Chapter 27
title: "The Thing Inside" wordCount: 2919
The blood under my fingernails is still wet, and I have absolutely no memory of whose throat I tore out.
My eyes snap open. The observation room. Still locked. Still the same fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry wasps. But something is different.
Declan is breathing.
Not the shallow, dying gasps from before. Real breaths. Deep and even. His chest rises and falls beneath his shredded shirt, and when I force myself to look at the wounds—the places where my claws opened him up—I see only scars. Pink and fresh, but closed. Healed.
Impossible.
I push myself up on my elbows. My body screams in protest, every muscle feeling like it has been wrung out and left to dry, but the silver sickness that was killing me has dulled to a distant ache. Still there. Still poisoning me. But no longer dragging me under.
My mother is curled on her side three feet away, her breathing steady. The silver sheen that was spreading across her skin is gone. She looks like she is sleeping. Just sleeping.
What the hell happened?
I look down at my hands. Blood. Dried on my palms, crusted under my nails, smeared up my forearms like I plunged them into something wet and vital. My shirt—Declan's shirt, the one he gave me—is stiff with it.
Movement outside the observation window catches my eye.
Three bodies. Guards. Sprawled in the hallway like broken dolls, their throats torn open, their blood painting the walls in arterial spray patterns that I recognize because I have seen them before. I have made them before.
But I do not remember doing it.
My stomach lurches. I scramble backward until my spine hits the wall, staring at my hands like they belong to someone else. They might as well. Because whoever killed those guards, whoever healed Declan and my mother while the silver was supposed to be killing me—
It was not me.
"Sloane."
Declan's voice. Rough with sleep and something else. Something that makes my skin prickle.
I look up. He is awake. Sitting up. And he is looking at me the way you look at a rabid dog you are not sure you can outrun.
"Declan." My voice cracks. "What—"
"Do not." He holds up one hand. The other is pressed against his chest, over the scars that should not exist. "Do not come closer."
The words hit like a physical blow. I freeze, my body going rigid, and for a second I think the presence is taking over again. But no. This is just me. Just the way my chest caves in when the person I—
When he looks at me like I am the monster.
"I did not—" I start, but the words die because I do not know if they are true. "I do not remember."
"I know." His jaw works. "You were not... you. Your eyes went silver. Completely silver. No iris, no pupil. Just silver."
My hand goes to my throat. "Did I—"
"You healed me." He says it flat. Factual. "You put your hands on my chest and the wounds closed. It hurt like hell, but they closed. Then you did the same to Moira. Then you stood up, walked to the door, and when the guards came to check on us, you—"
He does not finish. He does not have to.
I killed them.
Something inside me killed them.
"Declan, I swear I did not—"
"I know." He says it again, but it does not sound like forgiveness. It sounds like fear. "That is the problem, Sloane. You did not do it. But your body did."
The fluorescent lights flicker. Once. Twice.
Then the door explodes inward.
Iris comes through first, moving like liquid violence, a gun in one hand and a silver blade in the other. Six rogues pour in behind her, fanning out with military precision, and I realize this is not a rescue. This is a tactical extraction.
Iris's eyes sweep the room. Land on Declan, alive and scarred. On my mother, breathing. On me, covered in blood.
Then she looks through the observation window at the bodies in the hallway.
Her face goes white.
She crosses the room in three strides, grabs my arm hard enough to bruise, and hauls me to my feet. "How long has she been awake?"
"I—what?" I try to pull free but her grip is iron. "I just woke up, I do not—"
"Not you." Iris's eyes bore into mine, searching for something. "Her. How long has she been awake?"
I have no idea what she means. The confusion must show on my face because Iris swears—actually swears, which I have never heard her do—and releases me.
"We need to move." She turns to her rogues. "Marcus, carry Moira. Declan, can you walk?"
"Yes." Declan is already on his feet, swaying slightly but upright. He does not look at me.
"Good. We have maybe three minutes before Garrett's reinforcements arrive. The Conclave knows we are here." Iris moves to the door, checking the hallway. "Stay close. Stay quiet. If anyone asks questions, save them for when we are not about to die."
One of the rogues—Marcus, apparently—scoops my mother into his arms like she weighs nothing. She does not wake. Another rogue hands Declan a jacket, which he shrugs on to cover the blood and scars.
No one offers me anything.
Iris gestures and we move. Out of the observation room, over the bodies I do not remember making, into the hallway that reeks of blood and cordite. My legs feel like they are made of wet sand, each step requiring conscious effort, and the silver sickness is creeping back now that I am moving. Crawling up my spine. Settling into my bones.
I stumble. Catch myself on the wall.
Declan glances back but does not slow down. Does not offer to help.
Iris appears at my elbow instead. "Can you run?"
"Yeah, no." The words come out bitter. "But I can walk fast."
"That will have to do." She keeps pace with me as we navigate the compound's corridors. The rogues move like ghosts, silent and efficient, taking corners with weapons raised. We pass more bodies. Guards. Some shot. Some with their throats torn out.
I do not ask which ones I killed.
We are almost to the exit—I can see daylight through the door ahead—when Iris leans in close and whispers, "We need to talk about what is inside you."
My blood goes cold. "I do not know what you—"
"Yes, you do." Her voice is gentle but unyielding. "The Carrigan alpha line does not just pass power, Sloane. It passes consciousness. And yours just woke up."
The safe house is in the industrial district, tucked between a defunct textile mill and a warehouse that smells like rust and old motor oil. The kind of place no one looks twice at. The kind of place you go to disappear.
Iris's rogues secure the perimeter while Marcus lays my mother on a cot in what used to be an office. Declan hovers nearby, close enough to watch over her but far enough that he does not have to be near me.
The distance feels like a chasm.
Iris pulls me into a separate room—smaller, with a single window covered by newspaper and a metal folding chair that has seen better days. She closes the door. Locks it.
"Sit."
I do not sit. "What did you mean? About consciousness?"
Iris sighs. Runs a hand through her hair. For the first time since I have known her, she looks tired. Actually tired. "How much do you know about your family history? The real history, not the sanitized version the Conclave teaches."
"Not much." I lean against the wall because standing unsupported is becoming difficult. "My father did not talk about it. And then he was dead."
"The first Carrigan alpha was named Siobhan." Iris says the name like a prayer. Or a curse. "She was the most powerful werewolf anyone had ever seen. Could shift at will, even during the new moon. Could heal from anything. Could command other wolves with just her voice. The Conclave feared her. So they tried to kill her."
"Tried?"
"She was too strong to die. So they did something worse." Iris's jaw tightens. "They bound her. Trapped her consciousness inside her own bloodline. Every Carrigan alpha since then has carried a piece of her, dormant, waiting. Most never wake her. Most are not strong enough."
The room tilts. I grip the wall harder. "You are saying there is someone else inside me. Someone who has been there my whole life."
"Not someone else. Your great-great-grandmother. And yes." Iris steps closer. "The silver should have killed you, Sloane. But it did not. Because she woke up to save you. And now that she is awake—"
"She will try to take me over completely." The words taste like ash. "That is what you are saying."
"If you let her." Iris's eyes are steady. Serious. "Siobhan is not evil. But she is angry. She has been trapped for over a century, watching her descendants suffer, unable to act. And now she has a body again. Your body. She will use it to finish what she started."
"Which is?"
"Burning the Conclave to ash."
The words hang in the air between us. Outside, I hear the rogues moving around, securing windows, checking weapons. Normal sounds. Grounding sounds.
Inside, I feel like I am falling apart.
"How do you know all this?" My voice comes out smaller than I want it to. "How do you know what she wants?"
Iris looks away. "Because I am Carrigan too. Distant line. Weak blood. But I carry her memories. Echoes of them, anyway. Enough to know what she is capable of. Enough to know that if you do not learn to control her, she will control you."
"And if I cannot?" The question scrapes out of me. "If she is stronger?"
"Then you will lose yourself." Iris meets my eyes again. "And Siobhan will use your body to wage a war that will destroy everything. The Conclave. The packs. Everyone."
I slide down the wall until I am sitting on the floor. My legs will not hold me anymore. The silver sickness is back with a vengeance, turning my bones to lead, my blood to sludge.
"I am still dying." it dawned on hers like a punch. "She healed Declan and my mother but she cannot heal me. The silver is still—"
"She is keeping you alive." Iris crouches in front of me. "But yes. You are still dying. Which means she is running out of time. Which means she will push harder to take control. To use what is left of your life to accomplish her goals."
"Great." I laugh, and it sounds unhinged even to my own ears. "So I am dying, possessed by my vengeful ancestor, and the guy I—" I stop. Swallow. "Declan is afraid of me. Perfect. This is perfect."
Iris does not offer comfort. She just watches me with those steady, knowing eyes. "You need to talk to her. Establish boundaries. Make it clear that this is your body, your life, your choice. If you do not, she will assume control by default."
"And if she does not listen?"
"Then you fight her." Iris stands. Offers me her hand. "You are a Carrigan alpha, Sloane. That means you are strong enough to survive this. Strong enough to master this. But you have to choose to fight."
I stare at her hand for a long moment. Then I take it. Let her pull me to my feet.
"Where is the bathroom?" My voice is steadier now. Harder. "I need to see something."
The bathroom is tiny and smells like mildew and old pipes. The mirror above the sink is cracked, spiderwebbing out from a central impact point, but it is reflective enough.
I grip the edges of the sink and stare at my reflection.
Same face. Same scar bisecting my eyebrow. Same bitten nails. Same watch on my wrist, stopped at eleven forty-seven.
But when I look closer, when I really look, I see it.
A flicker of silver in my irises. There and gone. There and gone.
"I know you are in there." My voice echoes off the tiles. "I know you can hear me."
For a moment, nothing. Just my reflection staring back at me, pale and blood-stained and exhausted.
Then my eyes flash silver. Completely silver. Just like Declan described.
And a voice that is mine but not mine speaks.
"I saved you." The words come from my mouth but I am not forming them. "I saved him. I saved her. You are welcome."
My hands tighten on the sink. "What do you want?"
"What I have always wanted." My reflection smiles, and it is not my smile. It is older. Colder. "To finish what was started. To burn the Conclave to ash. To make them pay for what they did to me. To us. To our family."
"This is my body." I force the words out through gritted teeth. "My life. You do not get to use me for your revenge."
"Our revenge." The silver in my eyes brightens. "They killed your father. Your pack. They poisoned you with silver and locked you in a cage. They would have killed you if I had not intervened. This is not just my fight, little alpha. It is yours too."
"Maybe." I meet my own silver gaze in the mirror. "But I get to choose how I fight it. Not you."
My reflection tilts its head. Studies me. "You are stronger than I expected. Good. You will need that strength for what comes next."
"What comes next?"
"Garrett Voss believes you are dead. We will use that. We will make him pay for what he has done. And then we will move on to the rest of them. The Conclave. The alphas who stood by and did nothing while your family burned. All of them."
"And what happens to me?" The question comes out raw. Desperate. "When you are done using my body for your war, what happens to me?"
The silver fades from my eyes. Slowly. Like a tide receding.
"I do not know." My voice is my own again. Quiet. Honest. "I am keeping you alive, Sloane. But the silver is too much. Even for me. We have days. Maybe a week. After that—"
"After that I die and you get to keep my body." I finish the thought. "That is the deal. You save me long enough to get your revenge, and then I am gone."
Silence.
Then, softer: "I am sorry. I wish there was another way."
"Yeah, no." I push away from the sink. "There is always another way. I just have to find it."
I turn toward the door, ready to leave, ready to figure out how to survive this impossible situation.
That is when I hear it.
A voice. Distant. Echoing from somewhere deep inside my own head.
My mother's voice.
"Sloane. Baby. Listen to me."
I freeze. "Mom?"
"She is not telling you everything." My mother's voice is urgent. Afraid. "Siobhan is not the only one who woke up. There are others. Older. Angrier. And they are coming for you."
"What others? Mom, what are you—"
But the voice is gone. Faded back into whatever dark corner of my mind it came from.
I am alone in the bathroom. Just me and my cracked reflection and the blood still crusted under my nails.
I need to get back to the others. Need to tell Iris what I just heard. Need to figure out what the hell is happening to me.
I unlock the door. Step into the hallway.
And stop.
Because Declan is standing there. Three feet away. Close enough that I can see the new scars on his chest through his open jacket. Close enough that I can smell the fear rolling off him in waves.
"I heard you talking." His voice is careful. Controlled. "To yourself. Or to—"
"To her." I do not see the point in lying. "Siobhan. My great-great-grandmother. The thing inside me."
He nods slowly. "What did she say?"
"That she is keeping me alive long enough to burn the Conclave down. That I have maybe a week before the silver kills me. That she is sorry." The words taste bitter. "Take your pick."
Declan's jaw works. He looks like he wants to say something. Wants to reach for me. But he does not move.
"I am still me." I hate how small my voice sounds. "I am still here, Declan. I am still—"
"I know." He cuts me off. "But for how long?"
The question hangs between us. Unanswerable.
Before I can try anyway, a sound cuts through the safe house. A gasp. Sharp and sudden.
We both turn.
Run back to the office where my mother is.
Marcus is backing away from the cot, his face pale. The other rogues have their weapons drawn. Iris is in the doorway, her body tense.
And my mother—
My mother's eyes are open.
She is staring directly at me.
But when she speaks, her voice is layered with something ancient. Something that makes every hair on my body stand on end.
"Sister." The word comes out wrong. Too many voices speaking at once. "You finally woke her. Now we can finish what they started."