Page 143 of Dark Night of the Soul

But we’d have ghosts at our back. And she’d have me beside her.

And the Knights—the Knights would learn what came for men who violated something sacred.

Chapter 40 | Anna

I never thought leaving Istanbul would be difficult, but it was. The view of the sea from that balcony. The rickety café table where we’d sat like normal people for a few stolen hours. I’d miss them both.

But Munich was waiting. And this one felt different. Heavier. Like the air before a storm.

The midnight flight was quiet. Cabin lights low, giving everything an amber glow. I watched him across the aisle, that familiar watchful stillness. Last night felt both immediate and distant, like something that happened in a different life.

But his hand had been on mine this morning. And that was enough.

When we landed, I slung my duffel over my shoulder—everything I owned fit in one bag now—and followed him across the tarmac. Street lamps gave everything a shimmery glow.

Inside, fluorescent lights bleached the terminal the same sterile color. Tile, steel, tired faces drifting past. I was still in travel mode. Joints stiff. Mind fuzzy.

Kincade’s gaze never stopped moving. Exits. Doorways. Reflections in glass. Empty seating areas. Our footsteps echoed too loud in a space built for crowds.

We cleared customs without incident. No second glances. We were the ghosts.

He didn’t break stride heading for the exit as a man joined us. Keeping pace like he belonged there. Never looked my way.

My pulse kicked up. Every instinct screamed threat.

Then the stranger said softly, “This way.”

Kincade’s hand found my elbow. Steady pressure. When I met his gaze, something in it told me everything was fine.

I followed.

The stranger angled toward a side exit I hadn’t noticed—one of those corridors airports pretend don’t exist. The farther we got from the terminal, the quieter it became.

“You didn’t check luggage,” he said. “Good.”

German accent. Faint but there.

It had to be someone from the Quiet Watch. Had to be. One of Kincade’s men, pulling us into Munich’s shadows before anyone noticed we’d arrived.

And then I thought of my hair. White. Unmistakable. A walking billboard that screamed, “look at me!”

Yeah. That needed to change. Soon.

I shot Kincade a look. He watched the man’s back, expression unreadable. Whatever silent communication was happening between them didn’t include doubt.

Outside, the night air hit me, cold and sharp. The parking structure smelled like motor oil and petrichor, like it had recently rained. Somewhere in the distance, a plane taxied toward the runway.

The stranger led us to an older sedan. Unremarkable. Forgettable. He unlocked the doors with a remote and opened the rear passenger door, positioning himself so the door blocked the line of sight from the ramp.

Deliberate. Practiced.

I slid into the backseat. Kincade took the front passenger seat like this was the most natural thing in the world.

The stranger closed my door and rounded to the driver’s side.

I had many questions.

He started the car, pulled onto the road, and began weaving his way from the airport to the main highway.