Steven didn't look back. He plunged into the darkness of the tunnel, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone, his lungs burning, his vision swimming. The walls seemed to twist and shift around him, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.Behind him, he heard Vane's footsteps—not pursuing, not yet. Vane was still screaming, still clutching his wounded arm. The iron was doing something to him, something that slowed him down.Steven thanked whatever god might be listening for that small mercy.The tunnel branched. Left or right? He didn't know. He chose left, then right again, then ducked through a narrow archway that seemed to appear out of nowhere. The stone scraped his shoulders, his back, his already-raw wrists."Father!"Chance's voice again—closer now, but still distant. Steven tried to call back, but his throat was too dry, his breath too shallow. All that came out was a rasping wheeze.He kept running.***In the library passage, Chance froze.He had heard something—a scream,

Wilfreda's hand flew to her mouth. "The Children's Massacre. It's real. I thought it was a legend.""When did this happen?" Flynn asked, his voice rough."Centuries ago," Wilfreda said. "Twelve hundred years, maybe more. The story goes that a warlord in the Caucasus mountains killed a hundred children in a single night to awaken an ancient power. But I never believed it. I thought it was a fable told to frighten apprentices.""It wasn't a fable," Harry said, his white eyes filling with tears. "I can still hear them screaming. They're still screaming. Their ghosts are trapped inside the Obsidian. All of them. Every soul the darkness has ever consumed. They're still there. Still aware. Still suffering."Chance reached out and took Harry's hand. "How do we free them?"Harry's convulsions returned, violent and uncontrolled. Wilfreda held him down, shouting for help. Thorne came running from Room Four, a syringe in his hand."Hold him still!" Thorne commanded.Chance and Flynn pinned Harry

Gerald found Chance in the hallway outside Steven's room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed. He looked like a man who had been crying and was trying very hard to pretend he hadn't."You look like hell," Gerald said."Thanks.""I mean it. When's the last time you slept?"Chance shrugged. "I don't remember."Gerald nodded toward the waiting room. "Come with me. I need to show you something."Chance hesitated, glancing at Steven's closed door. "I should stay with him—""He's stable. Brenda's with him. And this can't wait."They walked to the waiting room, where Harry was still unconscious on the couch, wrapped in blankets. Wilfreda sat beside him, her good hand resting on his forehead. Susan was on her phone in the corner, speaking in low, urgent tones.Gerald spread his research across the coffee table. "Kozlov isn't a name. It's a title. A legacy."Chance sat down heavily, rubbing his eyes. "What do you mean?""I mean the man who's b

They found one more document—a letter from Roger Bacon to an unknown recipient, written a year after the massacre.The same stories were read to them while they were still growing up, the same stories that made you wonder how on earth could any of these have happened?These same stories were beginning to make more sense. But one thing that neither of them had been able to understand was how it all connected to the O' Connors.Kozlov had come particularly for them as the whole thing was beginning to appear but one thing that still hadn't made much sense was why and how someone from centuries ago could still be alive and walking among them till this very day."I have received word from my former student, Kevin Freeman," Bacon wrote. "He is not the man I knew. Something has happened to him—something terrible. He speaks of vengeance, of power, of a black stone that will give him the strength to resurrect the dead. I tried to warn him. I told him that some doors should never be opened. He

The room was dark—Janelle had drawn the curtains hours ago, trying to block out the wrongness of the sky—but sleep wouldn't come.Beside her, Priya stirred. "Janelle? Are you awake?""Yeah.""Can't sleep either?"Janelle turned her head on the pillow. In the dim light filtering through the curtains, she could just make out Priya's profile—the curve of her cheek, the tangle of her dark hair."How do you do it?" Janelle asked. "How do you just... keep going? After everything?"Priya was quiet for a moment. "I don't know that I am," she admitted. "I'm just putting one foot in front of the other and hoping I don't trip.""That's not comforting.""It wasn't meant to be." Priya rolled onto her side, facing Janelle. "The truth is, I'm scared. I've been scared since this whole thing started. Christopher was—" She stopped, her voice catching. "He was awful no doubt. But he didn't deserve what happened to him."Janelle reached across the small space between their beds and took Priya's hand. "We