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The distress flare's still burning when I hit the ground running.
Dad's already halfway across the courtyard, rifle up. Dax is on his six, enhancement glow crackling around his fists. I'm last because of course I am. My med-pack keeps slamming into my hip and I can't get the strap tight enough while I'm moving.
The manor's a gutted shell. Fire ate through here maybe two days ago. The smell hits me first—burned wood, melted plastic, something else underneath that makes my stomach flip. Blood. A lot of it.
"Stay back," Dad snaps without looking at me.
I slow down but I don't stop. The flare came from inside. Someone's alive in there.
Dax kicks in what's left of the front door. It falls inward with a crack that echoes too loud. Everything goes quiet after. No movement. No voices.
Dad makes a hand signal I barely remember from training. Dax goes left. Dad goes right. I'm supposed to stay at the door and watch the perimeter.
I give it about ten seconds before I follow them in.
The entry hall's a mess. Furniture thrown everywhere, walls scorched black, ceiling half-collapsed. There's boot prints in the ash. Recent. I count three sets, maybe four. All heading deeper into the manor.
And then I see the blood trail.
It's not a spray. It's a drag mark, like someone got pulled or crawled. It disappears into a side corridor Dad and Dax didn't take.
I should call out. I should wait for them.
I don't.
The corridor's narrow and the walls are still warm. I keep one hand on the scorched plaster to steady myself and try not to think about what burned hot enough to leave the stone glowing. My other hand's on the knife at my belt. It's a medical blade, not a combat one, but it's sharp and it's something.
The blood trail ends at a door that's been blown off its hinges.
I step through.
She's on the floor, back against the far wall, one hand pressed to her side. Blood's leaking between her fingers. Dark blood. Slow. Not an artery, but bad enough. Her other hand's got a gun pointed right at my face.
"Don't," she says.
I freeze.
She's maybe thirty. Dirty blond hair, cut short. Her jacket's scorched and torn and there's ash smeared across her face. Her eyes are pale, almost gray, and they don't blink.
"I'm a medic," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I thought it would. "Let me help."
"No."
"You're bleeding out."
"I said no."
I hear Dad's voice somewhere behind me, calling my name. He sounds pissed.
The woman's hand tightens on the gun. "Kash?"
"Yeah," I say. "Rona Kash."
Her face does something weird. Not quite a smile. Not quite recognition. Something else.
"Kash," she says again, quieter. "Of course they sent you."
"Who are you?"
She laughs. It turns into a cough halfway through and she doubles over, blood flecking her lips. When she looks up again the gun's drooping.
"Ghost," she says. "That's what they call me now. You can use it."
Ghost. The name from the bounty sheet. The fugitive Dad's been tracking for three weeks.
"You killed sixteen people," I say.
"No," Ghost says. "I didn't."
"The bounty says—"
"The bounty's a lie."
Footsteps behind me. Heavy boots. Dad's voice cuts through, sharp and cold. "Rona. Step away from her."
I don't move.
Ghost's eyes flick past me, and something hardens in her face. "Grimm," she says. "Been a while."
Dad doesn't answer. I hear the click of a rifle safety coming off.
"She's wounded," I say without turning around. "She needs medical."
"She needs a bullet," Dax says from somewhere to my left. "That's Ghost. The kill order's black-seal. We don't bring her in."
Kill order. Not capture. Kill.
I look back at Ghost. She's watching me now, not Dad. There's something in her expression I can't read. It's not fear. It's not anger. It's something else. Something that makes my chest feel tight.
"Rona," Dad says. "Move."
I don't.
My hand's still on my knife but I'm not pulling it. I'm not moving at all. My brain's screaming at me to get out of the way, to let Dad handle this, to stop being stupid. But my body won't listen.
Because Ghost is still looking at me, and she's got this look on her face like she's seeing someone else.
"You look like her," Ghost says quietly. "Same eyes. Same stupid stubborn face."
My heart stops.
"What?"
"Your mother," Ghost says. "Lena Kash. I knew her."
The world tilts.
Dad's voice cracks like a whip. "Rona, I said move!"
But I can't. I can't move. I can't breathe. Mom's name is hanging in the air between us and everything else has gone quiet.
"You didn't know her," I say. My voice sounds far away. "She died when I was eight. She was a tracker. She died on a hunt."
"She was my partner," Ghost says. "And she didn't die on a hunt. She was killed."
"Shut up," Dad snarls.
Ghost ignores him. Her eyes are locked on mine and they're burning now, fever-bright and desperate. "They silenced her, Rona. The same people who put a black seal on me. Your mother found something she wasn't supposed to find, and they made sure she'd never talk."
"That's enough," Dad says.
I hear him move. I hear Dax shifting position. They're flanking, getting angles. In about five seconds Ghost is dead and I'm never going to know what she meant.
My blood-bond system flares to life without me asking it to.
It doesn't make a sound but I feel it, hot and sharp, uncoiling in my chest. The bond-line snaps out like a whip, invisible, searching. It finds Ghost and locks on.
Ghost gasps. Her hand flies to her chest. "What the hell—"
I feel it too. The connection. It's like a thread pulled tight between us, vibrating with her pulse, her pain, her heartbeat. She's hurt. Bad. Two cracked ribs, punctured lung, blood loss. I can feel all of it.
And I can keep her alive.
"Rona!" Dad's voice is different now. Not angry. Scared. "Let go. Right now."
I don't.
I tighten the bond instead.
Ghost's bleeding slows. Not much. Just enough. Her breathing evens out, just a little. She's staring at me like I just grew a second head.
"What are you?" she whispers.
"Blood-bond," I say. My voice is shaking. "I can keep you alive."
"Rona, if you don't let go right now—" Dad's moving closer. I can hear it.
"Tell me what happened to my mother," I say to Ghost.
Ghost's mouth twists into something that might be a smile. Might be a grimace. It's hard to tell. "You really want to know?"
"Yes."
"Your father won't let me talk."
"He's not the one with the bond," I say.
Ghost looks past me at Dad. Whatever she sees there makes her laugh again, sharp and bitter. "No," she says. "I guess he's not."
She reaches out. Her hand's shaking but she moves it slowly, deliberately, until her bloody fingers close around my wrist.
The bond flares brighter. I feel her heartbeat sync with mine for just a second, and then something else floods through—not pain, not injury, but memory. A flash of a woman's face. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. A smile I've only seen in pictures.
Mom.
Ghost's grip tightens.
"Your mother didn't die by accident," she says.
And then the gunshot cracks through the air and everything goes white.