Chapter 1090
“The Hive,” Skye said. “If we’re going to summon a ghost, we need a séance room.”
The drive was tense. Skye sat beside Lucian in the back of the van, monitoring his vitals on a portable screen. Every bump in the road made him flinch, and every flinch tightened something in her chest. He was in this mess because of her. Because he had chosen her side.
They arrived at the Thorne estate. The gates opened silently. The security detail stationed outside didn’t look like hired thugs — they looked like Secret Service. Earpieces, tailored suits, eyes that scanned everything and missed nothing.
They descended into the Hive. The walls were lined with servers, the air alive with the hum of cooling fans and the faint smell of ozone and static. The command center itself was a windowless room dominated by a wall-sized high-definition screen.
“The link is ready,” Felix said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Mr. Vance is waiting.”
The screen flickered to life.
They were looking into a conservatory — but not one in Sea City. Through the glass walls behind the subject, jagged, snow-capped peaks pierced a brilliant blue sky. The Swiss Alps.
Julian Vance sat at the center of the room in a sleek, motorized wheelchair, a tartan blanket draped across his legs. He was pruning a delicate bloom with a pair of silver shears, his movements precise, almost surgical.
He did not turn around as their footsteps clicked on the concrete floor of the command center, transmitted to him via audio link.
“Rare visitors,” his voice floated through the speakers — soft, but carrying a razor’s edge. “Bringing chaos to my doorstep seems to be the Sterling family pastime.”
“We brought you an opportunity, Julian,” Skye said, stopping a respectful distance from the screen.
“I have plenty of opportunities,” Julian said, snipping a dead leaf. “What I lack is time.”
He turned the wheelchair slowly to face the camera.
Skye suppressed a gasp. Even in high definition, Julian looked translucent. His skin was the color of parchment, the veins beneath it visible like a roadmap of his suffering. His cheekbones were sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes — dark, intelligent, bottomless — burned with a feverish intensity.
He coughed, a wet, rattling sound deep in his chest, and pressed a white handkerchief to his lips. When he pulled it away, a stark bloom of bright red was visible even through the digital transmission.
Alistair stiffened beside her. The rumors were true. The head of the Vance family was dying. Ethan Vance stepped into the frame from the side and placed a hand on Julian’s shoulder, his face grim. He offered Julian a glass of water, which Julian waved away.
Julian folded the handkerchief calmly, concealing the blood as though it were a breach of etiquette. “Marcus Cain,” he said, setting his own mortality aside. “He’s hunting for the Sovereign Keys, and you want me to help you stop him.”