Page 6 of Claim the Twilight
Loviator is free.
But the worst part for me is that I can no longerfeelOrina.
My connection to her is gone, and I’m not sure if it’s due to the wards or to something else.
Something awful.
I need to get inside, and the fucking guard is simply staring at me.
“Move! Now!” I take a menacing step toward him, and he scurries away from the barrier and through a wire mesh gate which opens onto the restricted area housing a small, boxy cabin.
There’s a larger cabin farther back, along with several squat buildings that have clearly been commandeered by officials if the fancy cars parked outside them are anything to go by.
This area was clear of any obstruction when I’d left for the Rim, and now a wire mesh fence has been erected, along with a secondary, four-foot barrier made up of heavy sections of metal and plastic fencing—each piece weighted down but able to be moved if need be.
It’s not a permanent barrier, and if someone wants, they can easily cross it. But it’s a boundary set by authority, a warning that people instinctively heed.
Order vans are parked in the space between, creating a barrier of their own.
The area teems with uniformed men and women—Order operatives doing their duty to keep the peace and explain to the humans trying to enter Dracul why they can’t go home.
What lie has the Order formulated to explain this quarantine? But more than that, I wonder what’s happening beyond the wards.
That guard better be calling his superiors. If not, I’ll cross the damn boundary, rules be damned, and make the call myself.
I need a fucking white wing to get me inside, but Hemlock and I transferred all dealings with the celestial beings to the heads of the Order. Only they can contact the celestials now.
Why is this taking so long?
The guard emerges from the cabin, but he doesn’t look at me; his attention is on the building closer to the wards. I follow his gaze to see a man dressed in a gray suit emerge.
He strides toward us, thick silver hair rippling in the breeze. My heart sinks. Charles Brentwood, one of the heads of the Order, is the asshole who came to Dracul a few weeks ago and acted like a dick when speaking to Orina.
Hemlock and I put him in his place then, and from the smug look on his face now, he’s hoping for a little payback.
The guard I spoke to rushes to open the gate to let him through. Charles drops him a nod, then walks slowly toward me, stopping a couple of feet from the barrier. One of the Order operatives jogs toward me and heaves part of the barrier aside to let me pass.
I slip through and head to Charles.
“Mr. Singer, how can I help you?” Charles says, his tone saccharine and fake.
I decide to take him at his word. “I need to get into Dracul.”
“Ah, don’t we all.”
I don’t have time to play the power game. “No. We don’t all need to get in, butIdo, and if you’ve been given full clearance, then you’ll know why. So you can either throw your weight around now to get payback for the way I spoke to you when you came to Dracul, or you can do your job and get me through those wards.”
He blinks sharply, and his whole demeanor shifts. The superior look on his face melts, and his shoulders sag. “I—uh, I wasn’t trying to…” He swallows hard. “Truth is, we haven’t had any communication from the white wings since the wards went up.”
My scalp tightens. “You have the ability to summon them.”
“We do, but like I said, they have not communicated in return.”
“And that doesn’t strike you as odd?”
“Of course it does. But what can we do but wait?”
“Fine, take me to your base of operations. We can try to contact them again and again until we get a response. And call in all blessed operatives. We’re going to need them.”
