Chapter 5: The Price of a Second

Chapter 5: The Price of a Second

Julian’s pitying smile was the starting gun.

The opulent penthouse became a cage of blurred motion and bared fangs. Finch reacted on pure instinct, shoving Elara behind him as he threw up a hand. A shimmering shield of arcane energy erupted between them and the first wave of vampires, cracking like glass as three of them slammed into it.

“The service door!” he yelled over the screech of protesting magic.

It was a hopeless gambit. There were too many. A vampire with the face of a runway model vaulted over the sofa, her nails elongating into black talons. Another, the bartender from downstairs, simply melted into the shadows under the grand piano, only to reform directly behind Elara.

Elara screamed as icy fingers gripped her arm. Finch spun, a dagger of pure shadow forming in his hand, but he was too late. He saw the bartender’s fangs extend. He saw the cold, triumphant hunger in his eyes. He saw the utter despair on Elara’s face.

Failure. Again. The phantom pain in his chest flared, a memory of the star-blade’s kiss. Not like this.

His mind screamed the trigger word. "Chronos!"

The world tore itself apart. The nauseating, violent sensation of being dragged backward through his own immediate past was even worse this time, a physical violation that left his teeth grinding. The penthouse reassembled around him. The vampires were back in their starting positions. Elara’s scream was still just a breath in her lungs.

He was back. Only a handful of seconds, but it cost him a decade of weariness.

This time, he didn’t waste an instant on a shield. He grabbed Elara’s arm. “Move!” he roared, and instead of blocking, he attacked. He slammed his foot down, and a shockwave of force rippled across the marble floor, sending the closest vampires stumbling. He didn't aim for the door. He aimed for the window.

With a guttural cry, he hurled a compressed ball of kinetic energy at the massive, floor-to-ceiling pane of glass. It didn't just break; it exploded. A hurricane of wind roared into the suite, sucking cards, champagne flutes, and one of the smaller vampires out into the night.

The chaos bought them a moment. He dragged Elara through the swirling vortex of debris toward the service corridor they’d spotted earlier. But Julian was there, a serene smile on his face, untouched by the chaos. He moved with a speed that made the others look like statues, his hand a pale blur as it shot toward Finch’s throat.

Finch twisted, bringing the warded satchel up to block. The impact was like being hit by a freight train. He felt the wards on the bag flare and crack under the strain. He was outmatched. Julian was an ancient, a true predator. This path was another dead end.

Just as Julian’s other hand, now tipped with claws, slashed toward his eyes, Finch pulled the trigger again. "Chronos!"

The rewind was agony. It felt like being flayed, every nerve ending set on fire. His vision swam in a sea of static. When the world snapped back into place for the third time, he was gasping, a profound tremor shaking his hand. He could feel the blood draining from his face. He’d paid a heavy price for that second.

The elevator is blocked. The window is a deathtrap. The corridor is guarded by Julian. His detective’s mind, fueled by adrenaline and fading magic, sought the fourth option. The one he hadn't seen.

Elara, sensing his desperation, her own latent sensitivity screaming at the repeated temporal shocks, pointed a trembling finger. "There! Under the bar!"

It was a dumbwaiter, hidden behind a polished mahogany panel. It wasn't an escape route; it was a coffin. But it was their only chance.

"Go!" he shouted, shoving her toward it. As she scrambled to pry the door open, he turned to face the horde one last time. He didn't have the strength for complex spells. He just needed brute force. He spread his arms wide, drawing on the last dregs of his power. The lights in the penthouse flickered and burst. Shadows writhed, pulling away from the corners of the room to coalesce around him, forming a swirling vortex of pure darkness.

"Got it!" Elara yelled.

He unleashed the shadows in a single, concussive wave that threw the vampires back, their hisses of pain drowned out by the storm of dark energy. He didn't wait to see the effect. He dove for the dumbwaiter shaft, tumbling in beside Elara just as she slammed the door shut and hit the button for the kitchens.

They plunged into darkness, the cramped space smelling of stale grease and old blood. Above them, they could hear the furious pounding of fists on the small wooden door. They crashed to a halt on the kitchen level with a bone-jarring thud.

The kitchen was a charnel house. Chefs in white aprons stood over stoves of boiling blood, their eyes glowing red. Finch kicked the door open and pulled Elara out, a shard of shadow-fire in his hand. They fought their way through the nightmare, a desperate, close-quarters brawl. Elara, to his astonishment, was no longer a liability. Her fear had honed her sensitivity into a weapon.

"Left!" she screamed, and he spun just in time to incinerate a vampire dishwasher lunging from the steam.

"Behind you!" she cried, and he dropped, letting a hurled cleaver whistle over his head.

They were a frantic, two-person wrecking crew, spilling out of a service exit and onto the manicured lawns that sloped down to the moonlit shore. Freedom.

Finch collapsed against the cold, stone wall of the casino, his legs giving out. He was breathing in ragged, painful gasps. The silver at his temples now streaked halfway back through his dark hair. The arcane symbol on his hand was faded, barely visible. Each rewind had been a sacrifice, carving a piece out of him, and he could feel his temporal signature—his very existence in the river of time—flaring like a tormented sun. He had just screamed his location to the entire cosmos. Aeon wasn't just watching anymore. He was coming.

Just as he managed to push himself upright, a sound cut through the night, sharp and clear.

CRACK.

It came from the satchel. He fumbled with the clasp, pulling the egg out. A hairline fracture, glowing with the light of a billion newborn stars, had split across its nebular surface. The gentle pulse it had maintained was gone, replaced by a frantic, powerful rhythm, a heart about to be born. The air grew thick, the pressure dropping. The same impossible weight he’d felt in his office descended upon the shore of Lake Tahoe.

The neon lights of the Elysian Pearl flickered violently, then died, plunging the shore into an abrupt, profound darkness lit only by the moon and the cracking egg. The gentle lapping of the waves against the shore ceased. All sound vanished.

Finch looked up. The stars—the fixed, familiar constellations of the night sky—were moving. They swirled from their ancient positions, abandoning eons of order to spiral down toward a single point on the beach, twenty feet in front of them. It was a waterfall of starlight, a river of cosmic dust and nebulae pouring out of the heavens.

The light coalesced, solidifying. It took on a form, a regal, humanoid silhouette that warped the very air around it. It had no face, only swirling galaxies where a head should be. Its eyes were twin constellations, burning with cold, ancient light. It was not a man, not a creature, but a living piece of the cosmos given terrible, patient purpose.

Aeon, Father of the Zodiac, had arrived in person.

The cosmic god raised a hand made of stardust and dying suns, its gesture one of absolute finality. A voice that was not a voice echoed in the silent air and in the deepest marrow of Finch’s bones, a chilling, final verdict.

The debt is due. The game is over.