The Vance estate was not old money. It was new money's meticulous impersonation of old money. A sprawling mock-Tudor mansion perched on a hill overlooking Millfield, its manicured lawns and imported topiaries a stark, defiant statement against the wild, encroaching Blackwood visible in the distance. For the party, it was strung with thousands of tiny, tasteful white lights, and the air hummed with the sound of a string quartet and the low murmur of polite conversation.
Alex watched from the edge of the gravel drive, feeling like a crab that had crawled onto a wedding cake. He'd gotten the invitation—a thick, cream-colored cardstock thing delivered by hand to his cottage—only that afternoon. It was addressed formally to "Mr. Alexander Reed, Journalist & Guest of the Blackwood Family." The wording was a masterpiece of manipulation. It positioned him as an appendage of the Blackwoods, not an independent actor, and ensured his attendance would be noted and controlled.
He'd worn his only suit, which felt both inadequate and like a costume. The guests milling about were a mix of local dignitaries—Mayor Vance, Sheriff Walker, bank managers, the town council—and a sprinkling of polished outsiders. The outsiders stood out. Their clothes were too perfectly cut, their watches too understatedly expensive, their laughter a fraction too measured. They were the Covenant's human face.
He spotted Kiera immediately. She stood beside her father near a stone fountain, a vision in a simple, dark emerald gown that made her skin seem to glow. She was the still point in the turning room, her posture rigidly correct, a faint, vacant smile on her lips as she listened to an older couple. But her eyes, when they briefly swept the crowd, were alive with a trapped, furious intelligence. Sebastian was in his element—the gracious, enigmatic lord of the manor, exchanging quiet words with Mayor Vance, who looked flushed and slightly overawed by his own party.
Then Alex saw him. The man from the newspaper photo. Jason Carver. He was holding a glass of sparkling water, not champagne, and was engaged in conversation with Sheriff Walker. He was doing most of the talking, his gestures small and precise. Walker was nodding, her face a mask of professional attentiveness, but Alex saw the tightness in her jaw.
Carver was younger in person than the grainy photo suggested, perhaps mid-forties. He had the lean, athletic build of a rock climber or a triathlete, and his gaze, even from across the lawn, was penetrative. He finished his point to Walker, gave her a collegial pat on the arm that made her stiffen almost imperceptibly, and then his eyes found Alex.
There was no surprise in them. Only assessment. He excused himself and began moving through the crowd with a predator's smooth, indirect grace, not walking directly toward Alex, but angling to intercept him near the buffet table.
Alex braced himself, picking up a flute of champagne he didn't want.
"Mr. Reed," Carver said, arriving as if by chance. His voice was a pleasant baritone, accent neutral, educated. "Jason Carver. I've heard a bit about you. The journalist seeking the quiet life. And yet, here you are, at the center of our little soiree." He smiled, the expression not reaching his cool, grey eyes.
"It was a kind invitation," Alex said, matching the bland tone. "Seems like an impressive gathering for Millfield."
"Oh, Millfield is full of impressive things," Carver said, his gaze drifting meaningfully toward the Blackwoods, then back to Alex. "Often hidden in plain sight. We at the Veritas Foundation are deeply interested in unique ecological and… biological… pockets like this. There's so much to learn, so much good that can come from understanding the unusual."
"By 'good,' you mean grants and new lab equipment?" Alex asked, letting a touch of the cynical reporter show.
Carver's smile widened, becoming shark-like. "Progress, Mr. Reed. Understanding precedes application. A cure for a rare disease often starts with studying the disease itself in its natural habitat." He sipped his water. "I understand you've been quite proactive in your own studies. The town archives. Even some… field trips."
The threat was veiled, but clear. They were watching.
"A journalist's curiosity," Alex shrugged. "A girl is missing. People are concerned."
"People are," Carver agreed, his tone turning somber. "A tragedy. But sometimes, in isolated ecosystems, tragedies are natural regulatory events. The key is to prevent them from becoming epidemics. To apply the right… controls." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level. "Between us, the old families here, like the Blackwoods, are steeped in superstition. They mean well, but their methods are medieval. Clinging to folk remedies and territorial markers. We offer modern solutions. Clean, bloodless solutions. I'd hate to see a well-intentioned outsider like yourself get caught in the crossfire between the past and the future."
It was a masterful pitch: a warning, an offer of alliance, and a dismissal of the enemy, all wrapped in the language of progress and public health.
Before Alex could formulate a response, the string quartet paused. Mayor Vance tapped a microphone on the terrace.
"Friends! If I could have your attention!" Vance beamed, a sheen of sweat on his brow. "We are so blessed tonight to have with us not only our wonderful community but representatives of the Veritas Foundation, whose generous support is helping to secure Millfield's future! I'd like to especially thank Mr. Jason Carver, who has shown such… visionary commitment to our unique environment!"
Polite applause. Carver gave a modest wave.
"And of course," Vance continued, "we are forever grateful for the stewardship and historical wisdom of the Blackwood family, who have been the bedrock of this region for generations! Sebastian, Kiera, thank you for joining us!"
Sebastian inclined his head. Kiera's smile was frozen.
"The future and the past, working together for Millfield!" Vance concluded, raising his glass. "Cheers!"
As the applause died down and the music resumed, Carver turned back to Alex. "The future always wins, Mr. Reed. It's just a matter of how smoothly the transition can be arranged. Enjoy the party." He moved off, heading directly for Sebastian and Kiera.
Alex watched as Carver engaged Sebastian. The older man's posture was proud, but there was a deference there, the posture of a king treating with a general whose army surrounds his castle. Carver then turned to Kiera, taking her hand. He didn't shake it; he held it, his thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles in a gesture that was intimate and proprietary. Kiera didn't flinch, but the blankness in her eyes hardened into something glacial. Carver leaned in, saying something only she could hear. She gave a tiny, stiff nod.
The transaction was complete. The Covenant was claiming its prize.
Frustration and a sense of helplessness curdled in Alex's gut. He was out of his depth. This was a war fought with contracts, philanthropy, and psychological pressure, not flashlights and running.
He needed air away from the cloying perfume and whispered deals. He slipped around the side of the mansion, following a flagstone path that led to a walled kitchen garden. The sounds of the party faded, replaced by the chirp of crickets and his own racing thoughts.
He wasn't alone.
Sheriff Elena Walker was there, leaning against a brick herb planter, a half-smoked cigarette in her hand—a habit he'd never seen her indulge. She looked up as he entered, her expression wary.
"Needed a break from the future?" she asked, her voice rough.
"Something like that."
She took a drag, exhaling slowly. "Carver's a persuasive man. Makes everything sound so reasonable. So inevitable."
"You don't sound convinced."
"I'm convinced he has more power and money than God," she said flatly. "And that he wants what's in those woods. He's not here to protect Millfield. He's here to acquire it." She looked at him. "Your visit to the archives. You saw the old Compact. You know what we've been doing. What we've allowed."
It was as close to an admission as he would get from her. "To keep the peace."
"To keep the secret," she corrected. "There's a difference. Sometimes peace is just quiet fear." She dropped the cigarette, grinding it under her boot. "Lily Greene was my friend. She babysat my nephew. She didn't deserve to be part of the 'calculus,' as some people call it."
Alex felt a surge of cautious hope. "Can you help me find her? Really find her?"
Walker's face was a conflict of duty and conscience. "I can't go against the town. Not openly. But Carver… he's coordinating something. A 'field extraction' in two nights. He's requisitioned county satellite thermal imaging data for the Blackwood Tract. He's looking for a specific heat signature. Not human, not quite animal. He's hunting for a Moon-Touched. Maybe the one that took Lily." She met his eyes. "The data request was logged to my office. The grid coordinates are in the northeast sector, near the old logging trails. That's all I can give you."
It was a map. A time and a place. A chance.
"Why tell me?" Alex asked.
"Because if Carver finds what he's looking for, he'll cage it, cut it open, and learn how to do the same to the rest of them. To Kiera. And then there'll be no going back. We'll just be the keepers of a different, shinier cage." She straightened her jacket, the sheriff's mantle settling back onto her shoulders. "I have to get back. I was never here."
She left him in the dark garden.
Two nights. The Covenant was making its move. A surgical strike to capture a specimen. To accelerate their research.
Alex looked back toward the lights and the music. Through the french doors, he saw Kiera, now separated from her father and Carver, standing alone by a potted palm. She caught his eye across the distance. Her hand went to the small beaded purse at her wrist, then made a subtle, deliberate motion—two fingers tapping twice against the beads.
A signal. Two nights.
She knew. And she was telling him the clock was ticking.
The party was a facade. The real battle lines were being drawn in the dark, beyond the pretty lights. He had an ally in the sheriff, however reluctant. He had a source in Kiera, however trapped. And he had a deadline.
He finished his flat champagne. The future, as Carver called it, was coming in forty-eight hours. And Alex Reed would be there, not as a guest of the Blackwoods, but as a witness. And perhaps, if he was brave or foolish enough, as an obstacle.