Chapter 5 — “Lost Things”

  Aya continued running until her lungs burned, sprinting through rain-soaked tunnels thick with the scent of iron. She couldn’t remember how she kept going, only that she stopped when her legs gave out.

  She paused, leaning against the wall, trying to steady her breathing. Her body trembled — not from cold, but from the remnants of the change. She could feel it beneath her skin, the wolf refusing to quiet, the pulse of something ancient in her veins still longing to hunt.

  She pressed her hand to her side and winced as her breath caught. The heat behind her eyes pulsed again, steady and rhythmic like an unfamiliar heartbeat. She paused to compose herself, leaning against a brick wall for several minutes before limping further down the tunnel.

  A maintenance ladder appeared in the distance. If it accessed a service platform, it could be her escape. She climbed carefully, her muscles trembling as she clung to the cold metal beneath her. When she reached the top, she crouched below the grating, listening. The city’s heartbeat echoed above—distant sirens and the steady hum of life, unaware of what lay hidden below.

  She pulled herself up and crawled out through a rusted service grate behind a line of shuttered warehouses. The night smelled of oil, damp concrete, and garbage, comforting in its own dirty way. Above ground, she could almost pretend she was human again. Almost.

  She paused to find her bearings. Lifting her nose to the wind, she took a deep breath. The scent was weak yet familiar, reminding her of the place she had called home.

  The rain had stopped hours earlier; the pavement making a slow hissing sound, as if the cooling blacktop were alive and whispering. Faint wisps of steam rose from the cracks in the street, curling upward like ghostly fingers into the night. She pressed on, her bare feet slipping on the wet asphalt.

  She kept to the alleys, head down, wrapping the torn remains of her sweatshirt around her chest. The soaked hem, thick with blood, was mostly hers. A delivery truck roared past at the end of the street, splashing water across the pavement. She ducked into the shadow of a tenement, her heart pounding. Just one more block, she told herself, and she could finally rest.

  Aya navigated a narrow alley behind an old, abandoned teahouse. She stopped under the wooden fire escape, looking up at the back of the building. It was her home, or what remained of it—a deteriorating shell, half-collapsed and neglected.

  A shiver ran through her, caused not just by the cold but also by the haunting emptiness of the place. With boarded-up windows, stairwell cracks, and the air heavy with mildew and a faint scent of decay, no living person stayed here; only ghosts and those too impoverished or lost to be noticed.

  She climbed the stairs, pausing to look around before pushing the door open with her shoulder. The hinges squealed. Inside, her nest awaited.

  In one corner, an old, crumpled mattress lay under a few scavenged blankets. It was the hideaway's largest piece of furniture. On top of it sat her dark green backpack, which she often used as a pillow. A dented kettle and a milk crate, serving as a table, held a single candle stub in the middle, surrounded by matchbooks stolen from diners.

  She sank to her knees beside it, her hands trembling as she struck a match. The small flame flickered to life, quivering in the humid air.

  She looked down. Her sweatshirt was in tatters, with torn seams and damp, scorched strands of fabric clinging to her. The skin had burned and shredded the edges of her jeans at the thighs; the violence of her return had reduced everything else—shoes, jacket, and dignity—to ash.

  It wasn’t the smooth, normal transition she'd experienced when her body reformed. Her clothing tore apart during the process, literally stripped away by her own power. The transformation from wolf back to human was chaotic and incomplete, something that had never happened before.

  Aya dragged herself to her feet and moved to the makeshift bed. She unzipped her pack and pulled out a clean set of clothes. As she dressed, her pale reflection gazed at her from a shard of mirror leaning against the wall. Bloodied and feral, the eyes she saw in her nightmares stared back; eyes that belonged to him. Her father.

  She sank to the floor and sat for a moment before looking down at her chest. The bullet wound, now a pulsating, half-healed scar just below her collarbone, felt both comforting and burdensome.

  “You’re supposed to heal faster,” she muttered. “Guess that part’s broken, too.”

  She needed rest more than anything. Being shot and losing her clothes was bad enough, but the loss of her mother’s pendant made the night even more difficult to endure. Her head pounded with each beat of her heart, a painful rhythm that made her want to cry out as she felt her humanity being torn away one piece at a time.

  Aya crawled onto the mattress, listening to the rain gently tapping against the boarded-up windows. In the distance, a siren wailed as she pulled her knees to her chest, staring into the flickering flame until her eyes stung.

  Her mother’s wisdom echoed: ‘Even the cherry blossom must wilt to bloom anew.’

  For the first time that night, she felt exhaustion settling deep in her bones. But beneath the grief and pain, something older was awakening. A hunger. A purpose.

  “I’ll find you, DeSilva,” she whispered. “And when I do… you’ll wish you’d never made me.”

  Her throat tightened as she fought off a wave of emotion that threatened to break her resolve. Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them back, knowing that showing weakness would betray all she had endured.

  Aya could feel the weight of her anger pressing down on her chest, raw and unyielding. “No more,” she said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. Whatever he was—vampire, wolf, monster—she would find him, and he would answer for all the things that made her who she was. He had awakened something within her she never knew existed, and it demanded retribution.

  She stared at the candle. The sound of rain and her silent vow lingered in the gentle glow of the flame.

  *   *   *

  Detective Alexi Shard wondered whether her decision to handle the subway case alone was wise.

  Let’s hope I don’t need backup, she thought as she signed out the plastic bag containing the strange pendant from the evidence room. It seemed to pulse as if in protest. The faint static she had felt down in the tunnel had worsened, sending stronger electrical shocks to tingle her fingers.

  Her partner, Detective Martin Lang, might be upset that she wasn’t involving him in this plan, but the person she intended to visit tonight despised strangers arriving unannounced or unfamiliar at his door.

  By the time Alexi pulled her unmarked car to the curb, the streetlights appeared like smudged halos through the evening mist. She turned off the engine and sat for a moment, watching water streak across the windshield as the city’s reflection trembled in the neon lines.

  The shop’s sign was nearly invisible now — the paint had faded, and the words Esoteric Books & Antiquities looked ghostly from time. It appeared abandoned, like the kind of place you might pass a hundred times without realizing it’s open. But it was — it always was.

  A bell jingled as she pushed through the door.

  The air inside smelled of old paper, dust, and the faint metallic scent of age. Shelves lined the walls, sagging under the weight of books and relics that shimmered in the amber light. Strange masks, tarnished goblets, and stacks of symbols she didn’t recognize.

  A quiet voice came from the back room.

  “You shouldn’t be here on duty, Alexi.”

  Elias Harrow stepped out, wiping his hands on a linen cloth. Now in his sixties, he wore his gray hair pulled back, and his wire-rimmed glasses sat low on his nose. Once, he had been her father’s closest friend and one of the few men who believed the inexplicable deserved investigation, not ridicule.

  Alexi managed a faint smile. “I’m not on duty. Just... following a lead.”

  “A lead.” He smirked. “That’s what your father always called it, too.”

  She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the evidence envelope. The pendant’s glow was faint, barely visible through the plastic. Its face bore an engraving of a crescent moon nestled within a paw print, streaked with dried blood.

  Elias’s expression shifted. The humor faded from his eyes.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “At the scene of the subway killings.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he hesitantly took the envelope, as if it might burn him. Elias shook its contents into his palm and turned it over, examining the design's lines and tracing the curves with a trembling finger.

  “You’ve seen it before,” Alexi said.

  “Not this one. But the mark — yes. It’s not common, but it isn’t lost either. The crescent and the wolf's paw. It’s old. Very old. A sigil.”

  “Sigil?”

  “A symbol of mystical or magical power.”

  She frowned. “You mean, like something used in witchcraft?”

  “Well, witches and healers are known to use them,” he replied. “But the figure of the crescent moon is what I find most intriguing.”

  “What’s so special about that symbol?” she asked.

  Elias exhaled, returned the pendant to the clear sleeve, and placed it on the counter. His eyes darted toward the dark corners of the shop as if listening for something unseen.

  “Your father and I once came across an emblem similar to this one. Not identical, but with the same crescent moon image,” he said. “This was in the ’90s. Strange disappearances, bodies found with conflicting signatures, you might say. Samuel believed it was ritual work. Captain Bressler considered it to be something else.”

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  Alexi stepped closer. “And what did you think?”

  Elias hesitated, then looked into her eyes. “I thought it was a warning. One we ignored.”

  “What about the engraving on the back?”

  “Old Latin,” he replied. “Translated, it means ‘I remember you, even among the stars’.”

  He picked up the envelope again and held the pendant closer to the lamplight. The gleam caught the reflection in his glasses.

  “You shouldn’t be the one holding this, Alexi. It’s not meant for our kind.”

  “Our kind?”

  “Mortal,” he whispered. “This symbol signifies an ancient bloodline—old, noble, and some say, cursed. If it shows up again, it could mean trouble ahead.”

  She crossed her arms, concealing the chill that ran up her spine. “Then tell me who it belongs to.”

  He hesitated, as if the name weighed heavily on his tongue.

  “The DeSilvas,” he said. “The blood and the moon. I’d stay away from them.”

  Her heartbeat quickened. “Who are they?”

  “A family that should’ve vanished centuries ago.” He stepped back, already heading toward the shelves. “If Bressler’s still in contact, ask him what he remembers. He’ll lie, of course, but you’ll hear the truth between the silences.”

  Alexi frowned. “You’re not going to help me?”

  “I already have,” he mumbled. “Now take that thing out of my shop.”

  She gazed at him for a moment longer before slipping the envelope into her pocket. As she exited, the door’s bell jingled, and the chilly evening air brushed her face.

  Alexi sat in her parked car, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Outside, the city was alive — muffled honks, passing cars, and the constant heartbeat of New York at midnight.

  She turned the pendant over in her hands, still thinking about Elias’s expression and the tremor in his voice when he said the name DeSilva.

  Her phone buzzed against the dashboard.

  Captain Matt Bressler.

  She hesitated before answering. “Shard.”

  “Did you pay a visit to Harrow tonight?”

  The question came softly, too softly. She looked out the window, half-expecting to see someone watching.

  “Word travels fast,” she said.

  “It does when you talk to men who make their living whispering to shadows.”

  She exhaled. “He was a friend of my father’s. I figured he might help me identify the pendant.”

  “And did he?”

  She hesitated. “He said it’s old. Dangerous. Belongs to a family called DeSilva.”

  There was a pause on the other end — long enough that she thought the call might have dropped. Then Bressler’s voice returned, steady and low.

  “You don’t want to go digging there, Alexi.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because some graves don’t stay quiet. And because your father spent half his career trying to keep people like you from doing exactly that.”

  She frowned, her pulse quickening. “People like me?”

  “Curious. Brave. Stubborn as hell.”

  There was a fatherly quality in his tone, but an element heavier beneath it — regret, maybe, or fear.

  “You worked with him,” she said. “And with Harrow.”

  “We looked into things we couldn’t include in reports,” Bressler replied. “Bodies that didn’t bleed properly. Tracks that didn’t match any known animal. Half the time, it was nothing at all. The other half…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “The other half was what?” she pressed.

  “Unfinished business,” he said. “And you’d do well to leave it that way.”

  She tightened her grip on the phone. “You think this subway case is connected, don’t you?”

  “I think you need to do your job, by the book. Be professional. Be discreet. No ghost stories, no symbols, no family names that belong in dust.”

  Alexi looked out at the rain-slicked street, her reflection ghosted in the window — her father’s eyes staring back.

  “If there’s something you’re not telling me,” she said, “I’ll find out.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bressler murmured. “Good night, Detective.”

  The line went dead.

  Alexi lowered the phone and stared at the windshield. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red, the reflections rippling like old memories.

  She sat there for a long moment, the silence heavy around her. Then she started the car, the wipers sweeping away the moisture, but not the chill that had settled in her chest.

  *   *   *

  Aya shifted beneath the thin blanket, her breath catching in quick gasps as sleep came in uneven waves. Somewhere inside the walls, pipes clanged like distant bells. The candle she’d forgotten to snuff flickered low, its flame tunneling down into its own wax. She turned once more—and the city faded away.

  Her mind drifted back to Andalusia, in southern Spain, and to the winter of 1278 CE.

  Aya was a young girl again, standing barefoot on the cool stones of the Sanctuary of the Crescent Veil’s courtyard. Surrounded by massive circular walls inscribed with carvings of lunar sigils and ancient prayers, it was their refuge, far from warring courts and mortal empires—a secluded monastery built of pale limestone and moon-painted wood.

  As she walked among tall columns decorated with moon symbols, silk banners swayed overhead in the inland breeze, carrying the sweet scents of cedar and myrrh. Lanterns burned blue with salt flames, casting a soft glow over the community's occupants—mystics, healers, and wanderers who paid homage to no god but the balance between light and shadow. In the growing darkness, they moved silently and purposefully amidst the wooden structures that lined the wall’s perimeter.

  The ground began to vibrate beneath Aya’s feet as she made her way toward the monastery’s heart — a large marble basin at the center of the courtyard, gathering moonlight. Legend held that below its glittering surface lay a silence deeper than sleep and truths invisible to mortal eyes.

  Her mother stood beside the basin, its silver surface shimmering as her fingertips dipped into the glowing liquid and stirred it. Dressed in unadorned robes and with her dark hair loosely swept back over her shoulders, Sachi Lin presented a picture of silent composure. The moon rose bright and white above the horizon as Aya moved to stand beside her mother. Shadows spread across the courtyard like ink seeping over stones as the first bell began to ring.

  “Mama?” she said, glancing at her mother.

  “Can you hear her?” Sachi asked, gazing upward.

  Aya closed her eyes. Beneath the chirping insects and rustling leaves, she heard it: a slow, low hum that seemed to come from the earth itself.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “It sounds like a drum.”

  Sachi smiled. “It’s the heart of the moon. When it beats, you must listen.”

  They stood together, holding hands, eyes closed. The heartbeat grew stronger, its rhythmic pulse resembling feathers fluttering in the air, both heavy and light as it enveloped them. Then, like a bird’s gentle retreat, it grew quieter until silence once again prevailed.

  The sound of fists pounding on the wooden gates shattered the quiet.

  Aya followed her mother’s gaze as she turned to look toward the monastery’s front entrance. The pulse of pure energy, ancient and cold, pressed against the Wardens guarding the doorway. Her eyes locked on the source of the heavy strikes as she backed away from the basin.

  Before she could turn to run, Sachi grasped her wrist. “Aya,” she said, “stay close to me.”

  Distant shouts pierced the calm as the monastery bells rang the alarm. Shadows appeared in the mist near the compound's outer perimeter: dark figures carrying lanterns and shining red blades, moving like hunters.

  Aya clung to her mother’s robe, feeling the weight of the heavy stillness.

  The Wardens trembled once — and then shattered.

  The gate burst inward, its iron hinges screaming as the first monk who tried to bar it fell, his blood splashing bright against the stone.

  Seven figures entered the courtyard. They stood in black traveling coats lined with crimson silk. Their armor was lightweight, more for ceremony than protection, secured with silver clasps engraved with thorn patterns. In the torchlight, their eyes glowed red; their skin was as pale as candle wax.

  Out of the group, a tall figure appeared. His voice was smooth and cultured, but cold like a winter wind. His bow was shallow, a mocking imitation of respect.

  “Lady Lin, last of the Lunar Seers of the East, we’ve come for what is ours. The Relic. Give it to us, and we’ll leave you and your child in peace.”

  Sachi raised her hand, drawing circles in the air. “There is no relic here.”

  The leader drew his blade, and the others followed.

  “Liar.” He smiled, revealing the barest hint of fangs. “That is not what my lord believes.”

  “Aya, stay behind me,” she shouted. “Don’t move.”

  Sachi knelt and pressed her palms to the ground. The stones flared with light. White symbols spread outward like frost, forming a glowing circle around the courtyard.

  The vampires hissed in hesitation. One stepped forward and burst into flames, his body dissolving instantly, leaving only a shadowy smear. The others retreated, snarling. Two split left and two right, faster than the eye could perceive, claws slashing. Sparks flew as their strikes hit invisible barriers. The sanctuary echoed with the sounds of talons scraping stone and the crackling of the burning Wardens.

  “Old tricks,” the leader chuckled, waiting beyond the barrier. “Let’s see how long the light holds.”

  Aya could only watch helplessly as the strain caused Sachi’s breath to grow heavier. Her hands trembled. Blood dripped from her wrist where the sigils burned against her skin. They flickered, faltering as her mother’s strength waned.

  And then she saw him. Near the archway, a figure dressed in black stood tall and still, his face hidden in the darkness. When the moonlight touched him, his flesh shone as white as bone. His eyes were icy. He hadn’t moved, not even to protect his followers. When their ashes drifted toward him, he brushed them aside like dust from a sleeve.

  Sachi saw him and froze. “He found us,” she whispered.

  Aya’s heart pounded.

  Blood trickled from Sachi’s nose. The surrounding light dimmed. The leader lunged.

  Sachi shouted a word that split the air, and the circle exploded with brilliance. Two vampires vanished in ash; the rest screamed, stumbling back. Sachi staggered, catching herself with one hand.

  “Aya,” she gasped, reaching for her daughter. “Take this!”

  Sachi slipped the medallion over her head and gently placed it around her daughter’s neck. The Pendant of the Silver Vein, a tear-shaped charm engraved with a crescent moon above a wolf’s paw; veins of light ran through the metal like living blood.

  “This will protect you, hide you from them,” Sachi whispered. “Never take it off. It will conceal who you are. Remember the moonlight, little one. It will lead you home.”

  “Mother—”

  Sachi shook her head. “Go. Run!”

  The leader moved once more, quicker than the eye could follow. His blade cut through the remains of the Wardens, hitting Sachi in the chest. She dropped to her knees, gasping for breath.

  Something shattered inside Aya. The world narrowed to her mother’s face and the smell of blood. She screamed. It wasn’t a word—more a sound of pure instinct and rage. The pendant at her throat pulsed once, then burst into light as the air shuddered around her.

  The transformation hit like fire as her bones twisted, and breath tore in half. Her skin burned. And in her place rose something neither girl nor wolf but both—a shape of muscle and blackened fur with silver streaks, eyes blazing gold.

  The leader lifted his sword, prepared to finish Sachi once and for all. Before he could strike, Aya lunged forward. The impact hurled him backward into the column by the gate. Stone cracked beneath him. She attacked again, a snarl tearing through the air. His hand came away smeared with his own blood, oozing black.

  A second vampire moved in to attack. She roared, scratching his chest. He staggered but refused to fall. His other fist shot up, impacting her face; the blow sent her tumbling across the courtyard.

  Sachi’s voice broke through the noise. “Aya—stop!”

  But the wolf didn’t stop. She charged at the four black coats that were still standing.

  Before Aya could strike, Sachi’s power erupted one last time. She slammed both palms onto the ground. The circle pulsed as the sigils on the walls ignited, bathing the entire area in white light. The next moments were a blur of sound, fire, screams, and the metallic taste of blood.

  When the brilliance faded, the remaining vampire’s cinders lay scattered over the courtyard. Smoke curled from the broken stones. Sachi knelt in the center, her robes scorched, her body trembling.

  The dark figure at the gate stood and watched the coven die before him, his cloak brushing the ashes. As his gaze met Aya’s gold and feral eyes, he smiled.

  Aya shifted back into human form, gasping, covered in what remained of the vampire’s dust. She stumbled to her mother’s side.

  Sachi touched her cheek, her body shaking. “Live,” she whispered. “Hide.” Her palm pressed the still-glowing pendant against Aya’s chest. “Never forget the light. Or the man who cast the shadow.”

  Aya looked past her toward the archway. For just an instant, through the haze, she saw him standing there again, his coat torn, his expression unreadable. He lifted a palm in salute, then vanished within the smoke.

  When silence came, the sanctuary was gone. Sachi’s body went limp as she sank to the ground, unmoving, her outstretched arm a silent plea towards Aya, her eyes wide and unseeing. The circle was no longer there, replaced by scorched symbols.

  Aya tried to blink back the tears. “Mother, wake up,” she whispered, shaking her shoulder. But the warmth was fading. She broke down in sobs as she lay across her mother’s body.

  Aya’s cries shattered the morning silence as dawn’s first light appeared over the ruins. Monks from the nearby monastery arrived, whispering prayers as they gathered her up and took her to their abbey.

  “Hide her before the Pale Duke returns,” one said. “She’s been touched by the moon.”

  Then the dream dissolved.

  Aya jolted awake in her dark room, gasping. Sweat drenched her skin; her heartbeat was loud in her ears. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—stone floor or mattress, ash or rain. Her hands went to her throat. No chain. No pendant.

  Her breath caught. She pressed her palms over her eyes, shaking. The memories wouldn’t fade—the pale man’s face, her mother’s last words, the sound of her own scream.

  A sob tore through her before she could stop it. She doubled over, clutching her knees.

  “Mother,” she whispered into the shadows. “I couldn’t save you.”

  When she looked up, the city was quiet. Only the wind rustled against the building’s facade.

  The dark figure at the gate still haunted the edge of her memory—those colorless eyes, the stillness, the faint smile before he vanished.

  Aya clenched her fists until her nails dug into her palms. “I’ll find you,” she murmured, trembling. “All of you.”

  The storm outside deepened, and in its rhythm, she could almost hear it again—the slow heartbeat of the moon.