. Connor was escorted out in handcuffs, his face gray with fear. Garrett returned and confirmed our suspicions.
Garrett leaned against the counter. "Someone powerful must have it out for us. This isn't a random inspection. The deputy director of the enforcement bureau signed the shutdown order himself. They don't send the deputy director for routine violations."
