The silence in the Shadowmoon archives was a different creature from the living stillness of the Australian outback. Here, deep within the ancestral pack house, it was a dry, dusty thing, heavy with the weight of forgotten secrets and generations of ambition and regret. Elena Blackwood moved through the labyrinth of shelves with a frantic, desperate energy, her fingers leaving trails in the dust that had settled over decades. The elegant, composed matriarch was gone, replaced by a mother hunting for a lifeline.
Her son was in Chile, standing beside a woman who was challenging gods. Her granddaughter was trapped in a bubble of distorted time at Silver Creek. And the ancient power her husband had foolishly courted was methodically unmaking the modern world. The political alliances and careful pack maneuvering she had mastered were useless. History, she felt with a sickening certainty, was the only place left to look for answers.
