This is where one's training ends; beyond this line there is nothing but silence. It felt less like a place on the map than a heartbeat-thumper pulse in their frozen, soul-searching digital search. Within the stench of stale air and past the decay embedded in walls of age-old books, the sudden energy crackled with a novelty and danger. The moment: there is a home for the ghost. The problem of clans and prophecies, rather abstract, has just collapsed into a single tangible point on a map of the East Village. Selena's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm thumping with fear and pure, unadulterated journalistic adrenaline. This was it. Where the story would leap from page to reality. Damien stood, sauntering toward the window to gaze dully down at the city, as though he might discern the single building from his throne. He turned back, his face now a mask: grim and resolute. "I'll send Elias and a two-man team. They'll do a quiet reconnaissance, check for surveillance, entrances, exits."
"No," she said immediately, with the kind of sharpness that sounded final. He gave her a puzzled stare, eyebrows furrowed. "Selena, this is not a negotiation. It could be a trap." "Exactly like sending in a bunch of ex-special forces goons, which is sure to either spook our ghost or alert the very people we're trying to hide from," she countered, now standing straight and facing him. "Think about it. We are looking for a reclusive, paranoid archivist of a secret society of monsters. The first sign of tactical surveillance and he'll either vanish forever, or we'll have a pack of Iron Fangs on our doorstep. This requires finesse, not force. It has to be us. Just us." She saw the war in his eyes. Every instinct of protection and all logical strategies of a man used to directing armies screamed for him to lock her in this tower and handle it himself. But he saw the truth in her words as well. This wasn't a problem he could solve with money or muscle. It needed a different type of weapon: her intellect, her nerve, and the strange, inexplicable bond that made them a team. "Fine," he finally conceded, his voice heavy with reluctance. "But we do it my way. No risks. We observe only. If anything feels wrong, we leave. Immediately."
An hour later they were descending the elevator, the quiet, hermetically sealed box giving the sensation of a diving bell lowering them into an abyss. Selena had changed into dark jeans, boots, and a simple black jacket-an outfit that would be practical and anonymous. The city she had stepped out of three days ago was not the same one she was re-entering. Unlike before, the shadows between buildings were just shadows, because now they were possible hiding places for creatures that shouldn't exist within them. The everyday bustle of people on the street was but a thin veil, mundane play acted out on a stage she now knew to be haunted. Paranoia no longer seemed madness as it concerned Damien's father; it sounded like rational caution. The ride to East Village was masterclass in this quiet tension. Damien drove one of the less conspicuous cars from his fleet, a sleek but unremarkable black sedan. He navigated the street with an unnerving calm, but the same minute movements of head and continual scans with the eyes as he carefully maneuvered through the traffic told her otherwise. He was probably just watching, predator-sensing other predators at work. In turn, she found herself gazing at him, compiling his most subtle tells of heightened presence. A slight flare of his nostrils as a city bus passed; the way his head tilted, tracking a sound even she could not hear. He was a walking, breathing piece of evidence against the impossible truth that she was chasing.
He managed to find a parking space a block from where they needed to be, and stepping out he felt cold and electric against Selena's skin in the night air. The east village was quieted here, an eclectic mix of old brownstones and wee independent shops all added to the effect of time, making secrets that much more possible. The final block stretched before them in silence, as they moved in synchronization, shadows pursuing a common but perilous goal. The records, in short, had been validated: four red brick walls, a trendy bookstore on this side, a residential brownstone on that side. Utterly nondescript. The windows were dark, covered from the inside. The brickwork was clean, the doorway swept. It was maintained but lifeless. It was the Cinderalla building, trying very hard to be as invisible as possible. They had stopped across on the sidewalk, observing. There was not a sign of life, nor did anything bright. Not even a sound. No buzzer, no nameplate-not even a mail slot on the heavy oak door. It was a fortress. Sealed and silent. "Now what?" Selena whispered, gazing at the impenetrable facade. "How do we even get its attention?"
Damien seemed paralyzed, his head tilted as if hearing something very far off. An expression very strange on him the man seemed to be trying to hear faint signals stuttering across the void. "Damien?" she said. Slowly he turned to look at the sudden, supernatural recognition dawning in his very human, blue eyes. A shiver coursed along her spine. "What is it? What's wrong?" He raised a hand, silencing her, and took a slow, deliberate breath through his nose. "I can smell it, under the city smells, the exhaust and the rain... I can smell the building," he whispered, filled with hushed awe. Stared at him, puzzled: "What does it smell like? Gas? Mold?" He shook his head, staring at the heavy oak door across the street as if he could see straight through it. "Paper," he mumbled. Yes, old paper and leather and dust. Decades of it. And something else. Something underneath it all." He finally looked at her, and the truth of their location was undeniable in his awestruck, terrified eyes. "It's the scent of a wolf," he said. "An old one. A wolf that's never seen the sun."