Blood Tyes

The grimy motel room felt like a submarine deep beneath the sea, a pocket of pressurised silence against the crushing weight of the world outside. The revelations from Dr. Reed's book had left DC Harris reeling. Julian Croft, the blueprint. Dame Eleanor, the conductor. And a new, unknown victim—the true masterpiece—walking into a gala that was now just days away. It was all too much, a cascade of horrors that his mind, trained on traffic violations and breaking-and-entering cases, could barely comprehend.

DI Corbin, however, seemed to draw strength from the chaos. His grief for Evelyn Reed had been forged into a hard, sharp weapon. He was pacing the small room, his injured arm in its sling a constant reminder of their vulnerability, but his voice was clear and commanding.

"They need her alive, Harris. They need her to be the officiant. That's our only advantage. They won't harm her before the ceremony begins," he was saying, thinking aloud. "We have to get inside that gala. We need to identify the real target before they do."

Harris nodded, trying to focus, trying to be the good copper his Guv'nor needed him to be. But his mind was a storm of fear. He kept seeing the image of Alani Costa's broken body, of Arthur Pendelton's empty chair.

It was then that his personal mobile phone, a cheap pay-as-you-go burner he'd bought two days ago, began to vibrate on the table. He glanced at the screen. The name flashing was 'Sarah'. His wife.

A sudden, dizzying wave of love and terror washed over him. He hadn't spoken to her since this began, feeding her a story about a last-minute residential course. He had to answer.

"Sorry, Guv," he mumbled, stepping into the cramped bathroom for a sliver of privacy. He pressed the green button. "Sarah? Love? Is everything alright?"

The voice that answered was not his wife's. It was male, calm, and exquisitely polite. It was the most terrifying sound he had ever heard.

"She's perfectly fine, Constable. For now."

Harris froze, his blood turning to ice. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

"Don't react," the voice continued, smooth as silk. "Don't let the Inspector see your face change. Just listen. Your wife is in the kitchen, making a cup of tea. She's just put your daughter, Lily, to bed."

The man paused. Harris could hear the faint, tinny sound of a lullaby in the background. His daughter's musical unicorn.

"Lily likes that little unicorn nightlight, doesn't she?" the voice said conversationally. "A charming detail."

A sob caught in Harris's throat. The monster was in his house. The monster was in his daughter's bedroom.

"DI Corbin is becoming a nuisance," the man said, his tone shifting slightly, becoming businesslike. "He is interfering with a project of great artistic importance. He is a hammer, and this is a task for a surgeon's scalpel. You, on the other hand, are a sensible man. A man with everything to lose."

The ultimatum was laid out with cold, simple precision.

"You will give him to us. At the gala. The Inspector will be entirely focused on Dame Eleanor. You will find a way to separate him from the main event. A false tip-off, a feigned emergency. Lead him to a quiet location we will provide—the old boathouse by the lake on the estate grounds. Then, you will simply walk away. Do this, and your wife and daughter will wake up in the morning and their lives will continue, untouched. Refuse…"

The man sighed, a sound of gentle disappointment.

"Well," he said. "The Architect is so much less… elegant than I am."

The line went dead.

Harris stood trembling in the darkness of the motel bathroom, the phone clutched in his hand. He looked at his reflection in the cheap, cracked mirror. He saw the face of a coward. He thought of his daughter's face, peaceful in the glow of her nightlight. He thought of his wife, humming to herself in the kitchen.

Then he thought of Corbin, a good man, a brilliant detective, out in the other room, planning how to save the world, completely unaware that his closest ally was now a loaded gun pressed against his own head.

He stumbled out of the bathroom, his face a pale, unreadable mask.

Corbin looked up, his eyes sharp and concerned. "Harris? You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Harris forced his lips to move, the words tasting like poison.

"Fine, Guv," he said, his voice sounding strange and distant to his own ears. "Just… tired."

He sat down, picking up a pen and a notepad, pretending to make a plan. But his choice was already made. And he knew, with a certainty that hollowed out his soul, that no matter what he did, he had already betrayed someone.