Chapter 66 Bad News

Chapter 66 Bad News
Hallie felt the light sear across her arm, a line of fire that stole her breath and sent her sprawling. Blood welled from the wound, dark against her pale skin, and the shadows exploded from her in response—not attacking, but shielding, wrapping around her like armor.
"Hallie!" Seth's voice was raw, the gag finally torn away.
Greg raised his blade for another strike.
Seth threw himself between them.
"Don't." His voice was low, dangerous, a voice Hallie had never heard from him before. "You want to hurt her, you go through me."
Greg stared at his son, his blade raised, his expression caught between fury and something that looked almost like grief.
"She's corrupted you."
"She's saved me." Seth didn't move. "Every day, she saves me. And if you can't see that—if you can't accept that—then you don't know me at all."
The blade trembled in Greg's hand. Doubt flickered in his wild eyes—there and gone, like lightning across a storm-dark sky. For one fragile moment, Hallie thought he might lower the weapon. Might listen. Might choose his son over his hatred.
Then his expression hardened, and he raised the blade again.
"I'm sorry, Seth." His voice was cold, flat, devoid of the fatherly warmth it had once carried. "But this is for your own good."
He lunged.
Hallie's shadows exploded.
They didn't shield this time—they attacked. Waves of darkness crashed against Greg's chest, sending him stumbling backward, his blade swinging wildly. More shadows wrapped around his arms, his legs, his torso, pinning him in place. He slashed at them with his light sword, but for every shadow he destroyed, three more took its place.
"You think this will stop me?" Greg snarled, struggling against his bonds. "I've been fighting shadows since before you were born, girl."
"But you've never fought these shadows." Hallie rose to her feet, her wounded arm throbbing, her voice steady. "These are mine."
She released another wave, and Greg went down.
The cocoon closed around him—shadows wrapped so thickly that only his face remained visible, his eyes blazing with impotent fury. He tried to speak, but the shadows covered his mouth, muffling his curses.
"Take the ropes," Hallie said to Seth.
Seth moved quickly, efficiently, his hands steady despite everything. He bound his father's wrists, his ankles, secured the knots with the skill of someone who had done this before. When he finished, Hallie recalled the shadows.
Greg lay on the hotel room floor, trussed and silenced, his light blade dissolved, his pride in ruins.
Hallie swayed.
Seth caught her before she fell, easing her onto the bed, his hands already reaching for the wound on her arm. "Stay still. Don't move."
"I'm fine—"
"You're bleeding." He ripped a strip from the bedsheet—white cotton, quickly stained red—and wrapped it around her arm with practiced efficiency. "You're not fine."
"I am now that I’m with you."
Seth's hands stilled on her arm. His jaw tightened. "I'm sorry."
"Don't—"
"I'm sorry." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I should have listened to you. Should have let you come with me. Should have—"
"Seth." Hallie caught his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Stop."
"Hallie—"
"Stop." She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "If you apologize one more time, I'm going to gag you again."
A choked laugh escaped him—half sob, half relief. He pulled her into his arms, held her tight against his chest, buried his face in her hair.
"I thought I'd lose you," he whispered.
"You can't get rid of me that easily."
He chuckled, but it lacked its usual mirth.
"I thought I’d lose you too.” Hallie said somberly, her eyes shining with reppressed tears. “Are you hurt?"
She reached for his wrists—raw and red where the shadow-forged ropes had bitten into his skin. She lifted them to her lips, pressing soft kisses to the marks, one after another.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I should have gotten here sooner."
"No. It was a trap. When you entered that door, I thought it was over, that he’d kill you right there and then. I was terrified, and useless."
Hallie cupped his face with her soft palm. 
“You’re never useless. And you protected me. Stop putting all the blame on yourself. Give yourself some credit.”
Hallie kissed his lips softly, cherishing in his taste that was only Seth’s, which was now the taste of home.
They stayed there, holding each other, until the knock came at the door.
Marcus entered with two other Slayers Hallie didn't recognize. They took in the scene quickly—the bound man on the floor, the bloody bandages, the shadows still hovering at the edges of the room—and moved into action without questions.
"Greg Sanders," Marcus said, his voice flat. "You're being taken into custody by order of the Slayer Council. You will be held at the monastery until a full hearing can be conducted."
"You can't do this." Greg's voice was muffled by the makeshift gag, but his fury was unmistakable. "I'm a senior Slayer. I have rights—"
"You tried to kill an unarmed woman." Marcus knelt beside him, his expression cold. "You imprisoned your own son. You're lucky we're not leaving you here for the Paris police."
The other Slayers lifted Greg to his feet, supporting him between them. He struggled, but the ropes held, and his strength was no match for theirs.
"He'll be kept secure," Marcus said, rising. "I'll make sure of it."
Hallie nodded, her throat tight. "Marcus—one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Is it true? What Greg said about the attacks? Have there been more shadows in recent months?"
Marcus's expression flickered. He glanced at Seth, then back at Hallie.
"Yes," he said slowly. "The attacks have increased. Frequency, severity, organization. Something is driving them. Something with power."
Hallie's heart sank.
Soren. It had to be Soren. Even defeated, even diminished, he must be finding a way to reclaim his influence, to strike back at the world that had rejected him. She should have killed him when she had the chance. Should have ended it permanently, instead of leaving him to plot and plan in the shadows.
"I need to go back," she said.
Seth's hand found hers. "To the Empire?"
"I need to investigate. Find out what's causing the attacks. If Soren is behind this—" She shook her head. "I can't let more innocent people suffer. I won't."
"The Slayer Council can handle—"
"The Slayer Council doesn't understand the shadows the way I do." Hallie met his eyes. "This is my responsibility, Seth. My mess to clean up."
"Then I'm coming with you."
"Your classes—"
"Can wait." His voice was firm. "You're not going back there alone. Not after everything."
Hallie wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that she could handle this herself, that he didn't need to put his life on hold for her problems. But the words wouldn't come. Because the truth was simpler and more selfish: she didn't want to go without him.
"Okay," she said. "Together."
Seth squeezed her hand.
They went home first.
The familiar warmth of the apartment wrapped around them as Seth guided Hallie to the bathroom, settling her on the edge of the tub while he rummaged for the first aid kit. He cleaned the wound with antiseptic—Hallie hissed through her teeth but didn't pull away—and bandaged it properly, layer after layer of gauze until the bleeding finally slowed.
"You still need to go to the hospital," Seth said, his voice tight with worry. He frowned down at her arm, his hands lingering on the bandage as if he could will it to heal faster. "The wound is deep. It's still bleeding."
"I'll survive." Hallie's voice was matter-of-fact, almost dismissive. She touched his cheek, drawing his gaze to hers. "Plus, the shadows will help me heal. Don't worry."
Seth's frown deepened, his lips pressing into a pout that made him look younger, almost boyish—so different from the hardened Slayer who had faced down his own father hours ago.
Hallie couldn't help but smile. She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, kissing him softly. "Thank you for coming with me."
"Always." The word was a whisper against her lips.

They packed quickly, no time for hesitation.
Both of them moved through the apartment with practiced efficiency—gathering clothes, supplies, the small essentials that might make the difference between survival and disaster. Neither knew how long they would be gone. A few days? Weeks? 
Hallie's gaze drifted to her sketchbook, lying open on the table like a promise she might not be able to keep.
She had been so close. Another month—just a few more weeks—and her pieces would have graced the catwalk at one of the most prestigious fashion shows in Paris. The thought had carried her through sleepless nights, through Madame Leclerc's sharp critiques, through the exhaustion of pouring every ounce of herself into fabric and thread.
But now, that future felt like another impossible dream.
Her collection wasn't finished. The garments still needed work—delicate adjustments, refined seams, the kind of painstaking detail that couldn't be rushed. And her absence, however justified, would cost her. Madame Leclerc had little patience for excuses, and the other interns would waste no time seizing the opportunity her disappearance had created. By the time she returned—if she returned—her place at the atelier might no longer exist.
Hallie closed her eyes, her fingers brushing the cover of the sketchbook.
What could she do?
She couldn't let people die—couldn't stand by while Soren's shadow consumed the Empire and bled into the human world—just because she wanted to be a fashion designer. That dream, however precious, however hard-won, meant nothing if there was no world left to wear her creations.
But knowing that didn't make the sacrifice hurt any less.
She left the sketchbook on the desk, along with all her broken dreams, and didn't look back.