Panic was a mortal affliction. A messy, irrational, human emotion that Caelan had disdained and discarded centuries ago. It was a weakness, and he did not tolerate weakness, least of all in himself.
And yet, it was panic, cold and sharp and undeniable, that was currently clawing its way up his throat, a venomous, icy serpent threatening to shatter his carefully constructed control.
Hours.
Hours had passed since his realization in the antechamber of the Council Hall. Hours since he had commanded Lucien to get the carriage, his voice tight with an urgency he had not felt in modern memory. Hours that he and his brother had spent tearing the city of Bellmere apart, searching for a ghost.
She was gone.
