Chapter 10 The Forbidden Archive (Declan POV)
The old chapel smelled like dust and secrets. Moonlight sliced through cracked stained glass, painting jagged blue patterns across the stone floor. I knelt behind the altar, fingers tracing the hidden seam Elena had shown me when I was twelve, back when she still believed knowledge was power instead of poison.
I pressed my palm to the sigil carved into the underside of the marble slab. Heat flared immediately, sharp and searing, like touching a live wire. Pain lanced up my arm. I gritted my teeth and pushed harder. The ward recognized me, Alpha heir, blood of the Nightshade line. The burn dulled to a dull throb, then faded. The stone groaned and slid aside, revealing a narrow spiral staircase descending into darkness.
I flicked on my phone flashlight and started down.
The air grew colder with every step, thick with the scent of old paper and something metallic, magic residue, probably. My boots echoed too loudly in the tight space. I counted thirty-seven steps before the stairs leveled out into a low-ceilinged corridor lined with iron-bound doors. Only one was unmarked. That was the one.
The handle was cold iron. I wrapped my hand around it and turned.
The door swung open without resistance.
Inside: rows of steel shelving stacked floor to ceiling with archival boxes. Dates stamped on the ends in faded black ink, 1998 to 2011 mostly. Dust motes drifted in the beam of my light like slow snow. I moved down the first aisle, scanning labels.
Nothing useful yet.
I pulled Tyler’s notes from my jacket pocket, creased pages I’d photographed in the admin office. His scrawl jumped out at me in the dim glow:
Archive Sub-Level 3, Project files. Chimera. Look for suppression logs. Names match transfer list.
Sub-Level 3. I found the narrow staircase at the far end, another thirty steps down, tighter this time, forcing me to duck my head. The air down here was stale, almost sweet, like old incense mixed with decay.
At the bottom: a single room, smaller, windowless. The door was heavier, reinforced with silver threading through the iron. The ward here was stronger, my skin prickled as I approached, tiny sparks dancing across my knuckles. I pressed both palms flat against the metal and spoke the heir’s phrase Elena had drilled into me.
“By blood and bond, I claim passage.”
The sparks flared white-hot, then died. The lock clicked.
I stepped inside.
The room was lit by a single low-watt bulb hanging from a chain. File boxes lined three walls, each labeled with stark white stickers: PROJECT CHIMERA , PHASE I, PHASE II, SUPPRESSION PROTOCOLS, SUBJECT LOGS 2005–2010.
I started with the subject logs.
First box: thin manila folders, each containing a single child’s photograph clipped to medical charts. Ages ranged from newborns to six years. Names, dates of acquisition, parental status.
I flipped through quickly, too quickly at first, then slower as the pattern emerged.
“Undesirable lineage” was the recurring phrase. Rogue parents. Mixed-pack unions. Humans who’d witnessed too much. One entry noted: “Mother executed for rogue activity. Infant relocated for study.”
My stomach twisted.
I moved to the next box, suppression protocols. Diagrams of injection sites, chemical formulas I barely understood, schedules: monthly intramuscular doses starting at three months, escalating every six months until puberty. Goal: complete dormancy of lycanthropic traits. “Subjects exhibit normal human development with no spontaneous manifestation.”
I kept reading. Kept turning pages.
Then I saw it.
A single sheet, paperclipped to the back of a thicker file. Subject designation: RA-07.
Photograph: a baby, maybe six months old, dark hair already curling at the ends, eyes wide and serious even in black-and-white. The same stubborn jaw I’d spent three years trying not to notice.
Name: Rowan Ashford.
Acquired: October 17, 2009. Posthumous relocation following vehicular accident of adoptive parents. Biological status: confirmed offspring of rogue female (executed 2009). Human father (deceased). Lycanthropic markers present but latent.
Treatment regimen initiated: standard suppression cocktail. Monthly administration via faculty advisor proxy. Subject enrolled at Thornhaven Academy age 14 under anonymous scholarship. Continued compliance monitored.
I stared at the page so long the words blurred.
Fourteen names total in the master list clipped behind it. Rowan’s was seventh. Others I recognized vaguely, transfers from Tyler’s notes. Hannah Kimura. Gabriel Cross. Names that had vanished from pack records.
I sank to my knees, the concrete cold through my jeans.
They hadn’t just suppressed wolves.
They’d manufactured humans. Hidden them in plain sight. Turned children into ticking bombs that didn’t even know they were armed.
And Rowan...
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.
I pulled out the list again, scanning for patterns. Ages clustered around 2008–2010. All placed in academies. All under faculty observation. All given “vitamins.”
I thought of Ms. Chandler slipping that orange bottle through the slot in Rowan’s cell door. Thought of Rowan’s blackout at the party. Thought of the incomplete Turning sigil that had somehow jump-started what seventeen years of drugs had buried.
My hands shook as I photographed every page, subject logs, protocols, the master list with Rowan’s baby picture staring back at me.