CHAPTER SEVENTEEN- ECHOES OF ENDECOTT
Sunday 24th August, 1710- COLONY OF WILLOW IN FRENCH AMERICA
(6:25 AM)
Nathan stood at the edge of the clearing, the early morning light casting long shadows over the town of New Salem behind him. The horizon, tinged with gold, marked the start of a new day, a day he hoped would bring answers, or at least a path forward.
Beside him stood Marie de La Salle, one of the most skilled cartographers in the region. Her long ginger orange hair glowed under the sunlight, contrasting sharply with her emerald green eyes, which surveyed the area with a sharpness Nathan had come to rely on. She wore an officerâs uniform similar to his own, a sign of her stature and the lineage she carried as Robert de La Salleâs daughter. Though in her late 30s, Marieâs presence commanded respect, and Nathan felt a surge of relief knowing she was with him on this journey.
Ahead, Morris and Kai waited by the stables, their forms half-illuminated by the soft morning sun. As Marie and Nathan approached, Morris lifted a hand in greeting. âBonjour, Mr. Noir and Miss de La Salleâ, he called out, his voice strained with the remnants of the nightâs tensions.
âBonjour, Morris and Kaiâ, Marie replied, her voice calm but firm, nodding toward both men.
Nathan, just behind her, carried two large leather backpacks, one slung over each shoulder. Kaiâs curious eyes darted between the packs and the newcomer, his gaze lingering on Marie for a moment before landing on the horses behind them.
âWe managed to borrow three horsesâ, Morris explained, gesturing to the animals, âBut the guards refused to lend us more than that. It means one of us will have to shareâ.
âThatâs no problemâ, Nathan said with a wave of his hand, âKai can ride with me. Heâs the youngest, after allâ. Nathan gave Kai a half-smile, which the boy returned with a quick nod of agreement. Morris, relieved by the decision, gave his approval with a grunt.
Morris stepped closer and lowered his voice slightly, as though trying to avoid prying ears.
âMo jwenn sa ki mo kapab. Manje, dlo, bwa pou dife, lwil ak kèk lòt nesesè â (I got what I could. Food, water, firewood, oil and some other essentials)â, he spoke in Willowish Creole.
âAlguns tiend lakoupé, pero la mayorÃa des commerçants dans la ville non te tcho ami après lanuit passé. Palabra su incident ak Baptiste rápido wapup. Ils nous llam tcho ladrones â (Some of the shops were closed, but most of the traders in town werenât exactly friendly after last night. Word about the incident with Baptiste spread fast. Theyâre calling us thieves)â, he continued in the pidgin language.
Nathan sighed. He had expected as much. âPardón, Morris. Mo te dévra étre pli vit pou cherche Marie. No es fácil levé yon moun nan mitan lanuit pou expliké ke nou ale nan yon vwayaj â (Iâm sorry, Morris. I shouldâve been quicker getting Marie. Itâs not easy waking someone in the middle of the night and explaining weâre off on a journey)â, Nathan said in Willowish Creole.
Morris waved away the apology in Willowish Creole, âPa gen pwoblèm. Nou jwenn sa nou bezwen â (No harm done. We got what we need)â.
A moment of silence passed between them as they saddled the horses, the weight of the journey ahead heavy in the morning air. Morris adjusted the reins of his horse, then turned to Nathan, his expression more serious.
âThereâs something elseâ, Morries said, reverting back to standard English, âChief Meztilaouâs moved the tribeâs camp. Itâs further out now, beyond Lake Academia. The settlers pushing further into our lands have forced us to move. Itâll take us two days to get there, but I can guide usâ.
Nathan paused in his work, his brow furrowing, âAnd what about the other Natives?â, he asked, âThe ones who were with Kai and you, will they cause trouble while weâre gone?â.
âThey wonât cause any troubleâ, Morris assured him, âBut what about Baptiste? If he comes after us again...â
Nathan straightened, a flicker of steel in his eyes, âIf he does, heâll have to answer to Robert de La Salle. Baptiste may think he has authority here, but I put Robert in charge, not himâ.
The three men exchanged a look, understanding the weight of what was to come. As Nathan tightened the last strap on his saddle, he noticed Kai watching him, his young face marked with uncertainty.
âDo you really think Chief Meztilaou will listen?â, Kai asked quietly, âDo you think you can make things right?â.
Nathan placed a hand on the young manâs shoulder, his voice soft but resolute. âKai, thereâs always a way forward if you believe. Trust in Dieu, Christ and lâEsprit Saint to guide usâ, Nathan said as he made the Sign of the Cross, as if trying to show Kai its importance, âThe Chief will listen, but we must be prepared for what comes nextâ.
Kaiâs eyes shone with a glimmer of hope, and for the first time that morning, his tension seemed to ease.
Once they were all saddled and packed, the small group mounted their horses, the quiet sound of hooves filling the air as they set off down the trail. Behind them, the town of New Salem began to fade into the distance, swallowed by the forest and mist. Ahead, the path stretched into the unknown, toward Chief Meztilaouâs camp and whatever future awaited them in the wilds of Willowâs woods.
Wednesday 23rd May, 2018- NEW SALEM, STATE OF WILLOW, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
(8:09 AM)
The Artist stirred awake to the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor and the soft hum of machinery. Blinking against the harsh overhead lights, they groggily scanned the room, disoriented. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, and it only took a moment for the realization to hitâ they were in a hospital.
A familiar voice pulled them from their haze. âYouâre finally awake. Good morningâ, Sir Haggins Hopkins said warmly, his British accent cutting through the fog of confusion. He was seated in a chair beside the bed, looking very much like a man out of time. His sharp, elegant black overcoat and waistcoat paired with his immaculate shirt and golden cufflinks gave him the air of an old-world gentleman, though his sky blue eyes were filled with concern. Despite his advanced age, there was a timeless strength in his demeanor.
The Artist winced as they shifted slightly, feeling the weight of fatigue still clinging to their body. âWhereâ¦?â, they began, their voice hoarse.
âYouâre in St. Louis Medical Hospitalâ, Haggins explained gently, âItâs based in New Salem. Youâre safe now, I promise. We had to bring you here afterâ¦what happened in Endecott Forestâ.
The mention of Endecott Forest sent a wave of memories rushing backâ pain, chaos, the blue dust, and then... Lilly. They closed their eyes, trying to sort through the fragmented images in their mind. âLillyâ¦she saved meâ, The Artist muttered.
Haggins nodded, âYes, you remember correctly. Lilly was the one who managed to get you out of the forest and to safety. She did well, very well. From there, I was able to arrange for your transport here. Claire, tooâ.
At the mention of Claire, The Artistâs eyes shot open, âClaire? Is she...is she okay?â.
Haggins smiled gently, âYes, sheâs alive, though she hasnât woken up yet. Sheâs receiving the best care possible, thanks to the Red Society. Your friend, James, and another woman, Kaitlyn, brought her here. Sheâs stable but still in recoveryâ.
Relief washed over The Artist, a deep breath escaping their lips as they leaned back against the pillow. âWhere is she? Can I see her?â, they asked.
Haggins shifted slightly in his seat, his expression one of calm reassurance. âYouâre both on a hidden floor within the hospital. Itâs magickally protected, so no one can find you unless we want them toâ, he said, âClaire is just in the room next to yours, receiving her treatmentâ.
The Artist nodded, taking in this information. It was a relief to know that Claire was close by and in good hands. But something still gnawed at them, the fragments of what happened in Endecott pulling at their thoughts. There was so much they didnât understandâ so much they needed answers for.
âSir. Hagginsâ, The Artist began, their voice steadier now, âBefore you goâ¦I need to talk to you. There are things we need to discussâ.
Haggins stood, his posture as impeccable as always. âI understandâ, he replied, âBut I must inform your friends, Matt and Dan, that youâre awake. Theyâve been waiting for a long time to see youâ.
The Artist gave a small nod, âAlright. Justâ¦promise me youâll come back. I have questions. Important onesâ.
âI shall returnâ, Haggins assured The Artist, âTake this time to rest, and your friends will be here shortlyâ.
With that, he turned to leave, his leather shoes clicking softly against the pristine hospital floor. The Artist watched him go, their mind still swimming with the echoes of Endecott and the weight of everything that had happened. There was so much to unravel, but for now, they allowed themselves a moment of peace, knowing that their friends were close by and that they werenât alone in this fight.
(8:39 AM)
The hospital room door creaked open, and The Artist shifted in their bed, glancing up to see two familiar figures enter. Dan Russell and Matt Turner. Dan walked in first, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the light as he gave The Artist a charismatic smile, while Matt followed, his sky blue eyes filled with a quiet relief.
âYouâre a sight for sore eyesâ, Dan said, motioning for Matt to close the door behind them. His natural charm was undeniable, but there was something serious about his demeanor today, âGlad to see you awakeâ.
Matt nodded in agreement, adjusting his faded purple baseball cap, which bore the familiar Willow Bobcats logo. âWeâve been worriedâ, he added, âItâs good to see youâre pulling throughâ.
The Artist smiled faintly, âItâs good to see you both tooâ.
Dan stepped closer, his dark brown eyes glinting with unspoken thoughts. âWe wanted to say how sorry we are for not being there during Endecott. We wouldâve helped if we couldâ, there was genuine regret in his voice, though it was tempered by his usual pragmatic tone.
The Artist waved it off gently, âItâs okay. You couldnât have known. Besides, youâve already done more than enough. Those weapons you provided Claire saved me and Jamesâ.
Dan chuckled, though there was an edge to his laugh. âClaire was pretty insistent about that. Threatened my life if I didnât get the right stuff, actually. I didnât have much choiceâ, he winked, but his expression turned more serious, âThe Red Society helped too. They sent me the silver, the Occulirium, and the Holy Water to make the ammunition. So I really didnât have to pay for anythingâ.
The Artist smirked. âSo, do I still have to come to work?â, they asked, trying to inject some humor into the heavy atmosphere.
Danâs face shifted into a mock stern expression. âOf course. Where else am I gonna find a bartender who can mix a cocktail while fighting in the occasional supernatural showdown? Sarah canât cover everything forever, yâknowâ.
Matt grinned, adjusting his crooked silver-framed glasses. âHeâs right. But seriously, when Dan and I heard what happened in Endecott, we cancelled our mission. We were going to infiltrate one of Division Xâs aircraft carriers, the USS Jackson, as planned but it wasnât worth the risk. You guys were already spread too thin, with you, Lilly and James running out and aboutâ.
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The Artist raised an eyebrow, âDo you think Division X knows what happened at Endecott?â,
Dan crossed his arms, his tone colder now, âWord got out about the altercation between The Order of Dawn and The Cult of Blair. Division X caught wind of it, though I doubt they know about you specifically. But things are more complicated now. My C.I.A buddy has even refused to meet us now, saying that he canât get in the crossfire of secret government bureaucracyâ.
The Artist frowned, âIâm sorry if Iâve messed anything up. Maybe we can come up with a new plan when Claire and I recoverâ.
Danâs expression hardened, along with his tone. âClaireâs not needed for this oneâ, he said bluntly, âWeâve got enough bodies as it is. Lilly, James and the new girlâ¦the park ranger, Kaitlyn, have already volunteered to come along. We donât need any more. And honestly, I doubt Claireâs going to recover anytime soonâ.
The Artist felt a pang of concern for Claire but kept quiet, processing Danâs cold assessment.
âMattâ¦â, The Artist said, turning to him, ââ¦are you okay with this? Is it the smart thing to do?â.
Matt rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes thoughtful, âYeah, itâs the right call. Weâll make sure everythingâs set, and Iâll keep you updated over the coming weeks. Once youâre back on your feet, Iâll explain everything in detail before we move forwardâ.
Dan glanced at his watch. âI need to get going. Got some business deals to handle at the bar. JayJayâs wonât run itselfâ, he gave The Artist a nod, âYou take care of yourself. And donât worry about Claire, weâll handle things from here on outâ.
Matt lingered as Dan made his way to the door, his hands shoved into the pockets of his plaid shirt. âDo you want me to stick around?â, he offered with casual Southern accent.
The Artist shook their head, âNo, Iâve got some private matters to discuss with Sir. Haggins Hopkins. You can come by laterâ.
Matt smiled, adjusting his glasses once more. âAlright. Iâll catch up with you laterâ, he said as he followed Dan to the door, but before leaving, he turned back, âWeâll call Haggins for you on our way outâ.
âThanksâ, The Artist replied softly.
With a final wave, Dan and Matt disappeared from the room, leaving The Artist alone with their thoughts. As much as they appreciated their friendsâ visit, there were still so many questions swirling in their mind, and only Sir. Haggins Hopkins could provide the answers they needed.
(9:12 AM)
The hospital door opened again, and Sir Haggins Hopkins entered the room with his usual elegance, though there was a hint of weariness in his posture. He glanced at The Artist, seated up in their bed, and gave a small nod.
âI heard you sent Matt to call for meâ, Haggins said, his British accent soft but firm.
The Artist nodded. âI did. We need to talk, Haggins. Thereâs a lot that happened at Endecottâ¦things I donât understandâ.
Haggins took a seat by the bedside, resting his hands on his lap, âIâm listeningâ.
The Artist began recounting the events, their voice low but intense as they spoke of Kaitlynâs arrival, the Hollow attack and the encounter with Chloé. Haggins listened carefully, his expression impassive as he took it all in.
But when The Artist paused, their gaze hardened. âThereâs something elseâ¦something you never told meâ.
Haggins raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
âYou never told me my father, James, was part of The Order of Dawn. Apparently, they called him, James of Faubourg Saint-Germainâ, The Artist said, their frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.
Haggins sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. âYouâre right. I didnât tell you, and for that, I apologize. I made a promise to James that I wouldnât speak of MBCs to youâ¦and even after I broke that promise, there were still hard truths that I couldnât bring myself to reveal. James being a former member of The Order, as I am,was one of themâ.
The Artist clenched their fists, their voice rising with a mix of anger and confusion. âThen why did Lucius tell me that both my parents, James and Samantha, were part of The Cult of Blair?â.
Hagginsâ eyes widened; the shock visible in his usually composed face. âWhat? James...part of The Cult of Blair? Thatâs absurd!â, he shook his head, his voice trembling slightly, âThe James I knew would neverâ¦could never join something so vileâ.
âBut my mother?â, The Artist asked, their voice edged with suspicion.
Haggins paused, his sky blue eyes clouding with uncertainty, âSamanthaâ¦was always an enigmatic woman. She kept many things hidden, even from James. I canât speak for herâ.
The Artist exhaled sharply, rubbing their temples as they struggled to piece everything together. âClaire and I found her at Oak Valley Plantation, Haggins. She was partaking in The Cultâs rituals. And Claireâ¦she suspects my parents were involved with Elizabeth and Blair. That Elizabeth even knew me when I was a babyâ.
Haggins shook his head, disbelief etched into his face, âImpossible. I was there when you were born, at New Salem Charity Hospital, Iâ¦â
The Artist cut him off, their frustration boiling over, âThen why didnât you tell me that? And how come Iâve never heard about it until now? Or is this Rei Hajimeâs doing? Has he been pulling your leash this whole time?â.
Haggins looked down, clearly taken aback by The Artistâs anger. After a moment, he sighed, âYouâre right. Iâve kept things from you. More than I should have. And for that, Iâm deeply sorry. There are truths I owe you, but I needed you to be ready before I revealed themâ.
The Artist glared at him, not entirely satisfied with the explanation. âWhen I fully recover, I expect to hear all of it. No more secretsâ, they demanded.
Haggins nodded. âI promise. When the time comes, youâll know everythingâ, he stood up, glancing toward the door, "But for now, I have to leave. There are matters with the Red Society and its Regents that require my attentionâ.
The Artist narrowed their eyes, âIs that just an excuse to avoid answering my questions?â.
Haggins stopped in the doorway and looked back. âNo. Iâve told you all I can for now. But rest assured, weâll talk again soon, perhaps tomorrow evenâ, he motioned toward the door as two doctors entered, âIn the meantime, these two will take good care of youâ.
The doctors were MBCs yes, but unlike any The Artist had seen before. One, a female Elf with striking pink skin in a Nurseâs uniform, moved gracefully toward the bed. Her delicate fingers checking The Artistâs vitals with a stethoscope. The other, a male Kraljan doctor with avian featuresâ red feathers, wings on the back and a sharp beak, nodded respectfully before checking the chart at the foot of the bed.
Haggins lingered for a moment longer, looking back at The Artist. âRemember, Lucius Decanus and Elizabeth Kedward are manipulators and liars. Theyâre trying to get into your head, to twist your perception of the truth. And as for Claireâs suspicionsâ¦she may be making the wrong guesses. The James I knew would never have allied himself with The Cult of Blairâ.
With that, Haggins left, leaving The Artist alone with their thoughts as the doctors began their examination.
(12:53 AM)
âYouâre finally awakeâ¦â, Claireâs voice came through the darkness like a whisper, low but piercing enough to jolt The Artist from their sleep. Their eyes fluttered open, and they blinked against the dim light in the room.
Still groggy, The Artist mumbled, âYou canât keep waking people up like thisâ¦â, they rubbed their eyes, attempting to orient themselves in the sterile hospital room. But then they froze, their mind catching up to the voice that had pulled them from their dreams.
âClaire?â, The Artist turned to her, seeing Claire sitting upright in her hospital gown, looking fully alert. The Artistâs brow furrowed. âWait, thisâ¦this shouldnât be possible. The doctors said, and Hagginsâ¦â
Before The Artist could finish, Claire cut them off, âI heard everything. Iâve been listening since I woke upâ.
The Artist blinked in confusion. âListening? But you were unconsciousâ¦â
Claire shook her head, her gaze steady, âI was faking it. I woke up before you didâ.
The Artistâs mouth fell open slightly as they tried to process this, âYou were faking it? Why?â.
Claire let out a sigh, glancing toward the door, almost as if she were expecting someone to barge in at any moment. âI didnât want Haggins or anyone else from the Red Society to interrogate me. Theyâre all smiles and politeness when youâre around, but I know theyâd have other plans if it was just me. I needed to be cautiousâ.
The Artist frowned, âHaggins is just being hospitable. Heâs always been that way. Youâre paranoidâ.
âAm I?â, Claireâs voice grew tense, her eyes narrowing. âDonât you think itâs suspicious that heâs hiding things from you? And what about James and Samantha? He knew your father, but nothing about your mother? How does that add up?â.
The Artist shook their head, exasperated, âYouâre one to talk about hiding things, Claire. If you were completely honest with me, youâd have told me right from the start that there was a connection between The Cult and my parentsâ.
Claire winced, the accusation hitting its mark. She looked down, guilt flashing across her face. âIâm sorryâ, she whispered, âI should have told you. Iâ¦Iâll explain everything laterâ.
The Artist wasnât letting it slide that easily. Their voice sharpened, âThis is exactly what Iâm talking about. Claire with Blair. Youâre dodging the truth, just like Haggins. If you want my trust, you need to stop avoiding things. Be frank with me from now onâ.
Claire met The Artistâs gaze, her expression softening. âI willâ, she promised, though her voice was tinged with uncertainty. âBut thereâs something you need to understandâ, her eyes flicked toward the ceiling and then the door again, âIâm almost certain the Red Society is watching us. They could be spying on us right now. Listeningâ.
The Artistâs gaze narrowed, âWhat are you saying?â.
Claire leaned in slightly, her voice dropping lower. âIâve been concentrating on a Silence spell, just subtle enough to keep the medical staff from hearing us. Right now, as far as anyone else knows, weâre both still fast asleepâ, she gave a small, strained smile, âI canât guarantee itâll last long, but itâs the best I can do for nowâ.
The Artist exhaled, running a hand through their hair as they processed everything, âSo what now? You said youâd tell me some things. What are you hiding, Claire?â.
Claire hesitated, biting her lip. âI donât know how safe it is to tell you everything right here, butâ¦Iâll start with this. Whatever Haggins thinks, whatever he told you about James, your parents were deeper into the world of MBCs than you could ever imagine. And they werenât aloneâ.
The Artistâs heart pounded as Claireâs words hung in the air.
Claire leaned back in her chair; her expression pensive. âThink about itâ, she began, her voice measured, âFrom the moment you came back to Willow to restart your art career, have you wondered why none of your dadâs close friends, Carl Webster, Steven Weinstein or Daisy Bruce-Miller have personally visited you? Two of them are MBCs and one is human. All of them were involved with the Red Society. They claimed to have been searching for your parents for two months before you showed up, but none of them came to you directlyâ.
The Artistâs brow furrowed, recalling the silence from their fatherâs old circle, âI just thought maybe they were too busy, or that there was nothing to findâ.
Claire shook her head. âNo. That doesnât make sense. Especially not with MBCs involved. They always find ways to stay in the loop, even with The Veil Policy. I think the Red Society is keeping them away from youâ.
âKeeping them away?â, The Artist echoed, the realization beginning to sink in.
âI believe Detective Minnesota and Sgt. Constantine are bullying them into submissionâ either intimidating them into silence or keeping them under close watch so they donât tell you something they shouldnât. Webster, Weinstein and Bruce-Miller probably know more than theyâre letting on, details that would have filled in gaps in your parentsâ disappearance. Thatâs one of my leadsâ.
The Artist exhaled sharply, frustration welling up inside them, âSo, what do we do about it?â.
âWe confront themâ, Claire said simply, her voice sharp with determination, âAfter we deal with Dan and Mattâs Division X plan, we go straight to them. Togetherâ.
The Artist nodded, âThat sounds good. What else?â.
Claire crossed her arms, her eyes gleaming with the hint of a plan, âMy other leads involve the Salem Marauders and the Hellcats. But Iâm confident that James Sanchez can handle the Marauders on his own. Heâs been working on that angle for weeksâ.
âAgreedâ, The Artist replied, âJames knows how to deal with them. But what about the Hellcats?â.
âNot my priority right nowâ, she replied, âIâve been keeping tabs on them, but I donât think theyâre involved in any of this, at least not directlyâ.
âAnd Nate Black?â, The Artist asked, bringing up the leader of the War Dogs and their Deathstalker trainer.
Claire smirked, âThatâs all you. Youâve got a rapport with him that I donât. If anyone can get the War Dogs talking, itâs youâ.
The Artist nodded thoughtfully, âAlright, Iâll deal with Nate. What else?â.
Claire hesitated for a moment before dropping her final bombshell, âThereâs one more thing. My real employer. The one Iâve been keeping a secret, even from The Cult isâ Mistress Nightâ.
The Artistâs eyes widened in shock, âWait, Mistress Night? The leader of the Children of Night? That means youâreâ¦â
âA Sister of Nightâ, Claire confirmed with a faint smile, âYes. And Iâve been working for her long before The Cult of Blair ever found meâ.
The Artistâs mind reeled, âWhat does Mistress Night want with me?â.
âSame thing sheâs always wantedâ, Claire replied, her voice soft but serious, âTo protect you. Sheâs known about you from the time you arrived back, and sheâs been working behind the scenes to ensure your magick isnât used to revive The Willow. Thatâs why sheâs kept me close, even when I infiltrated The Cultâ.
The Artist was quiet for a long moment, their mind trying to process this new revelation. âBut that doesnât make senseâ, they finally said, âIâve heard that Mistress Night and Rei Hajime are alliesâ.
Claire nodded, âThey are, but even alliances have their limits. Mistress Night has her own goals, and those donât always align with Reiâs. She would like to meet you, tell you everything you need to know from her side of the story, about whatâs really going onâ.
The Artistâs thoughts turned to Boîte de Minuit, the secret headquarters of the Children of Night, a place they had only heard of thanks to Haggins, âSo when are we going to Boîte de Minuit?â.
âLike I saidâ¦â, Claire repeated with a faint grin, ââ¦after the Division X thingâ.
The Artist shook their head in disbelief, âThis explains a lot. Like why you dress like a goth chick most of the time. I guess I shouldnât be surprised if youâve met Black Mercer too, huh?â.
Claire let out a genuine laugh, the tension between them easing for a moment, âYeah, Iâve met her. Intimidating as hell, but sheâs more bark than biteâ¦most of the timeâ.
The Artist chuckled, but their mind was still whirling with questions, with uncertainties about their past and future. âClaireâ, they said, âThis isâ¦a lot. But I trust you. Just promise me, no more secretsâ.
Claire gave a solemn nod, âNo more secrets. Not between usâ.
As Claire made her way to the door, her hospital gown rustling faintly with each step, she glanced back at The Artist. Her eyes, though weary, still held that familiar spark of determination. âWhen youâre ready to leaveâ, she said softly, âWe go together, whether or not the Red Society gives their blessingâ.
The Artist smirked slightly, feeling the rebellious energy between them, âIâm thinking about convincing the doctors to discharge me tomorrow. Or the day afterâ.
Claire raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in her expression, âIf you can manage that, then Iâll just miraculously wake up too and tell them Iâm perfectly fineâ.
The Artist chuckled, âSounds like a plan. But just so you know, weâll probably be riding in Red Society transport. They usually send this guy named Joel. He drives a Black SUV. Theyâve used him to shuttle me around since I got hereâ.
Claire nodded, unfazed, âThatâs fine. As long as we get where we need to goâ. She reached for the door handle, then paused for a moment, glancing back one last time to The Artist. Her voice softened, âGoodnight. Get some rest. Weâve got a lot to deal with soonâ.