Page 33 of The Madness Within

“Not yet,” I murmured. “But I do want to know why a podcaster with zero supernatural ties keeps stumbling onto murder scenes that don’t involve your kind?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Supernatural? My kind? Maybe I’m just lucky.” She huffed as if she didn't believe what I just asked.

“You’re marked,” I said softly.

Her smile faltered, just slightly.

I leaned forward, voice dropping lower. “I can feel it on you. The Veil stains people differently. Most don’t notice. But I do. You’re the one they say is the prophecy. That you are the bridge. The vessel. The tear and the seal.”

She tensed. Barely. But I caught it.

“How long have you known?” I asked.

“Known what?”

“That you’re not just someone.”

Ember stared me down, like she was measuring where to strike if I lunged. “You think I’m part of some prophecy? That the things that go bump in the night are real?”

“Iknowyou are. I’ve heard whispers in languages long dead. Seen omens bleed into walls. And your name? Ember Carr? It shows up in places no living hand wrote it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re insane.”

I smirked. “Not yet. But I’ve lived long enough to know crazy and prophecy share a bed.”

Silence stretched. The café hummed with dark energy around us. Behind the counter, a demon served espresso to a banshee wearing a Yale hoodie.

Finally, I pulled a card from my pocket and slid it across the table.

She eyed it warily. No number. No name. Just a black sigil etched in ash, ancient, unmistakable.

Watcher of the Unseen.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Keep digging,” I said. “But next time, don’t do it alone.”

She picked up the card. Her fingers lingered on the sigil.

“I don’t trust men who flirt like they’re offering a deal with the devil.”

I rose from the seat, smile crooked. “That’s because I already did.”

I left her sitting there, coffee forgotten, that sigil burning against her fingertips like it knew her.

And maybe it did.

Because prophecy had a scent.

And she reeked of it.

As soon as I stepped through the threshold to my home, I knew that I wasn’t alone. He was already inside.

Not seated. Not waiting. Standing in the farthest corner like he grew out of the wall itself, no breath, no pulse, no fucking decency.

Kreed Elias.

“I wondered how long it’d take you to crawl out of whatever crypt you’ve been bleeding into,” I muttered, tossing my keys on the counter like this was just another night.

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