The Serenity Peaks Clinic was a masterpiece of discreet horror. From the winding, private road that led to its gates, it appeared as a beautiful wellness retreat of warm cedar, shimmering glass, and tranquil Zen gardens. The air smelled of pine and expensive, sterile peace. But beneath the surface, the entire facility hummed with a low, oppressive energy of power and pain.
I went in as 'Katherine Shaw,' a fragile, human heiress from a reclusive old-money family, supposedly suffering from a "rare, undiagnosed neurological condition." It was a cover Marcus's team had fabricated in less than an hour, complete with a detailed medical history and a seven-figure credit line. The bio-dampener in my arm, a tiny ghost of technology, ensured I would pass any scan as nothing more than a rich, sick girl.
My suite was the height of luxury, with a private balcony overlooking the misty hills. A smiling, pleasant nurse with cold, dead eyes took my vitals and informed me that my first consultation would be in the morning. I was a patient. I was a prisoner.
The clinic was crawling with a quiet, menacing energy. The other "patients" I saw in the common areas were a who's who of Amaranth's secret world. I saw an aging vampire noble, his skin unnaturally smooth, likely here for an illicit, youthful blood treatment. I saw a Fae lord from the Summer Court, the one Marcus had pointed out at the gala, his glamour flickering slightly under the clinic's specialized lighting. They were all here for their own secret reasons, willingly paying a fortune for the clinic's discretion. But I could feel something else, a deeper current of suffering emanating from the very foundations of the building. It was the faint, coppery scent of old blood and caged wolves.