BLOODLINE ZERO

The pack bond has been going wrong for eleven days, and I haven't told a single soul.

Not Niall. Not the council. Not the three elders who've been calling since Thursday with questions I keep deflecting because the moment I say it out loud, it becomes a thing that's happening instead of a thing I'm managing, and I am not ready for it to be a thing that's happening.

It started small. The way these things always start — not with a crack but with a loosening. A morning where I had to reach slightly further than usual to feel Marcus in Inverness, his usual low hum of anxiety about the lambing season, the particular shade of his worry that I've known since he was sixteen. The next day, it took longer. The day after that, what came back wasn't his specific frequency but something more like the shape of a frequency, the outline of a man without the man inside it.

By day four I was reaching and getting smoke.

I know the pack bond the way I know my own heartbeat — not because I think about it, but because its absence is the thing that would be unthinkable. Thirty-one souls across Scotland, each one a note I've been hearing so long I stopped hearing it separately and just heard the chord. My pack. My people. I have known the location and emotional state of every one of them, without trying, since I was seventeen years old and my father pressed my hand to the earth outside the Greymantle house in the winter dark and said: feel it. And I felt it. All of them, suddenly, like lights coming on in distant windows.

Those lights have been going out for eleven days. Not all at once. One by one, or sometimes in clusters, like a power cut moving through a city.

I'm standing at the window of my office, forty-seventh floor, full glass, Edinburgh below me doing what Edinburgh does at nine in the evening in November, which is making everywhere else look like it isn't trying, and I'm reaching. Methodically. North first. Marcus, Inverness. The shape is there. The man is not.

South. Elspeth, just outside Dumfries. The shape of her. Not her.

East. Callum, Fiona, and their three daughters, Dunbar, the headland house. Shapes. Outlines. Nothing inside.

I reach further. I reach the way you reach when you're afraid of what reaching will confirm. I reach all the way to the edges of it, to the furthest members, the ones I feel least clearly on a good day. Young Rory in Aberdeen, nineteen years old, joined the pack last spring, his frequency always slightly tentative, a new voice that hadn't quite found its full sound yet.

Silence.

Thirty-one shapes in the dark. Thirty-one outlines with the contents removed.

Niall knocks at nine forty-seven. I know it's him from the knock — two short, deliberate, the knock of a man who considers announcing himself properly to be a form of respect. He enters, checks the room's corners out of habit, and then looks at me. Whatever he sees makes him take a breath before he speaks.

"It's not just us," he says.

Something in my chest that has been in one position for eleven days shifts.

"Vienna reported in this morning." He crosses to my desk. Sets down a single printed page with the deliberate care of someone who has thought carefully about how to deliver something. "Prague went dark yesterday. Lisbon haven't responded to three separate messages." He pauses. His voice doesn't change — he's too good for that — but something behind his eyes does. "The degradation pattern is consistent across all five bloodlines. Starts eleven days ago. Simultaneously." Another pause. "To the hour."

I look at the page. The numbers are clean and terrible. I don't need to read them twice because I already understand what they mean, the way you understand things that you've been half-knowing for days and have been refusing to fully know.

"How confident are you in the timeline correlation?" I ask, because I need to hear myself ask a professional question. Because if I'm asking professional questions I'm still in the part of this where I'm managing it.

"Four independent checks," Niall says. "The correlation is exact."

Exact. Not approximate, not close. Exact.

I look back at the window. The castle is lit against a sky that can't decide between navy and something darker, the Old Town stacking itself up the ridge the way it has for five centuries, all that accumulated stone and stubbornness and survival, and I'm thinking about a woman in a green coat. A Tuesday dinner three weeks ago. The way she asked about the Greymantle restructure with genuine interest and ate her whole meal and laughed, genuinely, at something I said. The way she hugged me at the end of the evening — quick, warm, and said take care of yourself.

Not goodnight. Not see you soon. Take care of yourself.

I thought she was tired.

I am standing at this window with the accumulated weight of eleven days of not saying the thing, and Niall is behind me, and the page is on my desk, and I understand that I have been running out of room to not say it for long enough that the room has now run out entirely.

"Niall," I say.

"Sir."

"That's the evening she left, isn't it. Eleven days ago."

A pause. Long enough to be kind. "Yes," he says. "It is."

I turn from the window. "Get me lines to Vienna, Prague, and Lisbon. Tonight." I move to the desk, past the printed page, past the part of me that wants to keep standing at the window not quite dealing with it. "And pull everything we have on conduit theory. Everything. I want it on my desk in an hour."

He moves. He's almost at the door when my phone buzzes on the desk. Unknown number. I pick it up.

The text reads: I've been here for three years. I know where she goes when she's afraid. Don't make me regret this.

I read it once. Twice. The third time I'm reading it differently, looking at the specific weight of the word regret, not a threat against me, a threat against themselves, the specific warning of someone who is offering something they've kept locked for a very long time and is not entirely sure they should be unlocking it.

Someone has been here for three years.

Someone has known about her for three years.

Niall is watching me from the doorway. I show him the screen. He reads it, and I watch his face do the careful work of not reacting, and then he looks at me, and I look at him, and neither of us says anything about the fact that there is a very short list of people in a position to send this message, and that the list does not include anyone I've fully trusted.

"Make the calls," I say.

He goes.

I stand in my office with the city below and the pack in the dark and the unknown number on my screen, and I start to understand, in the specific way that understanding arrives when you've been refusing it, exactly how badly I've miscalculated this.

I open my contacts. I call the number that always goes to voicemail. I leave one message. I say: We need to meet. All of us. Edinburgh. I know what's happening and I know who we need to find.

I hang up.

Outside the window Edinburgh holds its position, indifferent, permanent, five hundred years of stone that has survived everything that ever tried to undo it, and I think about a woman who smiled at me over coffee six months ago like she was seeing something she'd been looking for, and I think about the six months between then and now, and the intelligence report in my desk drawer, and the eleven words I never said, and the silence where thirty-one people used to be.

The phone buzzes again. Same unknown number.

Just an address this time. A village on the Scottish Borders coast, a street name, a postcode.

I look at it for a long time.

Then I pick up my coat.