The Vigil never ends, Ren reminded himself as he and Misha rode silently down a midnight highway in the middle of . . . well, nowhere.
Coniferous giants towered over the slim strip of asphalt that winded around and through the mountains. A vehicle occasionally roared past, and the radio continuously sputtered with static, but otherwise, there was only silence.
And in that silence, Ren's mind roamed. He found himself thinking of the Sacred Oath, the creed sworn by every keeper.
Protect. Provide. Persevere.
Members of the Vigil had originally been called guardians, but to Konstantin, mere defending wasn't enough. He'd given them his own title—that of the keeper—so that they might not just guard the lives of others, but look after them also. To care. And not just for the moment or for however long they could be paid.
The Vigil never ends.
Ren knew that the sacred principle had been forgotten in these new times, that somewhere along the way, keepers became stewards of purity. Now, they protected the longevity of the Serafi race, and only the Serafi race.
That was probably why Nika acted as though her life wasn't worth saving. Like it wasn't worth anything.
"You're a halfblood," he said to Misha, flicking his eyes to his ashy-haired friend.
Misha ripped his gaze away from the window. "Yes," he said, almost suspiciously.
"Have you ever been victimized because of it?"
He hesitated, and Ren wondered if perhaps he was imposing on some sort of hidden sensitivity. In the four years that Ren had known him, there was very little that Misha Kovac didn't share. But everyone had their secrets.
"I sometimes got bullied when I was a kid," Misha finally said, "and it's been a bit more challenging to make a name for myself in the Vigil without having my dad's help. But I have it pretty good, I think. My parents have always helped me through the rough patches. If I didn't have them, I'd be pretty miserable."
Ren let those words sink in. Nika was the exact opposite. Her experiences with family were as damaged as her reputation. And despite her father's political influence, she had to work for a role in the Vigil. Earn it. In fact, her noble family name only made her blood status more controversial.
He ventured that there wasn't a shred of stability in her life, apart from Luiza Lazarov, perhaps. But now, even that had been torn away from her.
"Why the sudden curiosity?" Misha asked.
Ren cleared his throat. "No reason."
He felt his friend's attention for a few seconds longer, and then they fell into a silence that had Ren feeling strange.
Something was amiss. Where was the big, Misha grin that he'd always thought was outrageously goofy-looking? What had happened to their usual repartee and meddling into one another's affairs?
"So . . . where are we going, exactly?" he finally said.
They'd been on the road for a small eternity, having left headquarters nine hours ago. Surveying the forest beyond the windshield, Ren ventured they were well beyond Konstantin Academy by now. A few stops to rest and fill their stomachs were all they'd spared, and Misha hadn't bothered to give a real explanation yet.
"And why did you insist on me coming with you?"
Misha removed a map from his pocket and unfolded it in his lap. He found whatever he was searching for and said, "Take the next left."
Ren did exactly that—because he trusted Misha knew what he was doing, and because he was sick of driving on this highway. Changing from smooth pavement to bumpy dirt road helped shake his senses awake.
It was another five minutes before Misha muttered, "I think my dad is working with the Volkari."
A rumbling chuckle rolled out of Ren. Then he waited for a real explanation. And waited. And waited. When, at last, he glanced back toward his friend, there wasn't a flicker of mirth in those gray-green eyes.
"A couple of weeks ago, I overheard my dad on the phone, telling someone the exact location of Konstantin's journal."
Ren eased his foot off the pedal. The tone of Misha's voice . . . This was no joke.
"Three days later, the library at the school was broken into, the journal was stolen. And the day after that . . . " A steadying breath. "The day after that, Luiza Lazarov was kidnapped by Volkari."
For a heartbeat, Ren could only stare at the dirt road ahead, at the too-still moon glowing in the night sky above. Then he slipped on his smooth, ever-indifferent keeper's mask and let his friend continue.
"When I heard what had happened, I wanted to believe it was just a coincidence . . . but then Nika Dimitrovich came to headquarters and was interviewed." Misha's leg began bouncing. "I watched Emil so closely. I knew that, if he was guilty, he wouldn't ask her the right questions.
"When he skirted around Dante Azzara and the journal, then implied that the wolves weren't responsible for Luiza's abduction, I knew he was hiding something. So I went into his phone records, pulled up that call he made, and found the location of the number he'd spoken to."
A dull roaring came to life in Ren's ears.
"I didn't do anything for a little while. I was just too afraid that he was up to something. He's always been secretive, but lately, it's been amplified. I never thought twice about it until I overheard that call.
"One day, I followed him to the base and saw Nika Dimitrovich there." He cleared his throat. "And I thought that, if my father was really working alongside the Volkari, then he might need help. From someone under-the-radar and unsuspecting. Someone like a Minister's bastard daughter."
At that, Ren's attempt to conceal his shock was . . . well, a complete and utter failure.
"You think Nika has something to do with this?"
"She was alone with Azzara the night the journal was taken. And at the Ministry interviews, when Rostova was laying into her with those accusations, my dad got up to defend her. Why would he do that unless he was protecting her? Unless he was trying to cover something up.
"You said that Nika is always sneaking off, and you caught her outside the Vigil's archives. When I followed Emil into the base, he went inside the archives right after Nika had been there."
"But she wasn't meeting Emil," Ren said, and he didn't know why he was so intent on defending her. "She was with Elliot Mirza and her roommate."
Misha blinked. "What? Why?"
"I don't know."
"Elliot Mirza is from a purist family. Why would they be meeting in secret?"
It was beyond Ren's capacity to provide a sufficient answer, but he added, "When I pulled her out, I saw Elliot holding a book. One that looked a lot like Konstantin's journal." Misha's eyes widened. "But before you jump to conclusions," Ren continued, "you should know that the journal at the school's library had the Vigil's insignia engraved on its front cover. This one was blank."
"So what was it, then?"
Ren shook his head. "Not sure. But it seemed valuable."
The dirt road suddenly came to an end at the top of a large hill. Ren stopped the vehicle. It was a warehouse—clearly abandoned, with rusted metal panels, chipping paint, a broken door. A ghost's residence.
"What is this place?" he said under his breath.
"The location of the number Emil called."
Ren studied his friend. Misha gazed at the warehouse with a desperate gleam in his eyes. And because Ren held him in such high regard, he sighed and said, "Alright. We'll scope it out, see what we can find. But, Misha . . . if there's any evidence that suggests Emil is—"
"I know." Misha's throat bobbed. "That's why I needed you to come with me. If we find something, I need you to help me turn him in."
He nodded. For Misha—the only real friend he'd ever had—he would need to be a rock. He would need to do the right thing, even if the right thing was also the hard thing. Even if he wasn't sure if he'd be able to turn in Emil himself.
The man was a mentor to him. It was only because of Emil Kovac that he'd been able to get into the Vigil. He owed that man everything. And to turn his back on the sacred history they all shared . . .
No, Ren could do it. He could be strong enough. And if Emil was truly working with the Volkari—which, though Ren doubted it, Misha seemed rather troubled by—he could put his feelings aside to ensure that all would be punished.
They stepped out of the SUV, giving the dilapidated building a thorough assessment as the headlights shone on its exterior. Ren removed the gun from his waistband and flicked off the safety button. It was a comfort to hold in his palm.
"Open eyes," he said.
His was merely another voice of the wind—a whisper which only the swaying tree branches could hear.
"Head wise," Misha replied with equal quiet.
Not another word was spoken as they entered the warehouse.