CHAPTER 13: SPARKS

Morning comes too quickly. Maddox wakes me after what feels like minutes but must have been a few hours, his hand hovering near my shoulder without quite touching me—clearly remembering our last physical encounter.

"We need to move," he says simply. "I've picked up chatter on frequencies the Sentinels use. They're expanding their search radius."

I drag myself upright, body still aching in unfamiliar ways. "How do you know what frequencies the Sentinels use?"

A ghost of his usual smirk appears. "I make it my business to know things others don't. Helps me stay alive."

We gather our few belongings—which amount to the clothes we're wearing and some remaining food from last night—and slip out of the motel before dawn fully breaks. Maddox has somehow acquired an ancient sedan that's seen better days, its once-blue paint now a patchwork of rust and faded color.

"Borrowed," he says when I raise an eyebrow at the vehicle.

"You mean stolen."

"I left cash under the owner's doormat. More than it's worth." He opens the passenger door for me. "Better than using credit cards or anything that could be traced."

I slide into the car, oddly grateful for his foresight. As we pull away from the motel and onto a back road that runs parallel to the highway, I study him in the growing light of dawn.

He speaks like he's been alive for a very long time, with references that span centuries and a world-weary perspective that suggests he's seen empires rise and fall. Yet physically, he couldn't look a day over twenty-one—all sharp angles and lean muscle, with that perpetual expression somewhere between amusement and disdain.

The contradiction fascinates me. Or maybe I'm just focusing on the mystery of Maddox to avoid thinking about the terrifying reality of my own situation.

"How old are you?" I ask as we pass through miles of farmland, the sun gradually climbing higher.

He glances at me, then back at the road. "Older than I look."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting right now."

"Why? Is your age some kind of state secret?"

His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. "Age works differently for my kind. I don't think of it the way you do."

"Try me," I challenge. "After turning into some kind of moon-dragon-wolf thing, I'm pretty flexible on concepts of reality."

That earns me the briefest of genuine smiles—there and gone so quickly I almost doubt I saw it.

"I stopped counting after the first millennium," he finally says. "Makes birthdays less depressing."

I stare at him. "A millennium? As in, a thousand years?"

"Give or take a century." His tone is casual, but I sense he's watching for my reaction.

"So you were alive during... what? The Crusades? The Black Death?"

"Both, unfortunately." His expression darkens momentarily. "History books tend to sanitize the smell of those events. The stench of plague-ridden bodies burning in the streets isn't something you forget, even after centuries."

The casual way he references historical horrors sends a chill through me. If he's telling the truth—and somehow, I believe he is—then I'm sitting next to someone who has witnessed the sweep of history firsthand. Someone who was already ancient when my parents were born.

"What are you, exactly?" I ask. "I know you're a Shadowwalker, but what does that actually mean?"

He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. Finally, he says, "We're... remnants, I suppose. Echoes of what existed before this reality fully formed. Before the boundaries between dimensions solidified."

"That's poetic, but not very informative."

He sighs. "In the simplest terms, we exist partially in this reality and partially in what some cultures call the shadow realm, or the void between worlds. It's why we can track across dimensions, why we can step between shadows, why we can sense energy patterns others can't."

"And the feeding? You said Shadowwalkers feed on power."

"All living things need sustenance," he says carefully. "You consume physical food. We consume energy—specifically, the energy generated by powerful emotions, by magic use, by transformation."

"Like mine."

"Yours would be... particularly potent, yes." His eyes stay fixed on the road. "But as I said before, I'd be a fool to try to feed from you without consent. What you're generating is raw, unpredictable. Like trying to drink from a fire hose."

I'm not entirely comfortable with the metaphor, but I appreciate his honesty. At least it's one of the few things about my new reality that makes a kind of sense—Maddox has stayed close because I'm a potential food source. It's not personal; it's survival.

Yet that doesn't quite explain everything. Why did he help me escape? Why is he taking me to Kieran's sanctuary instead of turning me over to the highest bidder?

And why, despite all the warnings—from Kieran in the journal, from Marcus and Sera at the Refuge—do I find his presence oddly comforting? He's dangerous, self-serving by his own admission, and literally feeds on supernatural energy. I should be terrified of him. Instead, I feel... safer when he's around.

The contradiction bothers me as we continue driving through the morning. Maddox seems content with silence, occasionally checking the rearview mirror with more attention than casual driving would require. We stop only once for gas at a tiny station where he pays cash and keeps his face turned away from the security cameras.

By early afternoon, we've left the farmland behind and entered more rugged terrain—foothills that gradually give way to denser forest and steeper inclines. The roads become narrower, less maintained.

"Where exactly are we going?" I ask after we turn onto what's barely more than a dirt path.

"There's a meeting point about twenty miles further," Maddox explains. "Someone will be waiting to guide us the rest of the way."

"Someone you trust?"

His laugh is short and without humor. "I don't trust anyone, Lena. But this person owes Kieran a debt that transcends normal loyalties."

We continue in silence until the car begins to struggle with the increasingly rough terrain. Eventually, Maddox pulls over beside a small creek.

"We'll have to continue on foot from here," he says, turning off the engine. "The path ahead isn't suitable for vehicles."

I step out of the car, stretching muscles stiff from hours of sitting. The air here is different—cleaner, richer with the scents of pine and earth and water. My enhanced senses pick up the rustle of small animals in the underbrush, the distant calls of birds I can't identify.

Maddox retrieves a small backpack from the trunk—another recent acquisition, apparently—and checks its contents before slinging it over his shoulder.

"Ready?" he asks.

I nod, though "ready" feels like an absurd concept given everything that's happened. We set off along a barely visible trail that follows the creek upstream, deeper into the forest. The terrain is challenging but not impossible, and I find my body adapting better than expected—perhaps another aspect of my heritage asserting itself.

After about an hour of hiking, Maddox signals for a break. We settle on large rocks beside the creek, and he offers me a water bottle from the backpack.

As I drink, that nagging question resurfaces—why him? Why does someone who should represent danger instead feel like safety?

When he takes the water bottle back, our fingers brush briefly. The contact sends a distinct sensation through me—like a small electrical shock, but not unpleasant. A spark.

I've felt something similar before, I realize. When I shook Thea's hand at the Refuge. When I tackled Marcus. When Nadia touched my forehead. Every time I've had physical contact with a supernatural being, there's been that spark—a momentary connection, a recognition.

But with Maddox, it's different. Stronger. More... resonant somehow.

Acting on impulse, I reach out and deliberately touch his arm. The spark happens again, more pronounced this time—a current that runs from the point of contact up my arm and seems to connect to something deep inside me.

Maddox looks at my hand, then at my face, his expression unreadable. "Something wrong?"

"It happens when I touch a sub," I say slowly, trying to articulate what I'm feeling. "But with you, it's... I don't know... different. No, it's more, but I can't explain it. Why is your spark different?"

Maddox laughs, genuinely surprised. "You expect me to understand that? I have no clue."

"But you feel it too, right? That... connection?"

He hesitates, then nods reluctantly. "Yes. Though I assumed it was a reaction to what you are—the Convergence Child, with energy patterns unlike anything I've encountered before."

"Could it be because you're... older? More powerful?"

"Possibly." He doesn't sound convinced. "Or it could be because of what I am. Shadowwalkers exist partially outside normal reality. We interact with energy differently."

I withdraw my hand, studying him with renewed curiosity. "How many of you are there? Shadowwalkers, I mean."

His expression closes off slightly. "Few. Fewer each century."

"You're dying out?"

"In a manner of speaking. This reality becomes more fixed, more defined with each passing age. Less hospitable to beings like me, who thrive in the in-between spaces."

There's a sadness in his voice that catches me off guard—a vulnerability I haven't heard from him before. For the first time, I wonder if his interest in me isn't just about power or feeding or curiosity. Maybe it's about hope. If I truly am something new—a convergence of bloodlines that shouldn't be possible—perhaps I represent the possibility of change in a world that's become increasingly hostile to his kind.

"Is that why you're helping me?" I ask. "Because I might change things?"

He studies me for a long moment. "Partly," he admits. "Though I made a promise to Kieran, and I do try to keep my word when I give it."

"But there's more to it?"

His shadow aura shifts around him, tendrils curling and uncurling like living things. "Every few centuries, something truly unexpected happens—something that redefines what's possible. I've learned to pay attention to those moments."

"And I'm one of those moments?"

"You might be." His expression turns wry. "Or you might just be a genetic anomaly that everyone's reading too much into. We'll see."

It's not exactly a ringing endorsement, but coming from Maddox, it feels significant. He rises, shouldering the backpack again.

"We should keep moving. Our guide will be waiting, and it's better not to keep her kind waiting."

"Her kind?" I ask, standing as well.

Maddox just smiles enigmatically. "You'll see."

As we resume our hike, that spark when we touched lingers in my memory. Something about the connection feels important, though I can't articulate why. Just one more mystery in a growing collection.

But at least this mystery doesn't involve prophecies or transformations or wars between species. It's simpler. More personal.

Why does a thousand-year-old shadow being who feeds on supernatural energy feel like someone I can trust with my life?

And why, despite everything, am I starting to think that trusting him might not be such a mistake after all?