EVE POV
The luxury boutique felt like a cage the second Adam opened his mouth. One minute I'm admiring how the slate-gray silk of my new coat catches the light, and the next, the air turns thin and pressurized, like we're being shoved back into a vacuum.
I didn't turn around. I've spent my whole life—well, the parts I remember—learning that looking back is for the prey. I just adjusted my cuffs in the gilded mirror, watching the reflection of the shadows at my feet. They were starting to stretch, turning darker and jagged, responding to the itch in my palms.
"Eve," the Old Man said, his voice tight. "Put the energy away. Now."
I kept my hand in my pocket, feeling the fabric ripple as I began to coil a localized vacuum around my fist. I looked at him in the mirror, letting a defiant spark dance in my eyes, but I let the energy subside. For now.
"How far?" the Old Man asked Adam.
"Seventy yards. Third floor, balcony near the clock tower," Adam replied. He was a pillar of stillness, his dark eyes locked on the atrium outside. "They aren't hiding their intent. It's... focused. Like a laser."
"Can you identify the Impulse?"
Adam took a deep, rhythmic breath. Because he's a Dark-born who spent eight months marinating in Light, his senses are a freak of nature. He can feel "purity" like a scent.
"It's Light Impulse," Adam whispered. "But it's not blue. It's Light-tier. Rare. It feels... cold. Like ice-water in the veins."
I saw the Old Man's reflection flinch. Light-tier. "Divine" level. That usually meant government lapdogs or elite mercs. Whoever it was, our "quiet" shopping trip was officially dead.
"We move," the Old Man commanded. "Bags to the car. Now."
We ditched the boutique, the bellhops trailing behind us like a funeral procession with rattling carts. The mall was packed—thousands of "ordinary" people laughing and wasting time, completely oblivious to the fact that they were standing in the middle of a potential crater.
"Father, look," I muttered, nodding toward the glass elevator as we hit the main floor.
A figure in a white tactical coat was perched on the third-floor railing. Even from down here, I could see the shimmering aura of Light Impulse (Rare) radiating off them. It wasn't the warm, pretty light Adam had; it was a harsh, blinding white that felt like it was trying to scrub the atmosphere clean.
"They're signaling us," Adam said, his voice dropping into that tectonic register. "They want us to see them."
"Ignore it," the Old Man snapped. "We reach the garage. Once we're on the open road, we deal with them."
We hit the valet circle in record time. The heat of the city—exhaust and baking pavement—slapped us in the face. The valet brought the black sedan around, looking terrified at the sheer volume of bags we were throwing at him.
"Load it," the Old Man barked, tossing a hundred-dollar bill at the guy. "Fast."
Then, the temperature plummeted. I felt the moisture in the air crystallize.
Cling.
A small, white crystal hit the hood of our car. It wasn't ice. It was solidified Light Impulse. My skin crawled.
"Doctor Kwame," a voice rang out from above. It wasn't loud, but it had that "I'm in charge" vibration that makes me want to break things.
I looked up. The white-coated freak was standing on the edge of the mall's stone archway, forty feet up. "You've been off the grid for a long time," they said, their visor scanning Adam and me. "And you've been busy. The Council doesn't appreciate unlicensed 'gardening.' Those two shouldn't exist."
I stepped forward, my lip curling into a sneer. "Who's the guy in the pajamas, Dad? Can I kill him?"
"Eve, back off," the Old Man warned.
"The girl has spirit," the figure said, leaping from the archway. They didn't fall; they glided down on a platform of white light, landing ten feet away. The valet and the bellhops bolted, screaming.
"I am Sentinel Vance," the guy said, his visor retracting to show steel-colored hair and glowing, artificial eyes. "By order of the Impulse Oversight Committee, I am here to take the 'subjects' into custody. You, Doctor, are under arrest."
Adam took a step forward. It was slow and deliberate, and I heard the pavement crack under his boot. The Dark Impulse he usually hides started to leak out, turning his eyes into abyssal pits.
"Subject?" Adam asked. The word didn't come from his mouth; it felt like it crawled out of the shadows beneath the cars. "You call us subjects?"
"Adam, don't," the Old Man said, but even he knew it was over. You don't insult the "Good Son" and walk away.
"Father," Adam said, his gaze fixed on Vance. "He's blocking the exit. And he's leaking that 'cold' light all over my new clothes."
Adam raised his hand, pointing a single finger at Vance. He looked so calm it was sickening.
"Eve," Adam said. "The left side is yours. I'll take the center."
I grinned, feeling the dark, volatile impulse energy swirling around my fists like a hungry storm. I've been waiting eight months to let this out.
"About time," I said, my voice crackling with the dark energy. "I was starting to think this mall trip was going to be boring."
I saw the Old Man's chest start to thrum with his own Golden Impulse. He'd spent thirty-six years protecting us. Now, he was going to find out if he'd created masterpieces—or monsters.