Chapter 6The Sealed District

The sewer grate clanged shut above them, cutting off the enforcer's shouts. Darkness swallowed them whole.

Nora's hand found Dorian's arm in the black. He was trembling—whether from blood loss or the effort of the escape, she couldn't tell. Water sloshed around her ankles, cold and foul-smelling.

"Left," he breathed. "There's a door. About twenty meters."

She dragged him forward, one arm around his waist, his weight nearly buckling her knees. The tunnel curved, and her free hand scraped against wet stone until it hit metal—a rusted grate set into the wall.

"Your blood," she said. "You said it unlocks things."

Dorian pressed his palm to the grate. A faint glow flickered beneath his skin, then faded. Nothing happened.

"It's been sealed too long." His voice cracked. "The lock needs—"

She grabbed his hand and pressed it harder, feeling the jagged edge of the grate cut into his palm. Fresh blood welled up, and this time the metal responded—a deep groan, then a click.

The grate swung inward.

They stumbled through into a narrow stairwell. Nora pulled the grate shut behind them, the sound of its lock re-engaging like a prayer answered.

---

The stairwell led up to a street that should not have existed.

Buildings rose on either side, their windows dark, their facades cracked and overgrown. Streetlamps stood dead, their glass shattered. The silence was wrong—too complete, too watchful.

Dorian collapsed against a wall, his breath ragged. She knelt beside him, peeling back his coat. The cauterized wound had reopened, dark blood seeping through the bandage.

"Stay with me," she said.

"There's an apothecary. Two blocks west." He pointed with a shaking hand. "I used to—when I was a child—"

She didn't ask. She hauled him upright and followed his directions through the dead city.

The apothecary's door hung off its hinges. Inside, dust coated every surface, but shelves still held bottles and jars. Nora laid Dorian on a counter and began searching. Alcohol. Clean cloth. Something for the pain.

As she worked, she noticed a small leather notebook on the counter, its pages yellowed. She flipped it open—handwritten notes about herbs, treatments, remedies. At the back, a map of the district, with a greenhouse marked in faded ink.

*Nightshade root.*

Her hands stilled. This was it. The first component.

A soft sound made her turn. Dorian had pushed himself up on one elbow, watching her.

"What is it?"

"Map. There's a greenhouse not far from here." She held it up. "The roots are there."

He nodded slowly. "We can't stay long. Marcus's people will find the entrance eventually."

She moved to check his wound, but her fingers brushed against something hard in her coat lining. A small metal disc, no bigger than a button, sewn into the seam near her collar.

Her blood went cold.

She remembered Lila's hug before they'd left the church. The way her friend had held her a moment too long, her hand brushing Nora's collar. *Be careful, Nora. Please.*

And Lila's eyes. That flicker of something—guilt? Fear?—that Nora had dismissed as shared worry.

"You found it."

Dorian's voice was flat. He'd seen her face.

"She planted it on me." Nora's throat tightened. "When she hugged me goodbye."

He said nothing. His silence was worse than accusation.

She ripped the tracker out and crushed it under her heel. The crack of plastic echoed in the empty shop.

"We can't trust her anymore," Dorian said.

"I know."

But the words tasted like ash. Lila had been her only friend, her only ally in a world that had turned against her. And now—

*Stop.* Nora forced the thought aside. She had to focus.

"We need to move. Before they triangulate the signal."

---

The greenhouse sat in a collapsed courtyard, its glass roof shattered, its iron frames twisted into grotesque shapes. Vines had claimed everything, crawling over the walls like living nets.

But inside, amid the decay, green still grew.

Nora pushed through the door, her heart hammering. Moonlight filtered through the broken glass, illuminating rows of plants she recognized from her studies. There—in the back corner, near a cracked fountain—the distinctive purple flowers of Nightshade.

She moved toward them, but Dorian grabbed her arm.

"Listen."

She heard it then—a low, wet growl, coming from the shadows beneath the collapsed roof.

A figure emerged. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, its eyes clouded with film. It moved with a jerky, broken gait, like a puppet whose strings were fraying.

Feral vampire.

Another appeared behind it. Then another.

Nora's mind raced. The Codex had mentioned them—vampires who had been sealed in the district during the last purge, abandoned until their minds rotted. They were driven by instinct now. Hunger.

"Don't run," Dorian whispered. "They'll chase."

Her eyes swept the greenhouse. *What did they feed on in here?*

The answer came as she spotted a patch of white flowers near her feet—moonflowers. They grew in clusters around the feral vampires' lair. In her sister's old journal, there had been a note about moonflower extract: *Used in ancient rituals to dull a vampire's senses. Particularly effective on those who have degenerated.*

"Moonflower," she said. "It repels them."

Dorian's brow furrowed. "That's—"

"Trust me."

She grabbed a handful of the white blossoms and crushed them between her palms, releasing their cloying scent. Then she threw the crushed petals at the nearest feral.

The vampire recoiled, hissing, its hands clawing at its face. The others hesitated, their heads turning as if they'd lost the scent.

Nora grabbed more moonflowers, crushing them and scattering them in a circle around herself and Dorian. The ferals circled the perimeter, but they wouldn't cross the invisible line.

"Harvest the root," she said. "Quickly."

Dorian limped to the Nightshade patch, pulling a knife from his boot. He cut several roots, wrapping them in cloth.

"Careful," she said. "The sap burns skin."

He nodded, already wrapping his hands.

The ferals grew bolder, testing the moonflower barrier. One lunged, but recoiled as if struck. Another howled, the sound echoing through the greenhouse.

"We have to go," Dorian said, pocketing the roots.

They backed out of the greenhouse, Nora scattering more moonflowers behind them. The ferals watched, their cloudy eyes tracking every movement.

---

They ran through the district until Dorian's wound forced them to stop.

A crumbling mansion stood at the end of a dead-end street. They slipped through its broken doors and into a parlor where dust-sheeted furniture sat like ghosts. Dorian collapsed onto a sofa, his face pale.

Nora examined the Nightshade roots. Three of them, thick and healthy. She wrapped them in cloth and tucked them into her bag.

"One down," she said. "Two to go."

Dorian's eyes were closed, but he nodded. "The next component—willing human blood—that's harder. You can't take it by force."

"And the pure witness. You said you knew one."

He opened his eyes. "My brother. Kael."

Her breath caught. In all the time she'd known Dorian, he'd never mentioned a brother.

"He was exiled ten years ago. Sentenced to the sealed district for refusing to take a life during the blood moon hunt." Dorian's voice was hollow. "He's been here ever since."

"Can we find him?"

"If he's still alive." Dorian looked away. "The district is large, and the ferals—"

A buzz cut through the silence.

Dorian's phone. He pulled it out, and Nora saw the screen light up with a name she never wanted to see again.

*Lila.*

The message appeared: *I know where you are. I'm coming alone. Trust me.*

Nora stared at the words. Trust. The word felt like a blade.

"Don't," she said.

Dorian's thumb hovered over the reply button. "If she's coming alone—"

"She's the reason they're here. She planted the tracker."

"She might have changed her mind."

"Or she's leading them right to us."

They both fell silent, the weight of the choice pressing down.

Then, footsteps echoed outside the door.

Slow. Deliberate. Approaching.

Nora grabbed a broken chair leg and moved toward the door, her heart pounding.

Dorian's hand found hers. "Wait."

The footsteps stopped.

A voice, soft and familiar, called through the wood: "Nora. It's me. Please."

Lila.

Nora's grip tightened on the chair leg. *One move. One wrong word.*

And she'd swing.