Chapter 2 - Cold Echoes
Elena went completely limp in his arms, her feather-light body terrifying Jack more than any insurgent mortar barrage ever had. She weighed almost nothing. Through the oversized hoodie, his fingers could feel every individual rib pressing against skin as fragile as tracing paper. Jack swept her into his arms, lifting her against his chest without hesitation.
"Call Dr. Mercer immediately," Eleanor commanded, stepping forward, though she kept a cautious three paces between herself and her eldest son. She gripped the collar of her robe tightly, her knuckles white. "She has fainting spells, Jack. Her condition is neurological. Mercer has all her medical records. You don't know what you're doing."
"The only person touching her tonight is me," Jack answered. He walked straight past Eleanor, deliberately knocking his heavy shoulder into her side. The matriarch stumbled, gasping in indignant disbelief, but Jack didn't spare her a second glance.
He carried Elena down the wide, curved staircase toward the guest wing on the first floor—the same wing where the domestic staff used to reside before Eleanor fired them all three months ago. The corridor was unnervingly quiet. No housekeeper humming, no night guards patrolling the courtyard. The silence of the Vance estate wasn't peaceful; it was suffocating.
Reaching a small, cold bedroom at the end of the hall, Jack kicked open the door. It was sparse. A narrow twin mattress sat on an iron frame without a proper headboard. A single thin blanket lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. There was no medicine on the nightstand, no flowers, no sign of care—only an empty plastic water cup and a stainless-steel tray holding a used syringe and an unlabeled amber vial.
Jack laid Elena down with agonizing care, tucking the thin blanket around her shivering shoulders. Her eyelids twitched under pale, nearly translucent skin. The surgical incisions on her head were angry and raised, three distinct semi-circular cuts secured with heavy, non-absorbent sutures typical of veterinary work rather than sterile neurosurgery.
"Elena," Jack murmured, leaning close, his thumb brushing her damp forehead. "I'm right here. You're safe. Who did this to you?"
Her breath came in shallow, rattling gasps. She didn't open her eyes, but her hand clawed weakly at the front pocket of his tactical uniform blouse. Her knuckles were yellowed, bruised by blown veins where IV cannulas had been forced in repeatedly.
"The basement..." she rasped, her teeth chattering uncontrollably. "Behind the wine cellar... the heavy steel door... they kept me under for weeks, Jack. They took... they took the marrow."
Jack felt a cold wave wash over his spine. "What marrow? Whose clinic?"
May you like
"Not a clinic," she breathed, her grip slipping from his vest as her consciousness faded once again into a feverish delirium. "Your brother... he was dying. Eleanor said... only my blood was compatible. She forced me to sign... then the locks clicked."
A sharp metallic sound clicked behind Jack in the doorway. He spun around, drawing the combat knife from his tactical belt in a single, fluid blur of motion, only to find Eleanor standing under the hallway light, holding an antique iron key in one hand and a smartphone in the other, already dialing a number.
