Chapter 61: The Prisoner

We left the motel under the cover of a laundry delivery truck, courtesy of one of Ben's contacts. It was humiliating, hiding between stacks of industrial sheets, but it was effective. The paparazzi were still camped out in the lobby, waiting for the woman who had brought down the Sterling empire.

"We need a car that doesn't scream 'fugitive'," Ben said as we unloaded in a strip mall parking lot on the outskirts of the city.

"Lucia," I said. "You have money, right? From the payoff?"

Lucia reached into her bag and pulled out a thick envelope. "Five thousand. Edith gave me an advance. For expenses."

"It's dirty money," Mark said, eyeing the cash.

"It's survival money," Lucia said, handing it to Ben. "Get us something fast."

Ben returned twenty minutes later with a nondescript SUV. We piled in—me, Ben, Mark, and Lucia.

"What about Clara?" Mark asked as we merged onto the highway, heading north.

"Vance has her," I said. "He moved her to a private facility under an alias. Edith can't touch her there."

"But she can touch Leo," Ben said. "Even with the guards."

"Leo is the bait," I said, my voice harder than I felt. "Edith won't move on him until she has the rest of the set. She wants us all. Together."

We drove for hours, the landscape shifting from urban sprawl to dense forest. We crossed the border at a small, unmanned crossing Ben knew about—an old logging road that hadn't seen a patrol car in a decade.

We were in Canada.

"The Sanctuary," Lucia said, consulting the map on her phone. "It's near a town called Saint-Jovite. Deep in the Laurentians."

"What are we looking for?" Mark asked. "A building? A bunker?"

"A farm," I said. "Thorne said it was a farm."

We arrived in Saint-Jovite as the sun was setting. It was a sleepy tourist town, filled with ski lodges and overpriced cafes. We didn't stop. We followed the GPS coordinates from Thorne's file, driving deeper into the mountains.

The road turned from asphalt to gravel, then to dirt. The trees closed in around us, a tunnel of green and shadow.

"There," Ben said, slowing the car.

A gate. Iron, rusted, overgrown with vines.

*Private Property. No Trespassing.*

And below that, a smaller, faded sign.

*The Sanctuary.*

"It looks abandoned," Mark whispered.

"It's supposed to," I said.

Ben got out and cut the chain with bolt cutters. We drove through, the tires crunching on the overgrown driveway.

The house appeared out of the gloom like a ghost. It was a sprawling Victorian, similar to Clara's, but larger. Darker. The windows were boarded up. The porch was sagging.

But there was a light.

A single, yellow light burning in an upstairs window.

"She's here," Lucia said.

"Or she wants us to think she is," I said.

We parked in the shadows of an old barn. I checked the gun I had taken from Mark—the one Edith had dropped. Five rounds.

"Stay here," I told Mark and Lucia. "Ben and I will clear the perimeter."

"I'm coming," Lucia said. She pulled out her taser. "I'm not the spare anymore."

We approached the house. The silence was absolute. No birds. No wind. Just the heavy, oppressive weight of the past.

We reached the front porch. The door was unlocked.

I pushed it open.

The smell hit us instantly. Dust. Mold. And something else.

Formula.

The sweet, cloying scent of baby formula.

"Do you smell that?" Ben whispered.

"It's fresh," I said.

We moved into the hallway. The floorboards groaned under our feet. We swept our flashlights across the walls.

They were covered in photos.

Hundreds of them.

Babies.

Rows and rows of babies, all identical. All with the same dark hair, the same blue eyes.

My eyes.

"What is this?" Lucia breathed.

I walked to the wall. I touched a photo. The date was written in the corner. *1995.*

I moved to the next. *1998.*

The next. *2005.*

"She didn't stop," I whispered. "After us... she didn't stop."

"But where are they?" Ben asked. "Where are the children?"

A sound came from upstairs. A soft, rhythmic creaking.

*Creak. Creak. Creak.*

A rocking chair.

We climbed the stairs, guns raised. The sound grew louder.

We reached the landing. The door to the room with the light was open.

I stepped into the doorway.

It was a nursery. Perfect. Pristine. Just like the one in the Hoard.

But this one wasn't empty.

A woman was sitting in the rocking chair. Her back was to us. She was humming a lullaby.

"Edith?" I said.

The rocking stopped.

The woman turned around.

It wasn't Edith.

It was a young woman, maybe twenty years old. She had my face. My hair. My eyes.

She was holding a bundle in her arms.

"Shh," she whispered, putting a finger to her lips. "You'll wake him."

I stared at her. "Who are you?"

"I'm Subject 12," she said.

She looked down at the bundle.

It wasn't a doll.

It was a baby. A real, living baby.

"He's the new one," she said, smiling a beatific, terrifying smile. "Mother says he's the perfect one. The one who will save us all."

"Mother?" I asked.

"Edith," she said. "She's downstairs. In the lab."

"The lab?"

"Where she makes us," the girl said.

She stood up. She walked toward me, holding the baby out.

"Do you want to hold him?" she asked. "He has your eyes."

I looked at the baby. He did have my eyes.

And he had a small, red mark on his arm.

A puncture wound.

"What did she do to him?" I asked.

"She took his blood," the girl said. "For the sick boy. For Leo."

I froze.

"Leo is in New York," I said.

"No," the girl said. "Leo is here. Mother brought him this morning."

She pointed to the floor.

"He's in the basement."

My heart stopped. Edith hadn't just escaped. She hadn't just come here to hide.

She had come here to harvest.

"Ben," I said. "Get them out. The girl and the baby. Get them to the car."

"Where are you going?" Ben asked.

I looked at the floorboards.

"I'm going to find my son."