Page 111 of Thunder's Reckoning
My father’s, but the eyes weren’t open. I wanted to look closer, to see if he was breathin’, to know if the memory was real or just another nightmare. But before I could, somethin’ else ripped through me—
“Thunder.”
I jerked upright, a shudder tearing through my chest. My hand curled into a fist before my eyes found the doorway.
Mystic didn’t press me. He just handed me the file and kept walkin’, trustin’ I’d follow. That was the thing about brothers, you didn’t always need to ask the questions to know they were there.
But when he turned the corner, when the war room door shut behind me, I stopped.
Stood in the dark hallway, file clutched in my hand, heart still beatin’ too fast.
I dragged a palm down my face, breath shakin’. Sweat had gathered at my temples, cold now that the dream was gone. My shirt stuck damp against my back.
“Get it together,” I muttered under my breath, but the words didn’t stick, because I wasn’t sure I could.
The dream wasn’t just a dream anymore. Too raw. Too real. The smell of smoke still clung to the back of my throat, stingin’ like it had never left. The sound of that gun hittin’ the floor rang in my ears, clear as the tick of the fan overhead.
And my father’s face—slack, empty.
I swallowed hard. My throat felt raw.
There was a hole inside me, carved out the night we ran. A hole I’d kept buried under muscle, under scars, under this patch on my back. But now it was crackin’ wide open.
And I was afraid.
Afraid of what I’d see if the dreams kept comin’.
Afraid of what I’d run from.
Afraid of what I hadn’t.
I shoved the thought down, hard, the way I’d always done. Tucked it behind steel and fury, behind The Devil’s House name, but the fear stayed, heavy as lead in my gut.
I was rememberin’.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
***
I WAS STILLelbow-deep in the files Mystic had brought me when Devil came in the room.
He didn’t speak right off. Just walked over with that deliberate weight of his and dropped an envelope on the table in front of me. The sound of it hittin’ the wood was too loud, too heavy, like a weapon laid down in plain sight.
No markings.
No stamp.
No scent.
Just one word on the front in stiff, clean letters:Zeke.
The sight of it punched my chest. My heart thudded once, caught between the sharp edge of hope and the kind of suspicion that settles deep and don’t ever let go.
I reached for it. Inside was one sheet of paper.
I know where they are. I can help you get them out.
Come alone. Midnight. Old grain mill outside of Hollow Creek.
