I spend fifteen minutes in the bathroom, methodically cleaning every trace of the black substance from my face. The skin absorbs most of it, leaving behind a faint iridescent sheen that fades after a few minutes. My reflection looks haunted, dark circles under my eyes making the left one appear even more shadowed than usual. Nothing I can do about that.
The dream lingers like smoke, impossible to grasp but refusing to dissipate entirely. I try to focus on individual images – the field of black flowers, the ancient temples, my mother's dissolving form – but they slip away, leaving only impressions. Fear. Recognition. A bone-deep certainty that I've glimpsed something true.
I text James back: Where?
His response comes quickly: The pier. One hour. Come alone.
The pier. Our usual meeting spot when he needs to share something off the books. Maximum visibility in all directions, multiple escape routes, and enough ambient noise from the harbor to make surveillance difficult. Part of me wants to tell Marcus, to have backup nearby just in case. But James wouldn't ask me to come alone unless it was important.
I take a quick shower, letting the hot water wash away the last physical traces of my dream. My hands shake slightly as I get dressed – black cargo pants, combat boots, a dark grey hoodie that can hide weapons but won't draw attention. The changed knife goes into its sheath at my hip, concealed but accessible.
The halls are quiet as I make my way out of the building. Night shift is minimal – just essential security personnel and the occasional analyst. No sign of Marcus or Dr. Chen. Small mercies.
Outside, the city is caught in that peculiar liminal space between midnight and dawn. Traffic is sparse, mostly delivery trucks and early-shift workers. The air has a bite to it, carrying the first hints of autumn. I pull my hood up and start walking.
It's a forty-minute walk to the pier, but I need the time to clear my head. Each step helps ground me in the physical world, in the concrete reality of asphalt under my feet and the distant sound of waves against the shoreline. The darkness behind my eye settles into its usual dull throb, almost comfortable in its familiarity.
I take a circuitous route, doubling back twice to ensure I'm not being followed. Old habits die hard, and lately, they feel more necessary than paranoid. The Church is evolving, becoming unpredictable. And after what I saw in my dreams...
The pier is deserted when I arrive, save for a few seagulls picking through yesterday's discarded food containers. James stands at the far end, looking out over the water. Even from behind, I recognize the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds himself ready for trouble. Some things the Church drills into you never quite go away.
He doesn't turn as I approach, but I know he's tracking my movement. We were trained by the same people, after all.
"You look terrible," he says when I reach him, still gazing out at the harbor.
"You really know how to make a girl feel special." I lean against the railing beside him, maintaining a careful distance. Close enough to talk quietly, far enough that neither of us feels trapped. "What was so important it couldn't wait?"
Now he does look at me, and I see the same haunted expression I saw in my mirror earlier. "I found something in the Church's archives. Something they tried very hard to bury."
"About my mother?"
He nods, then reaches into his jacket. I tense automatically, but he just pulls out a manila envelope, worn and water-stained. "After you escaped, they purged most of the records about you and your family. But they missed this. It was filed under a different project name."
I take the envelope. It's thin, containing only a few sheets of paper. "What project?"
"'Lineage,'" he says. "It goes back a lot further than we thought, Vesper. The Church didn't start with your mother. They were watching your family for generations."
My dream flashes through my mind – ancient temples, secret rituals, a bloodline carefully maintained. My hands don't shake as I open the envelope, but it's a near thing.
The first page is a genealogical chart, extending back nearly three hundred years. Names and dates, some familiar, most not. But what catches my eye are the annotations. Symbols I recognize from the Church's rituals, marking certain individuals. And beside some names, a small drawing of an eye with a spiral pupil.
"They all had it," I whisper. "The darkness."
James moves closer, his shoulder almost touching mine. "Not all of them. But enough. One or two per generation, always in the female line. The Church called them 'resonant bloodlines' – families with a natural affinity for... for Them."
I shuffle through the other papers. Birth records, death certificates, medical reports. All meticulously documenting the manifestation of my family's curse. Or gift. Or whatever it is.
"My mother," I say, finding her file. "What really happened to her?"
James is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is gentler than I've ever heard it. "She didn't die in childbirth. Not exactly. She..." He stops, searching for words. "The records say she achieved 'perfect communion' during her pregnancy. That she managed to maintain contact with Them for over seven months while carrying you."
The implications hit me like a physical blow. "She was touching Them the whole time I was... while I was..."
"Developing. Growing. Being shaped by forces that reality was never meant to contain." His hand moves toward mine on the railing, stops just short of touching. "The Church didn't infect you, Vesper. They didn't have to. Your mother did it for them. Willingly."
The papers crumple in my grip. "No. She wouldn't..."
"She was a true believer. Third generation Church member, raised in the faith like you were supposed to be. The records say she volunteered for the pregnancy, knew the risks. Knew what prolonged contact would do to her child."
I think of my dream, of seeing her body filled with darkness and stars. "What happened to her?"
"The communion burned her out. By the time you were born, there wasn't much left of her original personality. She lived for another three years in the Church's care facility, but she never..." He hesitates. "She wasn't really human anymore. The contact changed her too much."
A gust of wind off the harbor threatens to tear the papers from my hands. I stuff them back into the envelope, trying to process what I'm hearing. The darkness behind my eye pulses, and for a moment I swear I can feel my mother's presence – not the hollow thing she became, but the woman she was, reaching across decades to touch her daughter's mind.
"There's more," James says quietly. "The Church, they're not just trying to replace you anymore. They're trying to replicate what your mother did. The seeding attempts, the new methods – they're looking for other resonant bloodlines. Other women who might be able to carry a child touched by Them."
The implications turn my stomach. "How many?"
"I don't know. But they're getting desperate. The Convergence is coming, and they need a viable vessel. Someone like you."
"Or my child," I whisper, the pieces clicking into place. "A child born already touched, already connected..."
James's hand finally closes over mine on the railing. His palm is warm against my cold fingers. "I won't let that happen."
I look at him, really look at him. The scars on his face from his escape. The way his left hand trembles slightly from nerve damage. The weight of guilt and determination in his eyes. "Why are you helping me? Really?"
"Because I've seen what they do to children in the name of their faith. Because every time I close my eyes, I see the faces of the ones I helped them break." His grip tightens. "Because you got out, and that means others can too."
Something passes between us in that moment, something that has nothing to do with the Church or cosmic horrors or ancient bloodlines. Just two broken people who've seen too much, who carry too many scars, reaching for something human in a world that keeps trying to make them into something else.
I pull my hand away first. Have to.
"I should get back," I say, tucking the envelope into my hoodie. "Marcus will notice I'm gone soon."
James nods, already stepping back, professional distance returning to his posture. "Be careful. They're watching more closely than usual. Something about the Convergence has them spooked."
"You too. And James?" I meet his eyes. "Thank you. For finding this. For... everything."
He gives me a half-smile that makes my heart do uncomfortable things. "Get some real sleep, Vesper. You look like hell."
I leave him standing at the pier, looking out over the dark water. The walk back seems longer somehow, heavier with the weight of what I've learned. The envelope feels like it's burning a hole in my pocket, filled with answers I'm not sure I wanted.
My mother's voice echoes in my memory: A door that walks. A key that thinks. A piece of Them that learned to dream it was human.
The darkness behind my eye pulses, hungry and aware.
I walk faster.