The sun felt wrong.
Too bright. Too warm. Too normal.
Jace squinted against it as they emerged from the basement of the barbershop, blinking like prisoners seeing daylight for the first time. His chest still burned from the creature's claws, every breath scraping his lungs. The gauze Lena had slapped on him was already soaked red.
He'd fought worse in his dreams.
But that one? That thing that wore his face?
That was different.
That was personal.
Reya helped him into the alleyway behind the shop, her arm around his waist, her touch careful—but firm. For someone so ethereal-looking, she was strong. Surprisingly strong.
"You're lucky," she murmured. "A few inches deeper and that thing would've cored you like a mango."
"Sexy," Jace muttered.
She smirked, brushing a stray lock of white hair from her cheek. "I'm not your nurse, you know. If you bleed out, I'm not giving you mouth-to-mouth."
Jace gave a tired grin. "That's disappointing."
"You'll live." But she didn't let go of him.
Lena emerged last, checking the alley before motioning them forward. Her coat was torn down the sleeve, blood splattered across her neck, and a fresh cut glistened just above her eyebrow. She looked tired. Fierce. Alive.
Merrik didn't come with them.
He'd stayed in the catacombs, muttering about "unfinished conversations" and "echoes that weren't done singing." They didn't argue. Frankly, Jace was glad to leave the lunatic behind.
They made it back to Reya's flat—a cramped, high-ceilinged apartment perched above an old fish market in the Dockside District. It smelled like old incense, rain-soaked linen, and citrus peels. It was oddly comforting.
Jace collapsed onto the couch the second they stepped inside. The moment his head hit the cushion, the pain caught up.
He groaned, covering his face with one arm.
Lena stood near the window, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a spark of fire from her fingertip. The flame hissed. She didn't say anything, just watched the street below like she expected the world to break open again at any moment.
Reya pulled off her coat, revealing the sheer tank she wore beneath. Sweat clung to her collarbone, her skin flushed from the fight, the high of it not quite worn off yet.
"You should clean that wound," she said softly, walking over to Jace.
He cracked one eye open. "You volunteering?"
She raised a brow. "You want me to pour antiseptic on an open gash?"
"Only if you whisper sweet nothings while you do it."
Reya smiled.
Then poured the antiseptic.
Jace nearly bit through his own lip.
"You're a goddamn sadist," he hissed.
"Better than dying of infection."
Her hands moved slowly, cleaning the wound, wrapping it tight, then pressing her fingers gently to the center. She didn't chant. Didn't whisper magic. But warmth seeped into his skin. Calming. Heavy. Like slipping into a dream.
"I'm not a healer," she murmured. "But… I can help you sleep."
"Don't think I've done that properly in years."
"Then tonight's a good night to start."
He didn't say anything. Just watched her.
She was beautiful—but in a dangerous way. Like a lullaby sung with a knife pressed to your throat.
"What were you, before all this?" he asked quietly.
She looked at him. Her eyes shimmered in the dim light.
"Lost," she said. "Same as you."
—
The dream came anyway.
A field of glass. An ocean of hands. Screams pressed into the wind like a language without mercy.
And in the center—Her.
The first woman.
Tall. Hooded. Skin like obsidian laced with gold veins. Eyes like galaxies being torn in half. She stood over a pit of bones and whispered Jace's name—not like a call, but like a claim.
"You bleed, little fang," she whispered. "Soon you'll hunger."
He woke up soaked in sweat, shirt clinging to his chest, breath ragged. Reya was asleep on the floor beside the couch, curled like a cat. Lena was gone.
He sat up, wincing.
The city was silent.
Too silent.
Jace stood slowly, wandered to the window. He expected the usual noise—buses, shouting, lovers arguing over takeout. But instead… nothing.
Not even a car horn.
Then he saw them.
Figures in black suits. All of them identical. Standing perfectly still across the street. No weapons. No movement.
Just watching.
Their faces weren't faces. Just masks—smooth, silver, featureless.
One of them raised a hand and waved.
Chill crawled down his spine.
Reya stirred behind him. "What is it?"
He didn't look away.
"We're not the only ones paying attention to the cracks," he said.
"They're here for you."
"No," Jace murmured. "They're here for what's inside me."