Covenant Shadows

Marcus had worn a suit exactly twice in his life. Once for his cousin Damon's funeral shot outside a gas station over some beef nobody remembered anymore. Once for eighth-grade graduation, where the jacket was too short in the arms and his mom had to safety-pin the pants so they wouldn't fall down.

This suit was different. Charcoal gray, tailored like it had been sewn onto his body. The fabric moved when he moved, breathed when he breathed. Even the shoes Italian leather that probably cost more than his mom's rent felt like wearing expensive socks.

"Stop fidgeting," Amara said, adjusting his tie. They stood in what she called the receiving room, all dark wood and paintings of dead people with judgmental eyes. "You look good."

"I look like I'm about to sell somebody a timeshare."

"You look like someone worth taking seriously." She stepped back, examining him like he was a science project. "Magistrate Pennington will judge you on everything how you stand, how you speak, whether you slouch. The Covenant is old money, old power. They respect presentation."

"So basically act like I got a stick up my"

"Marcus." Her tone cut him off, but her eyes were amused. "Just be yourself. The version of yourself who knows he belongs here."

Easy for her to say. She'd probably been born knowing which fork to use at fancy dinners. Marcus still ate cereal with a tablespoon when all the teaspoons were dirty.

The doorbell didn't ring it chimed, some classical music thing that echoed through the whole house. Tobias appeared from nowhere, moving to answer it with his usual silent grace.

"Remember," Amara said quietly, "she'll test your psychometry first. Whatever she hands you, take your time. Don't let the visions control you."

"What if I see something bad?"

"Tell the truth. Pennington values honesty over comfort."

Voices drifted from the foyer. Tobias's bass rumble, then something higher, clipped, like scissors cutting silk. Marcus's enhanced hearing picked up footsteps precise, measured, heels clicking a rhythm that screamed authority.

Magistrate Pennington entered like winter.

She wasn't tall, maybe five-four in heels, but she filled the room. Steel-gray hair pulled back so tight it stretched her face. Skin pale as printer paper, with that translucent quality that made Marcus think of cave fish. Her suit was the color of dried blood, and she carried a briefcase that looked older than the Constitution.

But it was her eyes that made his skin crawl. Colorless, like water, but somehow deep. Looking at her was like staring into a well and knowing something was staring back.

"Ms. Blackwood." Her voice matched her eyes clear, cold, bottomless. "I trust you've prepared the candidate."

"Magistrate Pennington." Amara inclined her head exactly one inch. "May I present Marcus Johnson, of the Toussaint bloodline."

Those water eyes turned on Marcus. He felt them peel back his skin, examine his bones, weigh his soul. The tracker on his wrist hidden under his sleeve buzzed against his skin. 75%.

"Mr. Johnson." She didn't offer her hand. "I've reviewed your file. Interesting reading. Street enforcement, sister's honor defended, awakening under the blood moon. Very... dramatic."

Was that an insult? Marcus couldn't tell. "Yes ma'am."

"Ma'am." She tasted the word like wine. "Southern manners. How quaint." She set her briefcase on the coffee table, working the brass clasps with fingers that looked like they'd never seen sunlight. "Shall we begin?"

She pulled out three items, setting them on the table with ritual precision. A tarnished pocket watch. A child's leather shoe, cracked with age. A silver letter opener with a pearl handle.

"Choose one," she said. "Tell me what you see."

Marcus looked at Amara, who gave him the tiniest nod. He reached for the watch then stopped. Something about the shoe called to him, a whisper at the edge of hearing.

He picked it up. The leather was soft, worn smooth by small feet. Size of a five-year-old, maybe six. The moment his fingers closed around it, the world tilted.

Rain on cobblestones. Gas lamps flickering. A girl in a white dress, running, always running. Behind her, shadows that weren't shadows. Teeth and claws and hunger older than the city. She stumbles, falls. The shoe comes off. She doesn't stop to get it. Bare foot on wet stone, blood between her toes. The shadows are so close now. So close

"She got away."

Marcus didn't realize he'd spoken until the vision broke. He was back in Amara's receiving room, the shoe trembling in his hand. Sweat ran down his back, soaking the expensive shirt.

Pennington leaned forward, colorless eyes sharp. "How do you know?"

"Because..." Marcus closed his eyes, chasing the vision's tail. "Because the fear in the shoe is old but not... not final. It's the fear of running, not dying. She made it somewhere safe. A church maybe. Somewhere with iron doors."

"St. Philip's Cathedral," Pennington said softly. "Boston, 1892. The girl was my grandmother. She was being hunted by a rogue vampire, one of the first the Covenant ever executed." She held out her hand for the shoe. "What else?"

"She was... different. Not regular human. The shadows wanted her specifically."

"She was a natural medium. Untrained, unprotected. The vampire thought her blood would grant him daywalking." Pennington placed the shoe back in her briefcase with surprising gentleness. "You have genuine sight, Mr. Johnson. Untutored but genuine."

She pulled out a folder, thick with typed pages. "Now for the practical evaluation. You subdued a shadowfall earlier, yes?"

"Yes ma'am."

That almost-smile again. "Ma'am. Very well. Tell me—when you shaped the shadow, what did you use as your focus?"

Marcus thought back. "Good memories. My sister laughing. My mom singing."

"Love." She made a note. "Interesting. Most Moonborn use rage or fear as their primary channeling emotion. Love is... harder to weaponize."

"I wasn't trying to make a weapon."

"No?" Those water eyes found his again. "Then what were you trying to make?"

"I don't know. Something that would protect instead of destroy, I guess."

Pennington wrote for a long moment, her fountain pen scratching like claws on paper. Finally, she looked up. "Ms. Blackwood, might we have a moment alone?"

Amara stiffened. "Magistrate, protocol states"

"Protocol states a guardian must be present for minors under fourteen. Mr. Johnson is sixteen." She tilted her head, and Marcus caught a flash of something under the cold—steel, sharp and final. "Unless you believe your student requires a chaperone?"

It was a trap. Marcus could smell it. Say yes, and he looked weak. Say no, and he was alone with someone who made vampires nervous.

"I'm good," he said before Amara could answer. "We can talk."

Amara's jaw tightened, but she nodded. "I'll be in the study." She caught Marcus's eye. "Remember what I taught you."

When she was gone, Pennington's whole demeanor shifted. Not warmer exactly, but less formal. She pulled out a silver flask from her briefcase, took a sip, offered it to Marcus.

"I don't"

"It's tea," she said. "Earl Grey with honey. I find it helps with the visions."

He took a careful sip. It did help, washing away the phantom taste of rain and fear.

"Tell me about your sister," Pennington said.

The question caught him off guard. "Keisha? What about her?"

"You awakened defending her. That suggests a strong protective instinct. But protection can become possession. How do you know when to let go?"

Marcus set down the flask harder than necessary. "I don't possess nobody. I keep her safe. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Pennington leaned back, studying him. "Your friend Dante thought he was protecting his brother. Now he's a vampire raising an army. Where's the line?"

"The line is Tyrell had his hands on my fourteen-year-old sister. The line is grown men don't touch kids." His voice came out harder than he meant, streetwise Marcus bleeding through the suit.

"And if your sister chose to date someone you disapproved of? If she made choices that put her at risk?"

"Then I'd talk to her. Try to guide her. But I wouldn't..." He thought of Dante, of gold teeth and gun barrels. "I wouldn't become a monster trying to keep monsters away."

Pennington made another note. "You've thought about this."

"Every day since that night."

"Good." She closed the folder. "Power without philosophy is just violence with better tools. The Covenant has seen too many Moonborn fall to that trap."

She stood, gathering her things with the same ritual precision. "You pass, Mr. Johnson. Provisionally."

"Provisionally?"

"You have six days remaining in your probation period. Stay out of trouble. Continue your training. Don't give Matthias an excuse to finish what he started." She clicked her briefcase shut. "And Mr. Johnson? A word of advice."

"Yeah?"

"Your grandmother the one who marked you. She was known to us. Marie-Claire Toussaint was one of the strongest Moonborn of her generation. She could have been Magistrate herself, could have shaped policy for the entire Western Hemisphere." Pennington moved toward the door, paused. "Instead, she chose family. Chose to hide, to blend in, to let her power sleep. Right up until she marked you."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying she saw something in you worth waking. Worth risking exposure for. Don't waste it on small revenge." Those colorless eyes found his one last time. "The Covenant needs warriors, yes. But we need leaders more. Think about which one you want to be."

She left without saying goodbye. Marcus heard her heels clicking down the hall, heard Tobias murmur something polite, heard the front door close with a sound like sealing a tomb.

Amara appeared in the doorway. "Well?"

"I passed. Provisionally."

"She likes you."

Marcus snorted. "That was her liking me?"

"Trust me. When Pennington doesn't like someone, they know it. Usually because they're on fire." Amara moved to the window, watching the Magistrate's town car pull away. "What did she say when I left?"

"Asked about Keisha. About the difference between protection and possession."

"Ah." Amara's reflection in the window looked older, tired. "The eternal question. How to guard without becoming a prison guard."

"You ever figure it out?"

"No." She turned from the window. "But I've learned to recognize when I'm failing. That's something." She checked her phone, frowned. "Three missed calls from downtown. Something's happening."

Before she could dial back, Marcus's enhanced hearing picked up something else. Engines. Multiple vehicles, moving fast, no headlights. The growl wasn't normal—deeper, modified. The kind of sound that meant someone was rolling heavy.

"Company," he said.

Amara was already moving. "Tobias! Lockdown protocol. Now."

The house responded like a living thing. Steel shutters slammed down over windows. Locks engaged with pneumatic hisses. The lights dimmed to emergency amber. Marcus felt power surge through the walls wards activating, defenses coming online.

"What's happening?"

"I don't know." Amara pulled a drawer open, revealing an arsenal that would make the ATF nervous. She tossed him a vest not bulletproof, something older, carved with symbols that hurt to look at. "But Pennington just left, which means our location is compromised. And those engines"

Glass shattered upstairs. Something howled not human, not wolf, but wrong like mixing the two.

"Werewolves," Amara finished. "In my house. On a school night." She chambered a round in something that looked like a shotgun had a baby with a flamethrower. "Marcus, remember what I said about knowing when to run?"

"Yeah?"

"This isn't one of those times." She smiled, all teeth and danger. "This is when we remind them why Moonborn used to rule the night."

The tracker on his wrist blazed: 85% and climbing.

Upstairs, something roared. The hunt was on.