Chapter 139: 139 Echoes of the Missing Wolves

Settings

Font Size

A

A

16px

Font Family

Background Color

139: Echoes of the Missing Wolves 139: Echoes of the Missing Wolves The descent into Tokyo felt like falling through layers of song.

Mishka could feel them—old frequencies vibrating up through the earth, new ones humming through the city’s electronics, all of them weaving together into something that made her throat ache with the need to join the chorus.

“Picking up massive energy fluctuations from the venue,” one of the containment team members reported from his equipment.

“The patterns…

they’re similar to what we saw at the mansion, but larger.

Much larger.”

Through the jet’s windows, they could see the fashion show venue rising like a modernist dream of glass and steel.

But now, with her senses still heightened from the earlier singing, Mishka could see something else—threads of light running through the building’s foundations, pulsing in rhythm with patterns she somehow recognized.

“Mom’s research notes,” she said suddenly, turning to Shaun.

“The ones about the Tokyo site.

She wasn’t just mapping the node, was she?”

“No,” Myrtle answered before Shaun could.

Her sword lay across her lap, its blue light now synchronized with the building’s hidden pulses.

“She was talking to it.

And so was Isabella.”

Shaun’s phone buzzed again—a series of images from Bruce.

Security camera stills showing Isabella walking through the venue’s lobby, her face unchanged from twenty years ago.

Behind her, the prototype fabric’s patterns were visible through her partially transparent form.

“She’s a projection,” Shaun breathed.

“Elena’s using the prototype to—”

“That’s not Elena’s work,” Myrtle cut in sharply.

“Look at her eyes.”

Mishka leaned closer to the screen, and felt her breath catch.

In every image, Isabella’s eyes were fixed on the cameras, and in them burned a familiar light—the same light that had filled the mansion when Mishka’s song rebuilt the wards.

The recording in her pocket grew almost hot now, demanding attention.

Without thinking, Mishka pulled it out and pressed play.

This time, two voices emerged—her mother’s and Isabella’s, weaving together in a harmony that made the jet’s electronics flicker.

Through the stuttering lights, Mishka could see patterns forming in the air, like the ones from the mansion but more complex, more deliberate.

“A message,” Myrtle whispered, watching the patterns take shape.

“They left us a message.”

But before the patterns could fully form, a new sound cut through the harmony—a wolf’s howl, coming from directly beneath them as the jet made its final approach.

And in the fashion show venue below, every light began to pulse in perfect synchronization with Mishka’s heartbeat.

The jet touched down at a private airfield just as the first rays of sunlight began to paint Tokyo’s skyscrapers in shades of rose and gold.

Mishka’s mother’s recording had gone quiet again, but the patterns it had revealed still danced behind her eyes.

“We need to move fast,” Shaun said, checking his phone.

“Bruce says Isabella’s in the main exhibit hall.

The fashion show setup crew is due in less than two hours.”

“Perfect timing,” Myrtle remarked, adjusting her grip on the sword as they descended the jet’s stairs.

“The veil between frequencies is always thinnest at dawn.”

The containment team’s vehicles were already waiting, sleek black SUVs that hummed with hidden technology.

As they climbed in, Mishka’s phone lit up with another message from the unknown number:

“The wolf runs between worlds.

Follow.”

As if in response, a howl echoed through the city streets—closer now, and somehow more substantial than before.

The sound made the recording in Mishka’s pocket vibrate with a frequency that seemed to pull at her very bones.

“The node’s responding,” one of the technicians reported, studying his readings.

“Whatever’s happening in there, it’s affecting the entire network.”

Through the SUV’s windows, Mishka could see the fashion show venue growing larger.

But now she could also see what her mother had mapped all those years ago—lines of force running through the ground beneath the building, converging at points that matched the prototype fabric’s patterns perfectly.

“Isabella knew,” she said suddenly, understanding clicking into place.

“That’s why she disappeared the same night as Mom.

They weren’t trying to stop Elena—they were trying to buy time.

Time for…”

“For you to be ready,” Myrtle finished.

Her theatrical manner had completely vanished now, replaced by an intensity Mishka had never seen before.

“For the network to be ready.

For everything to align.”

The SUV pulled up to the venue’s service entrance.

Through the glass doors, they could see the lobby’s lights still pulsing in time with Mishka’s heart.

And there, padding silently across the polished floor, was the wolf—its fur shimmering with the same blue light as Myrtle’s sword.

“Well,” Myrtle said, a hint of her old dramatic flair returning, “shall we follow?”

But before anyone could move, Elena’s voice echoed through every speaker in the building: “You’re too late.

Isabella’s already shown me what I need to know.

The convergence isn’t just possible—it’s inevitable.”

The wolf turned its head toward their vehicle, eyes glowing with an ancient light.

And in that moment, Mishka heard her mother’s voice in her mind, clear as day: “Some songs can only be sung in harmony, my love.

Even if the singers are in different worlds.”

Understanding bloomed in Mishka’s chest as she reached for the door handle.

It was time to complete the song her mother and Isabella had started twenty years ago.

The wolf waited, patient as the ages, as they stepped out into the breaking dawn.

The scene shifted dramatically as they entered through the service entrance, the tense atmosphere of their arrival colliding with the controlled chaos of the fashion show’s preparations.

Graham stood in the center of the backstage area, somehow managing to simultaneously direct models, coordinate with stylists, and maintain constant communication with his security team.

“No, darling, the Shimizu piece needs to be moved up in the lineup—yes, I know about the situation,” he spoke rapidly into his headset, while gesturing to a group of models examining a rack of the prototype-inspired designs.

“The energy readings?

Handle it.

Just keep everyone away from the east wing for now.”

Mishka watched as models from around the world chatted excitedly in multiple languages, their energy infectious despite the underlying tension that only their small group could truly understand.

“Tokyo is just magical,” she overheard a tall Brazilian model saying to her colleagues.

“Did you see the sunrise this morning?

The colors seemed almost alive!”

“The Japanese magazines are already calling this the show of the decade,” another model added, carefully examining one of the prototype-inspired dresses.

“These designs…

there’s something so unique about them.

Like they’re moving even when they’re still.”

Graham caught sight of their group and made his way over, expertly navigating through the forest of clothing racks and makeup stations.

“The containment team is in position,” he said in a low voice, all while maintaining his public persona of unflappable show director.

“We’ve got the east wing sealed off, but Isabella’s presence is causing quite a bit of…

interference with the equipment.”

“And Elena?” Shaun asked quietly.

“No visual confirmation yet, but the energy signatures suggest she’s in the building.” Graham paused to call out, “Lovely, Mei!

Perfect timing on that walk!” to a passing model before continuing in hushed tones, “The wolf’s been seen on the security feeds, moving between the third and fourth floors.

It’s like it’s mapping something.”

Around them, the excitement continued to build.

A group of Japanese models were taking selfies with the Tokyo skyline visible through the venue’s massive windows, their delighted laughter a stark contrast to the gravity of the situation.

“We’ve got ninety minutes until the first run-through,” Graham said, checking his tablet.

“The press is already gathering outside.

Whatever we’re going to do, it needs to happen before—”

He was cut off by a sudden surge in the building’s lighting, causing several models to gasp in delight at what they assumed was a lighting test.

The prototype-inspired pieces on the racks began to shimmer with an almost imperceptible rhythm.

“The frequencies are bleeding through,” Myrtle murmured, her sword hidden but humming beneath her designer coat.

“The show itself might act as a conductor.”

The recording in Mishka’s pocket pulsed warmly, as if in agreement.

Through the windows, she could see the sun continuing to rise over Tokyo, its light catching the glass and steel of the venue in ways that seemed to trace the invisible lines of force running through the building.

“Graham,” she said suddenly, “the runway configuration—can you make sure it follows the original layout?

The one from Mom’s plans?”

Graham’s eyes widened slightly as he understood.

“The node points…

they match the staging marks perfectly.” He was already adjusting his tablet.

“I’ll need to modify the walking patterns, but—”

“Make it work,” Myrtle said firmly.

“Those models may be about to walk a path far older than any fashion show.”

Above them, somewhere in the building’s upper floors, a wolf howled—a sound that made the prototype designs shimmer more intensely, though only their small group seemed to notice the true significance of the reaction.

“I’ve always said fashion is transformative,” Graham remarked with careful lightness, maintaining his cover while directing another group of models.

“Though I admit, this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”