Page 2 of Echoes From the Void

The sight makes my stomach clench. Four years of college, pretending to be normal, pretending the curse wasn’t eating me alive—all of it crumbling like the realm barriers. We’ve abandoned all the pack houses, retreating to the tower like cornered prey. The thought of the pack sends another pulse of longing through the incomplete bond. I push it away, focusing instead on straightening a stack of papers that’s already perfectly aligned.

“Your organizational system is spreading,” Uncle Everett announces, deliberately dragging a chair across my pristine floor—a sound he knows sets my teeth on edge. Just as he did when I first arrived at Shadow Locke, trying to organize his entire library by publication date and lunar phase to prove I belonged here. “The librarian mentioned finding color-coded tabs in the mortal philosophy section before she evacuated.”

“The mortal philosophy section was a disaster,” I say, trying to channel Father’s aristocratic tone rather than betray how much the void’s presence unnerves me. “Kant mixed with Nietzsche. It was philosophical anarchy.”

“Mhm.” He picks up one of my monitoring crystals, ignoring my flinch at his casual handling of delicate equipment. “And I suppose the alphabetized card catalog was also saving lives? The east wing barrier fell an hour ago, by the way. Thought you might want to know.”

The news hits like a physical blow. I snatch the crystal from his hand, placing it back in its precise position. “The readings are getting worse. Look at these energy spikes in the twins’ wing.” My voice doesn’t shake. I won’t let it.

“I’m more interested in why you’ve reorganized that same shelf three times in two hours.” He leans forward, forcing me to meet his gaze. His eyes soften with an understanding that makes me want to shadow-step away. “You’re worried about them.”

“I’m worried about the data.” I pull up the latest readings on my modified screens—because yes, even at my age I’ve had to adapt to modern technology, much as it pains me to admit it. The blue light casts harsh shadows across my notes, making the cracks in my skin more visible. “Finn’s light signature is destabilizing, and Frankie’s shadows are becoming erratic. The realms are responding to their reunion in ways we didn’t expect.”

“Like father, like children.” Uncle Everett’s tone shifts, becoming serious. He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair—a gesture I’ve learned means he’s debating how much to tell me. “Speaking of inherited traits...”

I automatically adjust my sleeve, hiding the silvery cracks that have spread past my wrists. Four years of hiding them beneath designer suits and carefully curated control. “I have more important concerns than cosmetic issues.”

The pack bond pulses faintly, a distant echo of Frankie’s presence. The reminder is like a knife twisting in my chest. She’s accepted us as her pack, but the bond isn’t complete—not until she bites us. And she can’t, not while she’s preoccupied withsaving her brother. Every pulse of the incomplete bond feels like something vital slipping through my fingers. I want to protect her, protect them all, but I can’t demand anything from her now. Not when she’s carrying the weight of two realms.

“Cosmetic issues?” Uncle Everett barks out a laugh that holds no humor. “Is that what we’re calling signs of realm instability manifesting in your immortal curse now? Tell me, does practicing that aristocratic deflection in the mirror help? Because you sound exactly like your father at your age.”

The monitoring crystals emit a concerning series of beeps. I frown at the readings, trying to ignore how the cracks in my skin seem to pulse in time with the energy spikes. Another section of campus lost to the void, no doubt.

Something heavy thumps onto my desk, sending several perfectly arranged papers fluttering. The sound of impact makes my eye twitch.

“Here. Maybe this will help with the bigger picture,” Uncle Everett says.

I look up, ready to deliver a scathing commentary on proper document handling that I definitely didn’t practice in front of my bathroom mirror at age sixteen. The words die in my throat. Sitting on my desk is a leather-bound journal, its cover worn smooth by time and handling. The grimoire I’ve only glimpsed in old photographs. My father’s personal journal.

“You said this was lost.” My voice comes out embarrassingly young.

“I said it wasn’t ready for you yet. Different thing entirely.” He drops into the chair across from me, propping his feet up on a priceless 15th-century tome. I resist the urge to shove them off. Barely. “Your father was brilliant, but he was also an idiot. Kind of like someone else I know.” He studies me for a moment. “Though you dress better. He had this thing for polyester in the 80s. It was tragic.”

I run my fingers over the grimoire’s cover, tracing the embossed patterns that match the cracks in my skin. Magic pulses beneath my touch, familiar yet foreign—like looking in a mirror and seeing your father’s face instead of your own. “Why now?”

Uncle Everett pulls up his sleeve, revealing spiderweb-like cracks running along his skin. “Because you’re not the only one feeling it. The realms are unraveling, kid. And those twins upstairs? They’re just the beginning.”

I open the grimoire, hit by the scent of old leather and something distinctly otherworldly. Father’s elegant script fills the pages, diagrams and notations crammed into every available space. The handwriting shifts through the decades—from careful academic notes to increasingly frantic observations. One entry catches my eye, the ink still dark as if freshly written:

“The curse of immortality is not merely about endless life. It is about stagnation in a universe meant to flow. We have become stones in a river, and the water is beginning to overflow its banks.”

The words seem to pulse on the page, resonating with something in my cursed blood. My hands shake slightly as I trace diagrams showing ley line convergences, realm barriers, power flows that look disturbingly similar to the cracks spreading across my skin. Father’s brilliant mind laid bare—and all I can think is how many of these same patterns I’ve been drawing in my research notes.

The monitoring crystals shriek suddenly, their light shifting to blood red. The temperature in the archive plummets, frost crystallizing on my meticulously organized papers. My breath fogs in the air, and the shadows... the shadows move wrong.

“How fascinating.” A feminine voice echoes around us, ancient and amused. “Another little Gray playing at power in the dark.”

I jerk back, papers scattering across my pristine floor. A woman made of shadows stands in the corner—no, through the corner, her form rippling like smoke caught in a draft. Power rolls off her in waves that make my curse marks burn. She’s draped in shadows that seem to absorb light, wearing them like a couture gown.

Uncle Everett’s feet drop from the tome as he sits up straight—the first time I’ve ever seen him abandon his deliberate slouch. “Nyx. Been a while.”

“Not long enough, Everett darling.” Her midnight eyes fix on me with ancient amusement. “The son looks so much like him. Same arrogance. Same desperation.” Her form flickers as she circles my desk, trailing fingers through my perfectly organized papers. “Same adorable attempt at control.”

I straighten instinctively, adjusting my cuffs to hide how my hands tremble. Four years of practicing Father’s mannerisms come automatically. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. Though you seem to take quite the liberty with familiar critique.”

“Dorian,” Uncle Everett warns, but there’s something like pride mixing with his exasperation. He hadn’t seen that particular smirk since Nyx had helped him contain Father’s more... ambitious experiments with immortality. The shadow goddess had always had a soft spot for the Gray family’s particular brand of controlled chaos.

“Oh, let him posture.” Nyx’s laugh sounds like shattering ice and broken promises. “He’s so young. They’re always so young at first. Even immortality has to start somewhere.” She glides closer, and I force myself not to step back. The shadows around her bend wrongly, as if reality itself objects to her presence.

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