Shadows of the Past
The travel from Moonbeam Coffeehouse, downtown district to Vivian’s modest apartment, evening consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
# Shadows of the Past
The apartment’s heating unit clicked on, a hum that did nothing to thaw the cold settling between them.
Vivian stood with her back to the kitchen counter, fingers gripping the edge until her knuckles blanched. Across the room, Marcus remained motionless by the window, his silhouette cutting against the dim city glow. The amber in his eyes had cooled to a burnished gold, but the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased.
“You need to start from the beginning,” she said. “Not the sanitized version. The real one.”
Marcus turned from the window, and for a moment, he looked older than his years. The shadows under his eyes caught the lamplight. “The Pembertons aren’t a normal crime family. Flynn Pemberton built his empire on information—on knowing what others would kill to hide. He collects secrets like currency.”
“What does that have to do with Noah?”
“Everything.” Marcus moved toward the worn couch, but didn’t sit. He stood behind it, hands resting on the back, a barrier between them. “Flynn learned about werewolves twenty years ago. He discovered that the Blackwood line carries the gene—that every firstborn male in my family shifts at puberty. He’s been trying to acquire that genetic line ever since.”
Vivian’s throat tightened. “Acquire.”
“Breed it. Control it. Weaponize it.” Marcus’s voice dropped, roughened by something she couldn’t name. “He’s had scientists on payroll for a decade trying to isolate the trigger. He wants an army of shifters under his command.”
The room felt smaller. Vivian counted the seconds on the microwave clock—fourteen seconds of silence that stretched like hours. “And Cole?”
“Flynn’s son. His executioner.” Marcus’s jaw worked, but he caught himself. “Cole handles the acquisitions his father deems too delicate for public hands. He’s been circling my company for three years. I thought it was corporate espionage. Territorial disputes.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “I was looking at the wrong threat vector.”
From the hallway, a soft padding sound. Both adults froze.
Noah stood at the entrance to the living room, rubbing his eyes with one small fist. His dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and the growling bear on his pajama shirt seemed almost ironic tonight.
“Mom? I heard voices.”
Vivian crossed to him in three quick strides, kneeling to meet his gaze. “Go back to bed, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.”
Noah’s eyes—those unsettling, beautiful eyes—flicked to Marcus. For a long moment, neither male spoke. Then Noah tilted his head, a gesture so familiar it made Vivian’s chest ache.
“You’re the man from the parking lot,” Noah said. “The one who scared the bad men.”
Marcus dropped to one knee, bringing himself to Noah’s level. “I’m Marcus. I’m… an old friend of your mother’s.”
Noah studied him with the unsettling directness children possess. “Your eyes were different earlier. They were gold.”
“Sometimes they change when I’m worried.”
“Like mine do?”
Vivian’s breath caught. She hadn’t told Noah about his eyes. Hadn’t known how to explain something she barely understood herself.
Marcus’s voice softened. “Exactly like yours, buddy.”
Noah processed this with the calm acceptance only children can muster for the inexplicable. “Okay.” He turned to Vivian. “Can I have water first?”
“Yes.” She rose on unsteady legs. “I’ll bring it to you.”
After Noah shuffled back to his room, Vivian stood in the hallway, watching the closed door. “He doesn’t understand what he is. What he’ll become.”
“Eight more years until his first shift,” Marcus said from behind her. “That’s time we can use.”
“We?”
He was close enough that she could smell his cologne—cedar and something darker, like rain on asphalt. “I’ve been running from the Pembertons for six years, Vivian. I thought if I kept my distance, kept my affairs clean, they’d lose interest. But they found you. They found Noah.” His voice caught on the boy’s name. “That means Flynn already knows about him. Knows he’s mine.”
“How? I never told anyone. The adoption was sealed—”
“Research. Blood samples from hospital records. Genetic markers.” Marcus’s hand came up, stopping short of her shoulder. “Flynn has informants in every major medical database in the country. If Noah had a routine blood draw at birth, if there was any record of his DNA matching Blackwood markers…”
Vivian’s stomach turned. “He’s eight years old. He’s had checkups. Vaccinations.”
“Then they know.”
The weight of those two words pressed down on her, threatening to crush the fragile composure she’d maintained for years as a single mother. “What do we do?”
“We relocate. Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.” Marcus pulled out his phone, fingers moving across the screen. “I have safe houses in four states. Properties that can’t be traced to me directly. Dorian’s already prepping the first location.”
“Dorian?”
“My security chief. He’s been with me for twelve years. I trust him with my life.” Marcus paused. “And with yours, if you’ll let me.”
The doorbell rang.
Vivian’s heart slammed against her ribs. Marcus was already moving, positioning himself between her and the entrance, his body coiled with readiness.
“Check your phone,” he said quietly. “The security app.”
She pulled up the camera feed on her phone. Dorian stood on the doorstep, a lean man in his forties with graying temples and the watchful stillness of someone accustomed to violence. His hand was raised to ring again, but his eyes were scanning the street behind him.
“It’s him,” Vivian said. “Your man.”
Marcus nodded. “Let him in.”
She unlocked the door, and Dorian slipped inside with practiced efficiency. He carried a small black case and had a coil of wire hanging from his jacket pocket.
“Mr. Blackwood.” Dorian’s voice was low, controlled. “We have a problem.”
“Report.”
“Found a tracker on Mrs. Montclair’s vehicle. Magnetic attachment, military-grade. Been there at least three days based on the corrosion.” Dorian set the case on the coffee table and opened it, revealing a device no larger than a watch battery, its surface scarred with micro-circuitry. “This isn’t standard surveillance gear. This is Pemberton tech.”
Marcus studied the device without touching it. “Signal range?”
“Two miles, tops. Means someone’s been monitoring from within the neighborhood. They’ve been watching the comings and goings, cataloging routines.” Dorian’s expression hardened. “They know the boy’s schedule. School drop-off. Grocery runs. Everything.”
Vivian’s hand flew to her mouth. “He’s been sleeping. I have to—”
“He’s safe,” Marcus interrupted. “They won’t strike at night. Too risky, too many variables. Flynn likes clean operations. He’ll wait for an opportunity with minimal exposure.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve studied him for six years.” Marcus turned to Dorian. “Status on the extraction team?”
“ETA forty-five minutes. I’ve got two vehicles waiting in the industrial district, untraceable plates. Route A takes us through the back roads to the airstrip. Route B is ground transport only if we need to go dark.”
“Good.” Marcus’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, and his expression went cold. “He’s here.”
“Who?” Vivian asked.
“Cole Pemberton.” Marcus turned the phone toward her. On the screen, a message from an unknown number: *Hello, Uncle. I hope you’re enjoying the reunion.*
“That’s impossible,” Vivian breathed. “How did he get your number?”
“He didn’t. He got Dorian’s.” Marcus looked at his security chief. “They’ve been tracking you too.”
Dorian’s face went ashen. “I swept for tails. Triple-checked every—”
“They’re better than you.” Marcus’s tone held no accusation, only grim acknowledgment. “Flynn has former intelligence operatives on his payroll. People who’ve run black sites in three countries. We’re not dealing with amateurs.”
Vivian’s legs gave out. She sank onto the arm of the couch, staring at the phone screen, at those mocking words. “I can’t lose him. I can’t lose my son.”
“You won’t.” Marcus’s hand found her shoulder, firm and grounding. “But we need to move now. Not in forty-five minutes. Now.”
Noah appeared in the hallway again, clutching his water cup. “Mom? Is something wrong?”
The question hung in the air, pure and innocent, carrying the weight of everything Vivian had tried to shield her son from. She opened her mouth to lie, to offer reassurances she didn’t believe.
Marcus beat her to it.
“Noah, I need you to be brave for your mom.” He crouched down, meeting the boy at eye level. “Some bad people want to hurt us, so we’re going on an adventure. Right now. You’ll need to grab your backpack and your favorite things, but only what fits in one bag. Can you do that?”
Noah looked at his mother, seeking confirmation. Vivian nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Okay.” Noah set down his water cup with exaggerated care. “Can I bring my dinosaur?”
“The big one or the little one?”
“The green one. He’s my protector.”
“Then he’s coming with us.” Marcus stood, meeting Vivian’s gaze. “Pack light. Essentials only. Five minutes.”
She moved on autopilot, entering Noah’s room and pulling his duffel bag from the closet. Clothes. Toothbrush. The worn copy of *Where the Wild Things Are* they read every night. His inhaler from the bedside table. Her hands were steady even as her mind raced, compartmentalizing terror into action.
From the living room, she heard Dorian’s low voice. “Mr. Blackwood, there’s something else.”
“Tell me.”
The pause stretched. Vivian paused, straining to hear.
“When I swept the building perimeter, I found signs of forced entry in the basement storage unit. Someone’s been here. Likely multiple times over the past week. They’ve probably already got eyes on the apartment.”
“Then we’re out of time.” Marcus’s footsteps crossed the room. “Dorian, I need you to—”
The lights went out.
Not the flicker of a blown fuse. A complete blackout, plunging the apartment into darkness so absolute that Vivian couldn’t see her own hands. Noah’s gasp cut through the silence, followed by his small body colliding with her legs.
“Mommy.”
“I’m here. I’ve got you.” She scooped him up, her arms trembling. “Marcus?”
“I’m here.” His voice came from the living room, calm but sharp. “Dorian, status.”
“Breaker’s in the basement. Someone cut it manually.” A rustle of movement, the click of a magazine sliding into place. “I’m going down to reset it.”
“No. That’s what they want. They’re herding us.”
The streetlight outside cast a dim orange glow through the windows—enough to make out shapes, silhouettes. Vivian saw Marcus cross to the window, peer through the blinds.
“Two vehicles parked on the corner. Black sedans. Rental plates.” He turned back. “They’re not waiting for morning.”
Dorian moved to the apartment’s rear exit, a reinforced door leading to the fire escape. “I can create a diversion. Draw their attention while you take Mrs. Montclair and the boy through the alley.”
“And then what? You’re one man against—”
“I’m expendable.” Dorian’s voice held no self-pity. “You’re not. Neither is the kid.”
“No.” Vivian’s voice cut through the darkness, sharper than she intended. “Nobody’s dying tonight. We do this together, or we don’t do it at all.”
Marcus stared at her. In the dim light, she saw something shift in his expression—surprise, maybe, or recognition. “You sound like his mother.”
“I am his mother. Which means I decide how this ends.” She set Noah down, keeping one hand on his shoulder. “You said you have properties. Safe houses. Get us to one. Keep us alive. That’s all I’m asking.”
A beat of silence. Then Marcus nodded.
“Alright.” He pulled out his phone, shielding the screen with his hand. “Dorian, call off the extraction team. We’re changing the plan.”
“What’s the new plan?” Dorian asked.
Marcus’s eyes met Vivian’s in the gloom. “We run. We hide. And then we end this.”
His phone buzzed again. Another message.
Vivian leaned over, reading the text over his shoulder:
*The boy has his father’s eyes. Flynn wants to see that up close.*
Marcus’s grip on the phone tightened until the screen flickered. “Dorian. The tracker you found. Where exactly was it placed?”
“Under the rear bumper. Driver’s side.”
“Then they know this vehicle. They’ve been tracking her movements for days.” Marcus turned to Vivian. “We can’t use your car. We can’t use anything they’ve tagged.”
“The bus station is six blocks away,” Vivian said. “Night schedule runs until midnight.”
“Too public. Too many choke points.”
“The subway? There’s an entrance at the corner of Pine and Seventh.”
Marcus considered it. “Also public. Also monitored.”
Dorian cleared his throat. “Sir, there’s an alternative. My personal vehicle—they haven’t seen it. I parked it two streets over when I made approach.”
“That puts us on foot for three blocks.”
“Better than ground zero.”
Marcus’s phone buzzed a third time. He didn’t look at it. “Noah.” His voice softened. “Can you be very, very quiet for the next few minutes?”
The boy nodded, his small hand finding his mother’s.
“Good.” Marcus straightened, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. “Dorian, take point. I’ll cover the rear.” He looked at Vivian. “Stay behind me. If I tell you to run, you run. You don’t look back. You don’t stop until you’re safe.”
“And you?”
His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’ll find you.”
The back door opened onto the fire escape, the metal grate groaning under their weight. Below, the alley stretched into darkness, a narrow corridor between buildings. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A car engine turned over.
And in Vivian’s arms, Noah began to shake.
“Mom,” he whispered, his voice tiny. “My eyes are doing the thing again.”
She looked down. In the darkness, his irises were flickering gold—the same impossible color she’d seen in Marcus’s gaze. A genetic inheritance. A burden he didn’t ask for.
“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured, pressing a kiss to his hair. “It’s okay.”
Behind them, Marcus’s phone clattered to the fire escape floor. The screen had cracked, but the message was still visible:
*Six hours, Marcus. Then we take what’s ours.*
Dorian picked up the device, examined it, then reached into his jacket and pulled out the tracking bug. In the dim light, its tiny red light pulsed like a heartbeat.
“Mr. Blackwood,” he said, holding up the bug with a grim face, “it’s a high-tech Pemberton model. They’ve already clocked this address. We have six hours, maybe less.”