The nightmare comes in fragments—my father's face, the smell of gunpowder, a child's scream that might have been mine or Julia's. I wake gasping, sweat-cold and shaking, to find Vlad already awake beside me.
"The memories again?" he asks gently.
I nod, unable to speak yet. It's been six weeks since the cave revelation, and the recovered memories of my father's murder still surface in dreams. Dr. Chen—not related to Jessica, despite the name—says it's normal trauma processing, but knowing that doesn't make the nights easier.
"I'll make tea," Vlad offers, but I catch his hand.
"Stay. Please."
He pulls me against him, and I breathe in the familiar scent of cedar and smoke that clings to him even now, even after everything's changed. In the darkness of our temporary quarters—a partially restored wing of Blackwood—I can pretend we're just another couple dealing with ordinary problems.
But then Hope cries, her wail carrying that strange frequency that makes the windows hum, and I remember we're anything but ordinary.
"I'll get her," Vlad says, but she's already floating—actually floating—her infant body surrounded by that phosphorescent glow as she drifts toward us.
"That's new," I manage.
"Devon did mention the evolved children would develop unexpected abilities," Vlad says, catching our hovering daughter with practiced calm.
A knock at the door interrupts us. "Mom?" Devon's voice, uncertain in a way that makes my maternal instincts flare.
"Come in, sweetheart."
He enters, and even in the darkness, I can see he's been crying. My composed, evolved, bridge-between-worlds son has been crying like the seven-year-old he still is.
"Bad dreams?" I ask, making room for him on the bed.
"Not dreams. Memories. But not mine." He curls against me, suddenly seeming so small. "The network—sometimes I see through other children's eyes. Tonight I saw... I saw what they did to Subject Seven before she became Genesis. I saw what they did to all of them."
Vlad and I exchange looks over his head. The burden our son carries is immense, too much for anyone, let alone a child.
"You don't have to hold all of it," I tell him. "You can let some of it go."
"No. Someone has to remember. Someone has to witness what was done, so it never happens again."
"Not tonight," Vlad says firmly. "Tonight, you're just our son, and you need sleep."
But sleep doesn't come easily for any of us. We lie there, a family bound by trauma and transformation, waiting for dawn.
Morning brings its own challenges. Adrian Dickenson, Vlad's supposedly dead cousin, has arrived to discuss the Underground Seminary's integration with our school. He looks like Vlad might in ten years—sharp features softened by laugh lines, dark hair streaked with premature silver.
"You look well for a dead man," Leo observes, joining us in what used to be the headmaster's office.
"Death was easier than opposing Theodore directly," Adrian replies. "But I couldn't stand by while children were experimented on. The Seminary saved forty-three modified children over the years."
"Where are they now?" I ask.
"Scattered, hidden, safe. But with the program exposed and this school forming... they want to come home."
Home. Is that what Blackwood is becoming?
"We barely have resources for the children already here," Vlad points out.
"The Seminary has funding. Sympathizers who've been supporting us for years. They want to help rebuild Blackwood as a legitimate institution."
"With conditions?" Leo's voice carries familiar suspicion.
"With hope," Adrian corrects. "That these children can be more than weapons or experiments. That they can be the bridge to something better."
Genesis enters, Richard beside her. "We have a problem. Some of the evolved children are getting sick. Their abilities are manifesting too quickly."
Richard adds, "Their bodies can't handle the rapid changes. We need specialized medical equipment, treatments we don't have."
"The Seminary has medical connections," Adrian offers. "Dr. Sarah Blackwood—"
"Blackwood?" I interrupt.
"Descendant of the original family. She's been researching the modified genome for years, trying to find ways to help rather than control."
It's almost too convenient, too neat. But as I watch another child—a six-year-old named Tommy—phase through a wall while crying for his mother, I realize we need all the help we can get.
That afternoon, while showing Adrian around the grounds, we encounter Susan sitting with Julia in the ruins of the observatory. They're going through documents, pieces of our father's research that Julia saved.
"He was so close," Julia says, holding up a yellowed paper. "Dad almost figured out the Order's original work. If he'd lived..."
"He'd be proud of what you're building," Susan says firmly. "Both of you."
Adrian clears his throat. "I knew your father. James Johnson. He consulted with the Seminary before his death."
We all turn to stare at him.
"He was trying to expose the Architect program. We were going to help him. But Theodore got to him first."
The rage that fills me is familiar now, but Julian's is incandescent. "You knew? You knew who killed him and you did nothing?"
"I was twenty-three and terrified," Adrian says simply. "Theodore had already faked my death once. If I'd acted then, the forty-three children I saved would be dead. I made a choice."
"The wrong choice," Julia spits.
"Perhaps. But I'm here now, trying to make it right."
Before Julia can respond, Devon appears, running full tilt. "Mom! Dad! Something's happening to the network!"
We follow him to where the evolved children have gathered in the main courtyard. They're all glowing, brighter than ever, and their light is pulsing in unison.
"What is it?" Vlad demands.
Clara answers, her young voice eerily calm. "Carmichael. He's done something. We can feel modified children dying. Hundreds of them. All at once."
The horror of it hits like a physical blow. "Where?"
"Prague. Moscow. Beijing. Everywhere he has facilities." Devon's face is streaked with tears. "He's purging them. Killing any modified child who won't serve the program."
"We have to stop him," I say.
"How?" Leo demands. "He's on the other side of the world with resources we can't match."
"No," Marcus King says, emerging from wherever he lurks. "But I can. Give me a team, and I'll end him."
"Violence won't solve this," Richard protests.
"It will stop the immediate killing," Marcus counters.
I look at my son, my daughter, all these glowing children carrying humanity's future in their transformed genes. Then I think of the hundreds dying right now, their light extinguished because one man believes in control over evolution.
"Do it," I tell Marcus. "Stop him."
"Jasmine—" Vlad starts.
"No. I'm done being reactive. Done letting them hurt children while we build our sanctuary. If Carmichael wants a war, he gets one."
Marcus nods and disappears as quickly as he came. Leo follows, and I know without asking that he's joining the hunt.
That night, as we hold vigil for the dying children across the world, I stand with Vlad on the broken astronomical tower. The evolved children below us glow like earthbound stars, their light a defiance against the darkness Carmichael represents.
"It was never going to be easy," Vlad says.
"No. But it's worth it. They're worth it."
Hope floats between us—she's doing it more often now, this casual defiance of physics. Devon says it's her way of staying close to everyone she loves.
"Daddy," Devon says, joining us. "Adrian wants to know if he can bring the Seminary children here. All forty-three."
Vlad looks at me, and I see the weight of leadership settling on his shoulders. His father's empire, built on control and cruelty, transforming into something else under our watch.
"Yes," Vlad says. "Bring them home."
Home. There's that word again. But as I watch the evolved children below create light-patterns in the air—their way of mourning those they've lost—I realize that's exactly what we're building.
A home for the transformed. A school for the evolved. A future for those who would have been weapons.