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Chapter 549
The clinic was quiet at three in the morning—the kind of quiet that pressed against your eardrums and made every creak of the floorboards sound like a gunshot. Wilfreda had tried to sleep. She had stretched out on the waiting room couch, closed her eyes, and willed her exhausted body to rest.But the documents kept flashing behind her eyelids.Kevin Freeman. Roger Bacon. The massacre. The Obsidian. And threaded through all of it, like a dark ribbon winding through history, the name O'Connor.She sat up, swung her feet to the floor, and began to pace.Back and forth. Back and forth. Her footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart.Why? she thought. Why are we connected to this? Why have I always been drawn to these stories?She had been a strange child, she knew. While other girls her age played with dolls and dreamed of weddings, Wilfreda had devoured books about ancient curses, forgotten civilizations, and the dark spaces between the
Chapter 548
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
Chapter 547
"He was brilliant," Wilfreda murmured, tracing her finger down a page of Old English. "According to this account, he spoke twelve languages fluently. He corresponded with scholars across Europe, the Middle East, even as far as China.""And yet no one claims him," Gerald said. "No university, no monastery, no patron. He's a ghost in the historical record.""Until he isn't." Wilfreda turned a page, her eyes widening. "Gerald, look at this."She pushed the book toward him. It was a Latin text, the handwriting cramped and uneven—a personal journal, not a formal document. Gerald squinted at the words, his Latin rusty but serviceable.Wilfreda had always been a lover of history, myths and legends, but this was becoming more real than she could have ever imagined.Now, digging up things from as far back as eight hundred years ago was something she never imagined was possible. But here she was being drawn to these stories that it felt like she had been there when it all happened."Die Martis,
Chapter 546
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
Chapter 545
While the family gathered around Steven's bedside and Chance reeled from the revelation about Christopher, Gerald slipped away.He had tried reaching out to Ava earlier but her line wasn't going through and since there was literally no one he could talk to, he decided to occupy himself with something else.Of course, he had never been good at sitting still. Never been good at hovering around sickbeds or murmuring comforting words. He was a man of action, of research, of digging through old records and forgotten files until he found the truth buried beneath layers of lies.The clinic's basement had a small office—a relic from the building's past life as a private investigation firm. Gerald commandeered it without asking, booted up an ancient computer, and began to work.He started with the name Kozlov.It was everywhere in the criminal underworld—a shadowy figure, a ghost, a name whispered in fear. But no one had ever seen him. No one had ever met him. Kozlov was less a person and more
Chapter 544
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
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