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Beep.

A wounded sound tore free.

Unknown.

The message:

Continue?

29

ALARIC

Concrete greeted me before memory did. Cold. Still. The basement never changed. Metal shelves stretched into the darkness, stacked with boxes carrying years of a war I’d never truly left.

House of Ash.

Saint-Clair.

Facility Nine.

The labels blurred together now.

Still, I could see them clearly now.

More clearly than ever before. I wasn’t looking for the Order anymore. I was looking for one man. One scent. One set of footsteps. Rain. Concrete. Cloves. I reached up and pulled the first box free. Dust drifted into the beam of light overhead. Old reports. Missing children. Burner phones. Financial transfers where blood-stained money changed hands with dead men.

I pulled down box after box, flipping open the lid and pulled out stack after stack of files. But every folder and every report said nothing about this Clove man. Bodies filled the files. Names filled the reports. Still…

He didn’t exist.

I sighed, stood and stretched. Empty shelves greeted me… until I stopped.

One box remained.

Smaller than the others.

Unmarked.

Waiting.

I could easily have passed over it.

But I couldn’t.

I strode to the shelf, reached up and caught the corner of the lid, pulling it forward until it fell. I caught it instantly, and carried it back to the desk.

The dust settled. Silence followed. Like the room already knew what was inside. I yanked off the top and reached inside. But it was empty… no. No, it wasn’t. One file sat on the bottom. Thin. Yellowing at the edges. I pulled it free.

Foundling.

That’s all that was written on the tab on the side.

I stared at that word… not written by my hand. Nor was it Rafe’s. So who the fuck was it? I flipped open the front and stared at the faded report.

HOUSE OF ASH.

FOUNDLING INTAKE RECORD.