Page 83 of Echoes From the Void

The dogs’ barking echoes through the parking structure now, closer than before. The sound carries memories of other hunts, other times Valerie’s “pets” tracked down runners. I can’t end up like them. Can’t let Dr. Chen’s sacrifice be for nothing.

No time to hesitate. No time for doubt. I yank the door open and slide behind the wheel, muscle memory from watching others guiding my movements. Key in ignition. Right pedal for go, left for stop. Simple.

God, please let it be simple.

The engine roars to life on my first try, making me jump. Lights flash at the tunnel entrance—searchers with their dogs, getting closer. My heart slams against my ribs as I grab what I hope is the gear shift and yank it down through the letters until it stops at D.

The car lurches forward, engine protesting as I slam the gas pedal too hard. I barely miss a concrete pillar, the steering wheel fighting my desperate grip. Behind me, shouts replace barking. A gunshot cracks, then another.

I press the pedal to the floor.

The car shoots forward like a panicked animal, tires screaming as I take the parking structure’s spiral ramp at a speed that lifts the right wheels off the ground. The steering wheel fights me with every turn. Sweat soaks the clothes Dr. Chen gave me, his last gift stained with his blood. But I hold on, guiding the car through sheer determination and blind terror.

Daylight hits like a physical blow as I burst out of the structure. I squint against it, tears streaming from light-sensitive eyes after years in controlled darkness. The road blurs ahead, but I can’t stop. Can’t slow down. Can’t let them take me back to that place.

Something beeps angrily as I merge onto what I hope is the highway, other cars swerving to avoid my erratic path. The engine makes concerning noises as I keep the pedal pressed down. None of that matters.

I’m out.

I’m free.

And I’ll learn whatever I need to—driving, fighting, surviving—to stay that way.

The asylum disappears behind me, taking Dr. Chen’s body and five years of my life with it. But something else disappears too: the last traces of the girl I used to be. The one who thought help might come. Who believed in justice. Who waited for rescue.

That girl died in the asylum.

What emerges is something else entirely. Something with sharp edges and sharper purpose. A creature born of darkness and survival, of broken trust and spilled blood.

The car swerves again as I overcorrect, horns blasting in my wake. But I keep going. Because that’s what Dr. Chen died for. Because that’s what survivors do.

We drive through the fear.

We become what we need to be.

We live.

Really live.

Chapter 29

Bishop

The summons arriveswith precise Guardian formality—crisp parchment that pulses with ancient magic, silver ink that writhes like captured shadows, and timing designed to be maximally inconvenient. I’m updating my tactical maps when Cassandra appears in my doorway, her Guardian marks flickering with barely contained tension.

“The Council requests your immediate presence.” Her eyes flick to my recent oath marks, which burn brighter in response. “Full formal dress.”

I resist the urge to adjust my already immaculate tie, feeling my own Guardian marks pulse with instinctive response to the summons’ magic. “Of course they do. Because apparently preventing realm collapse operates on a black-tie dress code.”

Through our pack bonds, I feel Frankie’s quiet amusement at my irritation with Guardian formality. Even now, exhausted from healing Leo, her shadows reach for mine with teasing warmth. Her presence steadies me as I retrieve my formal robes, their embedded protection sigils gleaming faintly in the dim light.

“Bishop.” Cassandra’s voice drops lower, formality cracking to reveal the friend who survived freshman combat training withme. The one who helped me investigate my father’s death, who shared coffee and complaints about Professor Wells’ impossible shadow theory assignments. “You should... prepare yourself. Commander Stone has been in meetings all morning with the Shadow Court.”

The careful way she says it—each word measured like a spell component—sends ice through my veins. In all our years at Shadow Locke, through classes and training and late-night study sessions, I’ve never heard Cass sound like this. She’s always been the bold one, challenging professors and ancient traditions alike. She doesn’t do careful. Doesn’t do subtle warnings.

“What aren’t you telling me?” I ask, Guardian marks pulsing brighter with anxiety. Our years of shared history make her hesitation more concerning than any outright warning.

She opens her mouth—probably to share the brutally honest assessment I’ve come to expect since our first year—then closes it as heavy footsteps approach. Her marks flare in recognition moments before the Council messenger appears.

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