Fifteen: The Goddess of swords. 

Next chapter update will be on Tuesday 1st April. 

**********

Maggie's hands trembled—a subtle but persistent tremor she couldn't seem to quell. It wasn't from the cold. Nor was it fear, exactly. It was something more elusive, more unsettling—a dissonance within herself, as if her body and mind were out of sync. 

Her magical reserves, usually a wellspring of strength and comfort, felt strange—too full, almost buzzing beneath her skin with restless, unspent energy. Yet her mind, instead of sharing that power and stillness, was scattered. Fragments of thought and sharp, disjointed images swirled together, refusing to settle. She felt like a tightly wound spring—on the verge of snapping but with nowhere to release the tension. 

The relentless rhythm of their escape—fight, run, vanish, repeat—had worn her thin. The chaos, the adrenaline, the never-ending chase left cracks even magic couldn't seal. She was drained and restless all at once, her body vibrating with power while her spirit frayed at the edges. 

Even Tod, ever the steady one, noticed. 

Without a word, he reached over and took her trembling hand in his, his large, calloused palms enveloping hers with a warmth both familiar and grounding. The roughness of his skin, worn from years of labor and battles, was a comfort—a tether to something real and solid. 

His lips brushed her knuckles softly—a fleeting, wordless promise. She closed her eyes briefly, letting the sensation ground her, if only for a breath. The wild hum beneath her skin quieted—slightly, but it was enough. 

The bus lurched, its ancient suspension groaning and creaking over the rough, uneven road. The vibrations rattled through her bones, but it was a familiar discomfort, one she welcomed. Physical strain was easier to bear than the chaos within. 

They had been traveling for hours—too many to count. The rhythmic swaying of the bus should have lulled her into rest, but it didn't. Sleep, that elusive mercy, slipped from her grasp every time she chased it. 

Every time her eyes closed, the vision returned. 

The Raven. 

Pale white hair, wind-whipped and tangled. 

A desert—vast, empty, and cruelly endless. 

A voice—thin and desperate, reaching for her from the void. A plea. 

She could hear it—raw and wordless, more emotion than sound. A call for help that wrapped around her bones and refused to let go. 

No matter how she tried to push it aside, the image clung to her—a stubborn, unwelcome guest. It wasn't a dream. It felt… real. 

But what did it mean? 

The bus slowed. 

The change in momentum tugged at her body, and she jolted back into the present, her pulse spiking with sudden unease. 

Her eyes flicked to Tod. His head had lolled to the side, resting against the worn fabric of the seat, his grip on her hand still loose but present. 

His promise from earlier echoed in her mind: "Straight shot to the safe house. No stops." 

So why were they stopping now? 

Her gaze swept the length of the bus, and her stomach turned cold. 

Everyone—every single passenger—was Asleep.

She turned her head slowly, almost reluctantly, toward Melinda. The movement felt heavy, as if she were wading through something thick and invisible. 

Melinda was no longer simply slumped over in exhaustion. She had, in fact, succumbed entirely to whatever strange force was at play. Her body had gone limp, her head resting in an awkward but oddly peaceful position on the lap of the woman beside her. The woman, for all her earlier liveliness, was now just as unconscious—her thin, almost gangly frame curled into itself, her chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. 

It was an odd contrast. That very woman, now lost in sleep's quiet embrace, had been anything but restful moments ago. She had been the source of a constant, grating stream of complaints for what felt like the entire, endless journey. The dust—omnipresent, clinging to skin and seeping into lungs—had been her primary grievance. To be fair, it was a valid complaint. The roads were unpaved and unforgiving, the air thick with particles that burned the eyes and scratched the throat. But the way she harped on about it, her voice cutting through the general murmur of the bus like nails on glass, had made even the most patient of travelers shift uncomfortably in their seats. 

And then there were her opinions about Melinda. 

Or rather, about Melinda's parents. 

She had spoken with the certainty of someone who believed their perspective to be absolute truth, making sweeping declarations about how "children who look like that" were always the product of neglect. She had gestured dismissively at Melinda's two-toned hair—black and red streaks clashing boldly against each other—as if the colors alone were proof of some great parental failing. The chipped black polish on Melinda's nails had drawn a similar conclusion from her, as had the quiet, detached way the girl carried herself. 

To the woman, it was all irrefutable evidence of a lack of discipline. A failure of upbringing. A warning sign of something inherently wrong. 

But in reality, it was nothing more than a shallow assumption. A rigid, small-minded judgment born from a narrow understanding of the world—one that left no room for individuality, for rebellion, for simple self-expression. 

And yet, now she sat there, slumped in sleep, her criticisms silenced, her body swaying ever so slightly with the motion of the bus. 

Not the gentle, fitful sleep of travelers on a rough road, but something deeper. Heavier. Their bodies slumped unnaturally, faces slack, mouths slightly open. It was the stillness that alarmed her most. Not a whisper, not a rustle. Even the soft, unconscious movements people made in sleep—the twitch of a hand, the shift of a shoulder—were absent. 

A heavy, unnatural silence had descended. 

And then she saw Tod. 

His chest rose and fell steadily, his face peaceful, but something was wrong—off. His hand, still in hers, felt… distant. Cold, like the connection between them had dulled to something faint and far away. 

Panic, sharp and cold, clawed up her spine. 

Her body went rigid. 

She pulled her hand free, slowly, her every movement measured and deliberate, though her instincts screamed at her to shake him awake. 

And then— 

She turned. 

And the world cracked. 

Her heart lurched violently against her ribs. 

Because— 

She was still there.

She saw herself. 

Her body—seated, still, beside Tod. Her head, tilted slightly to the side. Her hand—still clasped loosely in his. 

The blood drained from her face. A sharp, icy disorientation swept through her, a primal terror taking hold. Her breaths came shallow and quick, her chest tightening, the sound of her pulse a deafening roar in her ears. 

What—what is this? 

Her mind seized on stories—whispers from Melinda, who had delighted in sharing the darker corners of magical lore. Tales of spectral displacements, wandering souls—disembodied awareness. 

The lost. 

The newly dead. 

Her stomach dropped. 

Am I—? 

A voice. 

Clear, crisp, and amused, it sliced through the silence like a blade. 

"You're not dead, silly." 

Maggie whipped around, heart hammering so violently it hurt. 

The passengers—still slumbering—shifted, their unconscious bodies tilting aside, limbs folding and bending in eerie unison, as if… making space. 

A path. 

And from that path— 

She came. 

A woman—impossibly tall, with an elegance that seemed to defy nature—approached. She moved with a grace so fluid, it felt like the air itself parted to accommodate her. Each step was measured, soft, but it carried the authority of a predator. 

Her hair, a cascade of silver-black, seemed to shimmer, shifting like liquid under the dim, greenish light filtering through the bus windows. Her face—regal, cold, and flawless—was neither young nor old but carried the weight of something ancient. 

Her eyes— 

They burned. 

Not with fire, but with something far more dangerous. 

A presence—too large for her form, too much to be contained within mere skin. 

Maggie's breath hitched. She felt the urge to step back—to run. 

But her legs would not move. 

The woman's gaze pinned her, held her fast with an unseen force more binding than any chain. 

The air thickened— 

And the world seemed to narrow— 

Until only the woman existed. 

A cold, suffocating stillness settled in Maggie's chest. 

Then, the woman smiled. 

And it was not a comfort. 

She was a vision of otherworldly elegance. 

Her gown, a masterpiece of deep violet fabric, cascaded around her in soft, flowing waves, moving with a life of its own. The material, impossibly fine and luminous, seemed to drink in the shadows and release them as a subtle, velvety sheen. It clung and billowed in perfect harmony, each fold and ripple speaking of both power and grace. 

At her waist, a silver belt, intricately wrought with interlacing patterns of vines and celestial symbols, cinched the fabric, emphasizing the commanding curve of her silhouette. The craftsmanship was exquisite, as though the metal itself had been coaxed into art rather than forged by mortal hands. 

Her long sleeves, voluminous and regal, gathered at the wrists, where delicate embroidery—tiny constellations stitched with silver thread—glimmered faintly as though touched by stardust. A sheer, flowing cape, weightless and whisper-thin, trailed behind her. It moved not by the whim of the air but with an almost sentient grace, undulating in soft pulses, as though responding to her very heartbeat. 

Crowning her head was a golden diadem—delicate yet commanding—its design weaving together leaves and stars in a perfect union of nature and cosmos. Shimmering gemstones, set like tiny planets in orbit, caught and refracted the ambient light, casting soft prisms across her pale skin. Above her, as though born from the fabric of her being, a halo-like structure hovered—an ethereal ring, warm with a golden luminescence, framing her as both queen and deity. 

Despite the softness of her adornments, her metallic boots—polished to a subtle gleam and laced with silver filigree—reached just below her knees, adding a grounding strength to her otherwise celestial presence. They spoke of a warrior, someone who had walked through battles and ruled beyond mere thrones. 

Her aura—intimidating and magnetic—filled the space, demanding both reverence and attention. Power seemed to ripple from her skin, yet it was a power tempered by grace, held with the care of one who understood both creation and destruction. 

Maggie stood frozen. 

Her chest felt tight, her lungs forgetting their simple, essential task. It wasn't just the woman's beauty that held her—it was something deeper. Something that brushed against Maggie's soul, awakening a whisper of familiarity she couldn't grasp. 

Her fingers twitched at her sides. Part of her wanted to reach out—toward what, she didn't know. The woman's presence pulled at her, a magnetic force that bypassed logic and struck something ancient, something unspoken. 

The woman's gaze, intense and infinite, softened. A flicker—vulnerability, almost sorrow—passed like a shadow across her perfect features. She reached forward, and her hand, cool and soft, lifted Maggie's chin with heartbreaking gentleness. 

"You don't seem to remember me, my child," the woman said, her voice a velvet ribbon threaded with melancholy. Each word, weighted and personal, carried echoes of something far older than the moment. 

Her eyes—impossibly deep, carrying galaxies within their depths—glistened. Tears, unshed but luminous, gathered at the edges of her long lashes, refracting the light into fragments of grief. 

The world shifted. 

Not with violence, but with a seamless, dreamlike inevitability. 

The confines of the bus dissolved, peeling away like mist burned by the sun. The seats, the windows, the droning engine—all gone, unraveling into a formless void that reassembled into something far older. Far grander. 

Maggie stood within the heart of a palace. 

Vast. Imposing. Ancient. 

The towering walls, constructed from dark, veined stone polished to a spectral sheen, rose so high they seemed to scrape the heavens. Their surfaces glinted with the dull shine of embedded metals—silver, bronze, and veins of something dark and iridescent that pulsed like a heartbeat. 

A hundred swords adorned the walls—each a sentinel, each unique. Their blades, polished to mirror-like perfection, caught the faint, ambient glow from unseen sources and reflected it in jagged, fractured rays. Some were pristine; others bore the worn edges and nicks of long-forgotten battles. They hung not as trophies, but as remembrances—silent witnesses to conquests and sacrifices. 

The air was thick—pregnant with history and the raw, metallic tang of aged steel. It smelled of cold stone, of magic long steeped into the marrow of the place, and of something more primal—power. 

The floor beneath Maggie's feet, smooth and dark as onyx, was inlaid with a colossal mosaic—a sigil. At its heart burned a symbol—part sword, part star, part something unnameable—its lines etched in a substance that glowed faintly, a dying ember in the dark. 

The woman stood once more—but now she was changed. 

Before her, a throne loomed—a monolith carved from pure obsidian, its surface smooth yet fractured with veins of faintly pulsing light. Its shape was raw and unyielding, a seat meant not for comfort but command. The power it radiated was heavy, oppressive, and absolute. 

Yet, the woman, standing before it, eclipsed even its might. 

She wore armor now. 

A suit of dark, exquisite metal, each plate etched with twisting, organic patterns that seemed to move, resembling the curling roots of an ancient tree or veins filled with liquid silver. The armor was no mere protection—it was a second skin, forged and claimed, bearing the marks of a thousand battles yet fitting her with the intimacy of a lover's touch. 

Its surface was iridescent, alive with an unsettling sheen—at once dark and luminous, catching and bending the dim light into subtle flares along her form. Every joint, every line, was a masterwork—both beautiful and deadly. 

Her hair—once contained, once softened—was now a wild tempest of fire. Waves of brilliant, untamed red cascaded around her shoulders, burning against the darkness like a defiant flame that no force could extinguish. It moved with her breath, with her pulse, a crown more primal than any diadem. 

And her eyes— 

Her eyes burned. 

No longer softened by sorrow, they became the cold forge of command—molten and unwavering. They were the eyes of one who ruled. One who had built—and destroyed—empires. 

In her hands, she held a sword that seemed less like a weapon and more like an extension of her very essence—raw power forged into steel. 

The hilt was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, wrapped tightly in supple black leather worn smooth from use. Its angular design, sharp and uncompromising, spoke of deadly efficiency—a tool made for swift, merciless justice. Despite its elegance, there was no softness in its form. It was a weapon meant for war, not ceremony. 

The blade itself was a marvel and a terror—a long, blackened length of steel, its surface faintly veiled in a shifting, dark aura. The metal seemed to drink in the surrounding light, releasing none. Every inch of its surface bore ancient carvings, delicate etchings that glowed with the barest trace of an eldritch power—alive, pulsing, as though whispering the echoes of forgotten battles. Each mark told a story—of blood, of victory, of loss—silent testaments written not in ink, but in power. 

A faint hum, like the low growl of a predator at rest, emanated from the blade, vibrating in Maggie's bones. It was not a weapon meant to be wielded—it was a force meant to be obeyed.

The air itself seemed to bend around the woman who held it, thick with tension, charged with something ancient and unspoken. She stood towering, her height alone imposing, but it was more than her stature that dominated the room—it was her presence. A presence so vast that it pressed against the very walls of the palace. The towering columns seemed to lean inward, as though bowing in submission. The shadows, thick and impenetrable, seemed to tremble in her wake, and the stones beneath her feet felt as though they held their breath. 

She was no mere warrior. 

She was the embodiment of destruction given purpose. 

Maggie's breath faltered under the weight of them. 

Yet— 

Even in this transformation—this ascent into something more than mortal—Maggie saw the shadow of that earlier softness. A flicker—hidden, but real. 

It was the softness of recognition. 

Of longing.

Of something lost. 

And though the woman's voice, when it came, was colder, sharper, and thrummed with authority— 

It still held a note of ache.

"Do you remember me now, little one?"

The world seemed to hold its breath. 

And so did Maggie. 

Maggie felt her knees buckle before she even realized she was falling. 

Her body, driven by instinct older than memory, sank to the cold stone floor, her palms scraping against the rough surface. A shudder ran through her, not from the chill of the room, but from the chill within—a primal terror curling around her heart. 

Her voice, when it came, was little more than a whisper, thin and trembling. 

"You… you are the Goddess of Swords," she managed, the words feeling both alien and inevitable on her tongue. 

Her lips felt dry, and her throat burned as though every syllable cost her something irreplaceable. 

The goddess's eyes, hard as tempered steel and burning like dying stars, narrowed. 

The silence stretched—a blade drawn slowly from its sheath—before she spoke, her voice cutting through the still air with the cold precision of her weapon. 

"You draw power from me," she said, her tone sharp and unforgiving, "and yet you fail to recognize your own master?" 

The air grew heavier, the temperature dropping until Maggie's breath began to frost in the space between them. 

"What manner of disciple are you?" 

The words struck like a blow—not to Maggie's body, but to her soul. Her stomach twisted, and cold dread flooded her veins. She felt the goddess's displeasure—not just in her voice but in the air, in the very marrow of the world around them, and it terrified her. 

Her head bowed, her forehead nearly brushing the cold stone. Her voice broke, raw and pleading. 

"Forgive me!" Maggie's voice cracked, the tremor in it betraying her fear. "Your disciple begs your mercy, Master!" 

Her body trembled—part terror, part desperation. She knew well the goddess's volatile nature, how swiftly favor could turn to fury. Her punishment, should it come, would be swift, absolute, and without appeal. 

The stone beneath her palms felt ancient and unyielding, rough enough to scrape her skin, but Maggie dared not lift her gaze. She didn't deserve to. 

The silence was agonizing. 

Then— 

"All is forgiven, child." 

The shift in the goddess's tone was slight, but it felt like the easing of a noose around Maggie's throat. The air, still cold, no longer pressed with that deadly weight. 

The goddess moved, her presence as inevitable as the tide, and with a single, decisive motion, she drove the massive sword downward. 

CRACK! 

The blade met the stone with earth-shaking force. A deafening boom echoed through the vast chamber, rattling the walls and sending a deep tremor through the bones of the palace itself. Spiderweb fractures splintered outward from where the blade had pierced the floor, the raw power of the impact lingering in the very air. 

The weapon stood upright, its hilt rising like a monument, and its blade embedded deep into the heart of the earth. 

The sound of it—the raw finality of it—seemed to echo through Maggie's very soul. 

The goddess, now seated upon the imposing obsidian throne, regarded Maggie with a gaze that seemed to pierce through her flesh and bone, straight into the core of her being. 

"We have much to discuss," she said. 

Her voice—calm, measured—held a finality more absolute than any decree. 

And Maggie felt the gravity of it—not just the words, but the weight they carried. 

The world, as she knew it, had shifted. 

**********

The sound of hurried footsteps on worn metal floors filled the large bus, sharp and urgent. 

"What do you mean you're leaving?" 

Melinda's voice—tight, cracked, desperate—cut through the chaos. Her hand clenched into fist at her side, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. She stood frozen in the doorway, her wide eyes fixed on the whirlwind of frantic motion before her. 

Maggie's back was turned, her movements swift and chaotic. She stuffed worn clothes into a weathered leather bag, her hands moving with an urgency that bordered on panic. 

Her voice was tight, the words spilling out between hurried breaths. 

"Mel, please." 

A pair of boots thudded into the bottom of the pack, followed by a tightly bound bundle of provisions. 

"There's something I have to do. It's—" she paused, her voice catching, "—it's important." 

Her knuckles were white where they gripped the strap of the bag. 

"Please, just understand." 

Melinda's eyes searched Maggie's face, desperate for something—anything—that made sense. 

Her voice broke under the weight of disbelief and something dangerously close to fear. 

"If you can't tell me, then—" her voice hitched, but she pressed on, her eyes burning, "—then at least tell Tod." 

The name—Tod—fell heavily between them, raw and pointed. 

Melinda's lips pressed thin. Despite her own reservations—despite the sharp, gnawing mistrust that came with Maggie's sudden bond with a man she'd known barely a week—even that felt more stable than this blind, reckless flight. 

She was grasping, desperate for any thread that would keep Maggie from slipping away. 

Maggie stopped. 

Her shoulders stiffened. Her breath, already unsteady, seemed to hold.

The room hung in a fragile, painful silence— 

—and then— 

She turned, her voice low, tight, raw with something she couldn't say. 

"I can't." 

Maggie's voice trembled, her lips pressed tightly together as though the words pained her to say. Her eyes—wide, glassy, and burning with emotion—locked onto Melinda's with a desperate intensity. 

"I can't tell anyone. She told me not to." 

The words were weighted, heavy with an invisible burden that pressed down on her chest. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the strap of her half-packed bag, her entire body taut, coiled like a spring ready to snap. 

"She?" 

Melinda's voice was sharp, confusion and frustration twisting through every syllable. Her brows knit together, her eyes darting across Maggie's face, searching for something—anything—that made sense. 

"Who is she? What is going on?" 

The low, steady voice that followed belonged to Tod. 

Maggie flinched at the sound. 

He stood in the doorway, his posture tense, his eyes dark with concern. His voice was rough, still shaking off the strange, unnatural slumber that had stolen him and every other passenger moments ago. His gaze flicked between them, taking in the tension crackling in the air like a live wire. 

The confusion in his eyes was clear, but beneath it lay something else—something soft, something worried. 

Maggie stopped. 

Her body stilled mid-motion, her hands frozen over the pack. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the bus felt too small. 

Slowly, she turned to face him. 

Her eyes, already brimming with tears, held his—and in them, Tod saw something that made his chest tighten. 

It wasn't anger. 

It wasn't fear. 

It was grief.

Her hands, trembling but tender, rose to cup his face. 

The warmth of her palms against his skin felt both familiar and final. Her thumbs brushed lightly over his cheekbones, and he felt the dampness there—the salt of tears that weren't his. 

And then— 

Her lips found his. 

The kiss was soft, but behind it lay a weight he felt.

Not the sweetness of a promise— 

—but the bitterness of goodbye.

Her lips were warm, but her tears were warmer, and he tasted them—felt them—knew them. 

The kiss lingered—just long enough for him to understand—before she pulled back, her breath shallow and shaking. 

Her voice, when it came, was a whisper—a threadbare thing held together only by sheer will. 

"I have to do this." 

Her eyes—wet, pleading—searched his, begging him to understand what her words couldn't say. 

"Please, Tod." 

Her voice cracked on his name. 

He felt something inside him splinter. 

But before he could speak— 

A sharp intake of breath came from behind them. 

"What is that on your forearm?" 

Melinda's voice, tight with alarm, shattered the fragile stillness. 

Maggie's head snapped toward her, and Tod's eyes followed. 

The mark was unmistakable. 

It covered her forearm from wrist to elbow—a vivid, almost angry red. 

The design was intricate and arresting: a sword with wide, unfurled wings, its edges sharp, its pattern so detailed it seemed almost alive. But it wasn't just the appearance that sent a chill through the room— 

—it was the faint pulse beneath it. 

The mark throbbed, as though a second heart beat beneath her skin. 

The lines of the design, impossibly, seemed to shift—subtle but undeniable—moving with an energy that felt both foreign and ancient. 

It glowed softly— 

—a warning. 

Maggie's arm snapped back, her hand covering the sigil. 

Her eyes—wide, panicked—met Melinda's, and in them, Melinda saw something that made her blood run cold. 

It wasn't shame. 

It was fear. 

"Not now," Maggie's voice was tight, the words pushed through clenched teeth. 

"Please." 

The plea was raw—fragile and desperate. 

Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. 

And then— 

She turned— 

"Wait!" 

But it was too late. 

The moment was over— 

The decision—made. 

Maggie hoisted the bag over her shoulder, the leather creaking under its strain, and without another word, she turned toward the door. 

Her footsteps were swift—too swift—each one striking the floor like a countdown. 

Melinda and Tod exchanged a look— 

—a flash of understanding— 

—and a flash of helplessness. 

Because they knew. 

There was nothing they could do. 

Not *now.

Any attempt to stop her would only push her further.

And worse— 

They might lose her forever. 

The door loomed before Maggie. 

Her hand, tight and shaking, found the handle. 

She paused. 

And then— 

She turned back. 

Her eyes— 

—met theirs— 

—one last time. 

In them was everything she couldn't say— 

The regret. 

The sorrow. 

The love.

And— 

The resolve. 

The next breath she took— 

Was her last with them in it. 

And then— 

With a sharp, resolute push— 

The door swung wide— 

And she— 

Jumped.

The night swallowed her whole. 

"Maggie!" 

The shout ripped from Tod's throat— 

Raw— 

Furious— 

Frantic.

His body moved before his mind did. 

A desperate lunge— 

A hand— 

Grasping at air— 

But she was— 

Gone. 

"Shit!" 

The curse exploded from his chest— 

A roar of helpless rage— 

And it— 

—shook the world awake. 

The still, sleeping passengers— 

—stirred.

Eyes opened.

Confusion unleashed.

A rough, muddied voice rose first—thick with sleep and suspicion— 

"What's—what's going on?" 

The speaker was a man— 

Grizzled, worn— 

A battered billy hat shadowing weathered eyes— 

His coat—mud-brown, scuffed, and tired— 

His expression—bewildered, uneasy— 

His gaze turned to Melinda. 

"What's happening?" 

Melinda's heart was pounding, but her voice—urgent and steady— 

"Get away from the door." 

But behind her— 

Tod— 

Eyes blazing— 

Voice a growl— 

"No." 

The word carved from stone. 

"We have to go after her." 

His fists clenched. 

His jaw—set. 

And his eyes— 

Burned.

With a fierce, unstoppable determination. 

Because— 

Maggie— 

Wasn't lost. 

Not yet. 

But if they waited— 

If they hesitated— 

She would be. 

Forever. 

"No. We'll only hold her back." 

Melinda's voice was firm, her tone sharp and unyielding, leaving no room for argument. Her eyes flashed with a determination that brooked no challenge. 

"We have to keep moving," she continued, her voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. "We must reach the Red Desert before the Skyless Night." 

Her hands curled tightly into fists at her sides, knuckles white. There was urgency in her words—a quiet, cold understanding that time was slipping through their fingers. 

"No," he growled, his voice low but carrying an undeniable force. His entire body was tense, coiled like a predator ready to spring. "We have to go after her. Now." 

Tod walked up to Melinda, his hand hovering over the stop button of the bus. His fingers twitched, hesitating. The dim interior lighting cast deep shadows over his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw and the slight tremor in his clenched fists. 

"Listen," Melinda said carefully, lowering her voice so the other passengers wouldn't overhear. "I know you care about Maggie. I do too. But we need to think this through. Rushing in blind isn't going to help anyone because we have no idea where she went." 

"You don't understand," Tod snapped, turning to face her fully now. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession, his breath hot and uneven. The desperation in his voice sent a shiver down Melinda's spine. "I need her. Now." 

Melinda frowned, studying him closely. The way his entire body trembled wasn't just from fear. It was something else. 

"Yeah, I get it, lover boy," she muttered, her eyes narrowing. "You're worried. We all are. But if we just jump off this bus without knowing where she is, we'll only make things worse." 

Tod shook his head violently. "No. You don't get it." His voice cracked, his hands gripping the edges of his seat so tightly that his nails dug into the worn fabric. His breath hitched, and then, barely above a whisper, he said, "It's a… a full moon." 

Melinda's stomach clenched. 

She didn't need to ask what that meant. 

His body jerked as if something inside him was shifting against his will. His jaw clenched, muscles spasming beneath his skin. A ripple moved down his spine, pushing against the fabric of his hoodie. His shoulders hunched, his breathing ragged. Even in the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through the window, she could see the dark, coarse hairs beginning to sprout along his neck and arms. 

"Oh boy," she muttered, forcing herself to stay calm. 

She glanced around the bus. No one had noticed—yet. But if Tod lost control here, in an enclosed space full of innocent people, it would be a bloodbath. 

Moving quickly, she grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into his skin. His muscles tensed beneath her grip, burning with feverish heat. She reached into her bag, yanking out a heavy, oversized coat she had stuffed there earlier. Without hesitation, she threw it over his shoulders, pulling the hood up to conceal his changing features. 

"Just… breathe," she whispered urgently. "Try to hold on. We'll get off at the next stop. Just hold on." 

Tod squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body shaking. His hands twitched, fingers curling into claws before he forced them straight again. 

Melinda exhaled sharply. Maggie had left them, with no defined explanation of what was happening or where she went and now Tod was on the verge of losing himself to the full moon's pull. 

She gritted her teeth. 

They were running out of time.