18. The Blood Symphony

The silence that followed Dante’s death was more terrifying than the noise of the battle.

    The Ghost Wolves, sensing the loss of their financier and the surge of pure Alpha energy I had just released, began to retreat into the shadows of the lab. They were creatures of instinct, and their instinct told them that the “human” on the balcony was no longer prey.

    I climbed down the ladder, my legs shaking so violently I nearly fell. The lab was a graveyard of broken glass, twisted metal, and the cooling mist of liquid nitrogen. In the center of the room, the primary vat had been shattered, leaking white fog across the floor like a ghost.

    Girard stood amidst the fog. He had shifted back to his human form, but he looked like he had walked through hell. He was covered in a mixture of his own crimson blood and the thick, purple sludge of the Ghost Alpha. His eyes were no longer white, but they remained a dark, molten amber that wouldn’t settle.

    At his feet lay the thing that had been my father.

    Marcel Monet’s chest was crushed, his gray skin split open to reveal the blackened, serum-clogged machinery of his heart. The violet glow in his eyes was flickering, dying out like a spent candle. He looked up at me as I approached, and for a fleeting second, the madness receded.

    “Arielle…” he gasped, the sound a wet, rattling croak. “I… I did it for the family. To make us… untouchable. To make sure no one could ever trade you again.”

    “You did it for yourself, Dad,” I said, stopping a few feet away. I looked at the man who had raised me in a world of silk and shadow, and I felt a profound, hollow sadness. “You turned your daughter into a weapon and your world into a slaughterhouse. There is no family left. Just the ruins of your ambition.”

    Marcel reached out a trembling, gray hand, his fingers stained with the very poison he had created. “The vial… in the inner pocket. The cure… or the end. I couldn’t… finish the formula… without the bridge. You decide, Luna.”

    His hand fell limp. The last of the purple light vanished from his eyes, leaving behind the cold, empty gaze of a man who had died long before his heart stopped beating.

    I reached into the pocket of his tattered white coat and pulled out a small glass vial. It was filled with a clear, shimmering liquid—the reverse-agent Marcel had developed as a fail-safe in case the serum turned on him.

    Girard stepped up behind me. His presence was a wall of heat, his hand resting on my shoulder with a possessiveness that felt like a blessing. I could feel his heartbeat slowing down, the beast retreating as he focused on me.

    “The vats are still active, Arielle,” Girard said softly, his voice a rough rasp. “The ‘Wolf-Killer’ virus is still in the system. If we drop that vial into the main intake, it will initiate a chemical purge. It will destroy every drop of the serum in this room and wipe the data from the servers. But it will also end the Moretti research forever. No more ‘perfection.’ No more godhood.”

    I looked at the vial, the shimmering liquid catching the emergency red lights of the lab. I thought about the power I had felt on the balcony—the intoxicating, terrifying surge of the bond. I thought about the thousands of lives that could be “perfected” by this science, and the thousands more that would be destroyed by it.

    “Perfection is a lie, Girard,” I said, my voice steady. “My father spent his life chasing it, and all he found was a cage made of his own skin.”

    I walked over to the main intake of the cooling system. I didn’t hesitate. I dropped the vial into the swirling blue liquid.

    A high-pitched, harmonic hum filled the room, growing louder and louder until it was a physical pain in my ears. The glass vats began to shatter one by one, not from violence, but from a chemical reaction that turned the violet serum into harmless, clear water. The computer screens flickered and died, the data being eaten by the purge-virus.

    The war was over. The legacy of the Monets and the Morettis was being washed away into the sewers of Monaco.

    Girard pulled me into his arms, burying his face in the crook of my neck. We stood there in the ruins, two predators who had found a way to be human again. Through the link, I felt his absolute, unwavering pride in me.

    “Let’s go home, Arielle,” he whispered, his lips grazing my skin.

    “Yes,” I breathed, closing my eyes and leaning into his strength. “Take me home.”