Chapter 10 Goodbye Fred
The city lights hit me like a slap after the dark rush of the abandoned elementary school I was hiding in. My body is a knot of exhaustion and adrenaline, every muscle trembling from the run. My clothes are torn, my skin burning from where branches ripped across it, but I don’t dare slow down. Not yet. Not when Darius’s wolves might still be hunting.
I keep to the shadows, ducking between alleyways, avoiding the cameras I know litter the streets. My heartbeat won’t calm. Every sound—the whir of a passing car, the distant siren, the echo of boots—feels like it could be them—his pack. Him.
It takes me nearly an hour to reach the old theater. The place looks like it hasn’t seen life in decades: boarded windows, graffiti peeling on the walls, a flickering streetlight dying above the door. But I know better. Beneath the decay, it’s still my safehouse. It was one of the few places I ever trusted enough to stash what I might one day need to disappear.
I slip inside through a side door, prying it open just enough to slide through. The air smells of mildew and dust, heavy with memories of applause and cigarette smoke long gone. The grand stage lies in ruins, with ripped curtains, broken seats, and a ghost of an audience.
I know exactly where I’m going.
There’s a room behind the stage that used to be a dressing area. Rusted mirrors, shattered bulbs, a wall of old lockers no one has touched in years. I head straight for the third one from the left, number 27. My hand shakes slightly as I spin the combination lock, the numbers etched into my memory, and I twist the handle. For a heartbeat, it sticks, and panic spikes through me. Then it gives.
The metal creaks open, and relief floods me so violently that I nearly collapse
Inside, my emergency bag waits, dusty, untouched, exactly where I left it. I grab it and drop to the floor, unzipping it with trembling hands.
Inside, everything is still there: a few wads of cash, an old burner phone, fake IDs, a knife, and some needles and syringes.
My fingers tremble as I pull out the vial with the masking serum which was still intact in my pocket. The masking serum glows faintly under the dim light, silver-blue like moonlight trapped in glass. I’ve been saving this. The last of it. A single dose.
For when I truly needed it.
I stare at it for a long second. My reflection on the glass looks almost feral, blood-smeared, hair tangled, eyes wild. A stranger. And I realize this is that moment. If Darius tracks me, if he tells the Council, if they find out what I am… It’s over. The serum is the only thing standing between me and death.
With a slow breath, I pull the cap off, draw the liquid out using the syringe, and jab the needle into my arm. The burn was immediate, spreading like liquid fire beneath my skin. I grit my teeth, steadying my breathing as the serum does its work. It’s not a pleasant sensation, my scent shifting, dimming, folding into nothingness. Within seconds, I can’t even smell myself anymore. The beast in me almost sighs in satisfaction.
For now, I’m invisible again.
No tracker will catch my trail. Darius won’t be able to find me.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I slump against the locker, staring at the empty syringe. My pulse slows, but only slightly. The fear doesn’t vanish, it never does. It just hides, like me.
When I finally stand, my legs are unsteady, but I force them to move. I can’t stay here. This city is full of eyes and ears. Darius will eventually reach it.
I have to leave as soon as possible but first I have to do one thing.
I shove everything back into the bag, sling it over my shoulder, and leave the theater through the same side door I came in. I had to say goodbye to Fred.
He’s the only person who’s ever shown me kindness without asking for something in return. I don’t want to drag him into this—hell, he deserves better—but I can’t leave without saying goodbye. Not properly.
The streets are quieter now as I make my way to his apartment. Dawn hasn’t broken yet, but the horizon is paling, a thin gray-blue promise of morning. My boots leave faint marks on the wet pavement; the air tastes of metal and rain.
By the time I reach his building, an aging apartment complex that always smells faintly of fried food and dust, my limbs are trembling again, not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion. I climb the fire escape, counting each rusted step, wincing when one creaks too loudly. His window is on the second floor, same as always, the one with the half-dead plant hanging from the sill was unlocked, like always. Stupid. Kind. Reckless.
When I reach his window, I tap lightly once, twice, listening. Silence. Good. He must have spent the night at the pub like we did when there was a busy night and we couldn't close early. I slip inside silently.
The room smells like coffee and old books, faintly warm, him. It’s a small space, cluttered but lived in, with photos tacked to the wall and his guitar leaning against the couch. I pause in the middle of it, heart twisting painfully.
I drop my bag onto the table and look around one last time. The apartment feels haunted by memories, late-night conversations, shared laughter, the quiet comfort of not having to hide what I was, at least not all of it.
I pull out a scrap of paper from my bag and a pen from his counter. The words don’t come easily, but I write anyway, forcing them through the tightness in my throat.
I'm sorry for leaving. Don’t look for me. —Lyra.
My hand trembles as I set the note on the kitchen table beside his mug. I glance around, one last time, letting my eyes linger on the little things: the blanket we used when we fell asleep watching old movies, the cracked mug he refused to throw away because I once said I liked the color, the way sunlight spills through the blinds, catching dust in the air.
This was the closest thing I’d had to home.
And I was about to lose it.
I turn toward the window, ready to leave before my heart can change its mind, when the sound of a key turning in the lock freezes me.
My pulse stops.
A click.
The door creaks open.
I freeze. My heart jumps painfully against my ribs.
Footsteps. Slow. Familiar.
Then his voice, soft, disbelieving—
“Lyra?”