36. Ava

There's this wild,intoxicating freedom in the run, each touch of my paws against the earth sparking a connection I didn't even realize I was craving. It's like stumbling across a missing piece of my soul I didn't know was lost. Weaving through the forest, I finally feel whole.

Complete.

Tyler nips at my heels, urging me on, the wind blowing through my fur. It's in moments like this where I get it—the sheer ease of letting go, of melting into your spiritkin, where all those pesky human worries just evaporate. I could live like this and forget about the mess waiting for me back in the human world. Forget my dad. Forget Elijah. Just me, Tyler, and the endless embrace of the forest.

Of course, reality bites hard. The thought jolts me to a stop, dead in the middle of this leafy haven. Tyler, sensing my mood, nudges my chin, his eyes full of unspoken questions.

Am I okay? Heck no, but it's not like I can say that out loud.

I swing my head, sniffing the air for clues to our location. The scent of food trucks, tantalizing and out of place, tells me we're too close to town for comfort. My childhood home, that's in the opposite direction. There's a pull toward the familiar, but then there's the snag—Mom's car, abandoned on Merger Ave.

Ignoring Tyler's protests, I bolt toward town. He barks—a warning or an encouragement? Doesn't matter. I'm a wolf on a mission. The locals won't blink at a wolf darting through their streets, but I still stick to the shadows. We're in the rough part of town, where eyes ignore me, and silence is a survival tactic.

Was this why no one saw what happened to my mom?

Shaking off the thought, I focus on the task at hand. Merger Ave looms ahead, as well as the garage where Mom's car gathers dust. It's time for some answers.

I dart across an alley, agility on my side in this form. Tyler growls behind me, a rumble of caution, but my mind's made up. They pegged my dad as the villain, and honestly? I'm leaning that way too. Time to dig up some proof.

I pause near a porch, scanning for cameras. I have to play it cool and look innocent. Just another curious dog, right? I mimic the motions of a dog doing its business, all while casing the house. Tyler plays along, sitting like he's waiting for a treat, though his look says he thinks I've lost my mind.

I sniff around, a barrage of scents hitting me like a truck. Old grass, gasoline, rotting trash—it's a sensory overload, but then, there it is, the familiar scent cutting through the mess. I follow it, slipping through a broken fence slat and into a neglected space between houses, where water drips onto a trash can lid and pizza boxes decay.

Ignoring the front gate, I head toward a basement window, the scent now unmistakable. I whine softly, pawing at the broken window—a signal to Tyler. I sniff again, the scent stronger, beckoning from the basement.

It's a risky move, diving headfirst into the unknown, but I've put off finding answers for so long that I can't look away anymore.

I swear Tyler rolls his eyes at me, then he shifts. Crouching at the window, he gives me a look that's both amused and incredulous. "You know, I hadn't penciled in breaking and entering as part of our date night, but I'm not complaining." He jimmies the window open, propping it up. "We should fit. This is larger than your average basement window."

Relief floods through me. I'm thankful for his support. Shifting back to my human form proves more challenging than before, sparking a brief flare of panic before I manage it. I land in the dirty alley off Merger Avenue with a disgruntled huff.

"There you are, butterfly," Tyler teases, a note of pride in his voice.

Determined, I move to shimmy down the window, only for Tyler to pull me back. "Let me check that it's safe first."

I nod, allowing him to play the protective wolf. "After you."

He mutters something about the hazards of navigating broken glass, and I stifle a laugh, watching as he carefully clears a path before descending into the darkness.

"You're lucky I didn't scent anyone down here," he cautions as he disappears inside.

Admittedly, I hadn't even considered the presence of others. Oops. Following his lead, I carefully slide in, Tyler's steady hand guiding me the last few steps into the basement. The familiar scent that's been teasing my senses grows stronger.

"No cameras," Tyler whispers in the dim light.

As my eyes adjust, a seemingly normal basement unfolds before us. The window overlooks a bar, its wooden surface worn down. To the right is a woodstove, and beyond that is a cozy seating area, but the basement is divided, a separate room secluded by the layout.

"Doesn't look like anyone's been here for a while," Tyler observes, drawing a line through the dust on the bar, showcasing the thick layer.

I'm drawn to the peculiar room partitioning the basement. "There's a familiar scent here…but I can't place it," I confess, moving cautiously across the cold wooden floor toward the mystery room.

Tyler, meanwhile, rummages behind the bar, his fingers dancing over the shelves. "What does it remind you of?" he calls out.

Shrugging, I reply, "I'm not sure. It's just…familiar." Reaching the pocket door, I slide it open and freeze. My brain struggles to process the sight before me, my breath hitching.

"What's wrong—" Tyler starts, but his words cut off as he pulls me close. "By the fates," he murmurs, horror lacing his whisper. "We aren't safe here."

"No, I need to understand," I whisper, struggling for air. "What… What am I seeing, Tyler?"

His eyes, filled with tears, meet mine. "Ava, it's a cage for shifters."

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. The room, barely ten by twelve feet, houses nothing but metal bars embedded in the concrete, a crude toilet hole, and scattered blankets. Chains and a broken collar lie on the floor—a testament to the terror that unfolded here.

Drivenby a need to know yet dreading the truth, I inch closer, the familiar scent now overpowering. "Tyler," I whisper, stepping into the grim room.

"Ava," he shouts, "silver bars. Don't touch anything."

"Not touching," I assure him, my hands raised. The scent of urine intensifies as I crouch, taking a deep breath. The familiar scent is strongest here, undeniable.

I know this scent.

"What exactly do you smell?" Tyler's voice is laced with concern, a crackling undertone of worry breaking through.

"It's… I wish I could pinpoint it. It smells like…a hug. Like someone who once hugged me." Each inhalation brings a mixture of comfort and heartache. My heart clenches, a tight pinch in my chest.

"Ava," Tyler hisses, urgency coloring his whisper.

"It's my mama," I declare, the realization striking me hard. Abandoning caution, I grab a nearby blanket, press it to my face, and inhale deeply. "Tyler, it's my mama's scent." Tears sting my eyes as I greedily breathe in the familiar aroma, a scent I feared was lost to time.

I always believed I would remember her scent forever, that nothing could ever overshadow it or erase it from my memory, but reality, cruel and unyielding, proves otherwise. Memories, once vivid and tangible, fade into mere echoes of their former selves, as if covered by layers of dust.

"Ava," Tyler calls out again, his voice sounding far away. He doesn't follow me farther into the cage, but that's all right.

I search through the blankets for any trace of her, but I find nothing beyond the cold, unwelcoming concrete and worn fabric, frayed and decayed with time. "She was here. She lived here," I whisper, the truth of it settling heavily in my heart.

"Ava," Tyler repeats, his tone pulling me back to the present. I turn to find his eyes filled with sorrow. "Butterfly, she wasn't the only one. I can scent at least a dozen other shifters in here." He pauses, his gaze drifting to the corner. "Is there a camera?"

Panic grips me as I spin, spotting the camera just beyond the bars, overlooking the door. "I didn't notice it before."

"Is it recording? Do you see a red blinking light?" His voice is calm, attempting to quell the rising storm of fear.

I shake my head. "No, it's not blinking."

"Come on, we need to leave," he urges, reaching out for me. Dropping the blanket, I take his hand, allowing him to guide me out of that haunting space. Once free, Tyler takes a deep breath, a visible weight lifting from his shoulders. "Let's go."

"No, not yet," I protest, breaking from his grasp and heading for the steps. "I need to understand why she was here."

"Ava, isn't it obvious?" His voice is gentle, attempting to cushion the blow. "Your mom was a shifter."

Despite my father eluding to the same, my knee-jerk reaction is to deny it. "Impossible," I say, but I know it isn't. He said it himself—Dad broke her spirit.

"Is it?" Tyler steps closer, his presence grounding me. "Butterfly, you've shifted yourself."

"That's because Ethan nicked me," I counter, desperation tinting my words.

"No, love, that alone couldn't cause it. It's in your genetics." His features soften, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.

His words hang between us, a heavy truth I'm not ready to face. I turn toward the steps, dismissing the conversation with forced determination. "Let's go. This place seems abandoned. There has to be proof here that my dad is a part of Puritas." I can't leave yet. Not until I have more proof—undeniable proof.

"Five minutes, Ava," Tyler insists, a sense of urgency in his voice that I can't quite decipher. "Then we're leaving, and I'm calling the others."

I don't respond, the urgency in his voice igniting a spark of curiosity and unease within me. It's as if he knows something about this place that I don't—a thought that irks me deeply.

Climbing the steep steps, I carefully open the door into an old kitchen, frozen in time. The quiet is punctuated only by the low hum of the refrigerator. With no signs of life, I push forward.

"It looks abandoned," I whisper, noting the thick layer of dust covering everything.

"The place feels abandoned as well," Tyler says, breaking the eerie silence that cloaks the atmosphere. "But that doesn't mean it is. The guys are on their way."

I nod, acknowledging it's the practical decision. The row home is long and narrow, spanning three rooms on the first floor—a kitchen, a dining room, and a living room. Each space barely appears to be touched by life. I step out of the kitchen, and an abandoned card game on the dining room table catches my eye, surrounded by nothing but four lonely chairs. The living room fares no better, hosting only a solitary television and a couch.

Tyler and I creep up the creaky stairs, and we are greeted by a landing that branches off into a bathroom and three rooms. A quick inspection reveals all rooms but one are empty. The exception is an office, cluttered and cramped. Inside is a desk smothered in papers, concealing the wood beneath. I push the chair aside, scouring the papers for names or dates, any clue to the past that haunts this place.

"I'll check the filing cabinet," Tyler offers, entering behind me.

It's then I notice the craftsmanship of the desk. "This looks like something my grandfather would have made," I whisper, a memory surfacing. "Mama told me how he made furniture for their community."

"A coincidence?" Tyler suggests, his tone laced with skepticism.

"I don't believe in coincidences," I counter, dropping to the floor to inspect the underside of the desk for any sign of initials. "Martinez," I murmur, sinking back on my heels, the realization hitting me. "I have a matching desk at my apartment. Well, your house now," I correct myself, a twinge of pain in my voice.

"Are you certain?" Tyler asks, sounding concerned.

"My grandfather's last name is branded on the underside of the desk," I respond, glancing over at Tyler, who now holds a folder in his hands. "It's his desk."

"And this is your father's house," he concludes, handing me the folder with a real estate label on it.

I snatch it from him, not needing to look inside to know its contents. My father's name, which is emblazoned on the front, is proof enough. I toss it aside, frustration boiling inside me. It confirms my dad owned this house when my mom died, but it offers no closure.

"How did the police miss this?" I ponder aloud, the question echoing off the bare walls.

"Easy," Tyler replies. "If your father is the head of Puritas, then he could easily influence the police. It's not unheard of."

"Speculation," I retort, though doubt gnaws at me. "I need concrete evidence."

"The guys are a few minutes out," Tyler tells me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Let's keep looking until they arrive, okay?"

Grateful for his support, I nod and return to the desk, my determination renewed. I discover a drawer but find it empty, but then I remember my own desk has a secret compartment. Perhaps this one does as well. Fumbling inside for a secret latch, I cut my finger on something sharp. Ignoring the pain, I press down, and with a satisfying pop, the bottom of the drawer releases, revealing a hidden space.

"Tyler," I whisper, excitement coursing through me. "I found something."

"What?" He leans over, his interest piqued as he catches sight of what I discovered. "Is that the Puritas symbol?"

"I didn't even know they had one," I admit.

"The luminous blade," he muses, a note of awe in his voice. "A sword gleaming with light, set against a backdrop of shadows. This is…" His voice trails off as he glances around the small, confined office. "The guys are here."

Clutching the stack of papers to my chest, I stand, ready to flee this place that holds too many dark memories. "Go," I urge.

"You can't take those with you," Tyler protests.

"Like hell I can't," I retort, determination fueling my steps as I maneuver past him and race down the stairs, desperate to escape the row home. This unassuming, seemingly normal place hides a grim history—one where my mom likely died, where many shifters met their end, all hidden in plain sight.

That, I realize, is precisely the point.

I push through the breezeway door and pause. Tyler closes it with a soft click, just as we hear voices.

Eyes wide, I glance back at him. "Someone is here."

"They came in through the backdoor," he whispers, gently pulling me toward the slowly opening door. Driven by a surge of recklessness, I crouch and press my ear against the cold wood.

"What do you mean you haven't found her yet?" a voice snarls, so familiar yet so foreign. It takes a moment for recognition to dawn—it belongs to my father. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest.

"She's on clan lands." Elijah's calm retort sends chills down my spine. "Unless you're willing to start an all-out war, sir, I can't simply trespass and retrieve her."

"She's your wife!" My father's roar is thunderous. "Legally, you have every right to get her."

Bullshit. It wasn't even a shotgun wedding, and I have no papers.

"Not without consequences," Elijah counters calmly, "but we will find her, I promise."

"You have to kill her spirit," my father demands, echoing the sinister plan I overheard Wednesday night. The mention of my spiritkin fills me with an indescribable horror.

Panic grips me as I stumble backward into Tyler, who catches me and swiftly ushers me out of the house, bare as the day I was born. Thankfully, we slip into a car unnoticed, and Ethan secures me into the passenger seat without a word. The car then races down the road, the world outside blurring into obscurity.

"It's my dad," I whisper, the realization cold and heavy. "I'll find proof, I swear it." My voice is a mix of determination and dread. The papers in my lap feel heavier than they are. "Ethan, take me to Ellie's."

"Ava—" Ethan begins, attempting to soothe me.

"No," I snap back as I turn to face him and then glance at the others in the backseat. "This is too much. They are targeting the spiritkin, Ethan." Tears spill over, unchecked. "They are intent on killing our spirits. That's what my father was discussing. ‘Kill her spirit.'"

"Fuck," Brody curses under his breath. "Ava, I can't stand the thought of you being unprotected."

"They believe I'm residing on clan lands," I say, sniffing back my distress. "Just give me this week. Please."

"Ava," Tyler interjects, reaching out, but Ethan parks in front of Ellie's apartment and produces a shirt from the duffle bag at my feet. "One of us will always be close by," he assures me, holding my gaze. "At the slightest hint of danger, we're getting you out of here."

"Ethan—" Tyler interjects.

"No," Ethan cuts him off sharply. "This is about trust and patience." His gaze softens as he turns back to me. "I'm sorry."

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I barely whisper, "Thank you," before climbing out of the car and pulling the shirt over my head. Each step away from them feels like a betrayal to my soul.