Chapter 175: 175 Book 3 Mysteries of Eldergrove-Shadows Across Borders

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175: Book 3: Mysteries of Eldergrove-Shadows Across Borders 175: Book 3: Mysteries of Eldergrove-Shadows Across Borders The Paris hospital’s conference room buzzed with camera flashes as Mishka faced the press, her green dress soft, a stylish hat from Duncan hiding her scar.

Bruce stood close, his hand brushing hers, his own mansion across the woods from her family’s waiting back in Canada.

Duncan adjusted his Parisian scarf, eyes scanning the reporters.

Mishka’s voice, fragile from the coma, carried her Siren strength.

“I’m grateful to be here,” she said, glancing at Duncan and Bruce.

“Jean’s attack hurt me, but I’m stronger now.

I forgive her, but she faces justice.

To my fans—thank you.

I’ll sing again soon.”

Questions erupted.

“Will you press charges?” “What’s next for your music?”

“I’ll let the courts handle Jean,” Mishka said, smiling.

“My music’s my heart.

It’s coming back.” Her raw words drew applause, but the dream’s echo—the alien claw, the rift’s eyes—made her hands tremble.

Duncan whispered, “Nailed it, sis,” as Bruce guided her through the swarm to a hallway, his jaw tight, scanning for threats.

In her room, Mishka sank onto the bed.

“That was intense,” she admitted, the dream’s metallic hum faint in her ears.

Bruce sat beside her, hand warm.

“You were incredible.

The world saw you, not the attack.”

Duncan paced, phone out, face grim.

“Jean’s locked up, but she’s got people back home.

I’m digging into her contacts—nobody’s touching you again.”

Mishka frowned, the dream’s werewolf flashing—Jean’s wild eyes in cuffs.

“She’s in a French jail, Duncan.

What can she do?”

He stopped, eyes fierce.

“Her cousin Liam in Toronto—rough guy, bar fights, shady deals.

My PI friend’s on it, checking his crew, old pack haunts.

If Jean’s got a way to get at you, it’s through him.”

Bruce’s brow furrowed.

“Your PI?

How’s he getting this?”

“Ex-cop, owes me from Paris,” Duncan said, scrolling.

“He’s sniffing Jean’s old bars, dens, cousins’ places.

Liam’s got a loyal crew—small, but trouble.”

Mishka’s stomach twisted, the dream’s claw scraping her mind.

“Don’t stir trouble, Duncan.

I just want to go home.”

He shook his head.

“Jean put you in a coma, sis.

I’m not risking round two.”

Bruce nodded.

“I’m setting up surveillance at my mansion across the woods.

My team—ex-security, some with wolf instincts—cameras, patrols, everything.”

Mishka sighed, rubbing her temple, the scar tingling.

“I’m not a prisoner, Bruce.”

He knelt, voice soft.

“It’s about keeping you safe.

You’ll have your music, your life.

Nobody’s taking that.”

Two days later, Mishka was discharged, bags packed for a flight from Paris to Toronto.

The airport buzzed, travelers jostling as Duncan checked tickets, his phone pinging with PI updates.

Bruce stayed close, hand on Mishka’s, eyes scanning.

Her head ached, the dream’s rift—unblinking eyes—hovering in her thoughts.

On the plane, Mishka stared at clouds, like the dream-city’s fragments.

“It felt so real,” she murmured.

“Mom, the lighthouse… that claw.

What if it wasn’t just a dream?”

Duncan, beside her, squeezed her hand.

“A month in a coma, sis.

Dreams get wild.

Focus on Canada, your life.”

Bruce leaned across the aisle.

“Jean’s in jail.

You’re safe, Mishka.”

She nodded, the hum persisting.

“What’s your PI saying, Duncan?”

He checked his phone, frowning.

“Liam’s mouthing off at a dive bar, talking ‘family honor’ for Jean.

Got a crew—one guy’s got a tattoo, claw with eyes.

Weird, huh?”

Mishka’s breath caught, the dream’s rift flashing.

“That’s… from my dream.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed.

“Coincidence.

Dreams mix things up.

But we’re not chancing it.”

The plane landed in Toronto, the air crisp.

Angus and Myrtle waited at the gate, Angus stern in a tailored coat, Myrtle’s sharp eyes witch-like despite the dream’s fiction.

Angus hugged Mishka stiffly, Myrtle gripping her arm, chilling her.

“You’re alive,” Angus said, gruff.

“But the family mansion’s not safe.

You grew up there with us, Mishka, but it’s too exposed now.

I’ve got a house in Eldergrove, a gated estate outside town.

High walls, top security.

You’re moving there.”

Mishka pulled back, stunned.

“The family mansion’s my home—where I lived with you and Myrtle.

My studio’s there, my music.”

Myrtle’s lips thinned.

“Your music drew Jean’s attack, child.

Eldergrove’s secure.

No arguments.”

Bruce stepped in, firm.

“She needs her space, Angus.

My mansion across the woods is covered—cameras, my team, wolf instincts.

She’ll be safe.”

Angus’ eyes hardened.

“You’re not her father, Bruce.

Eldergrove’s final.

Jean’s people are out there.”

Duncan cut in, sharp.

“Speaking of, I’m tracking Jean’s contacts.

Liam’s making noise—bars, crews, a guy with a claw tattoo.

My PI’s digging, says Liam’s got plans.

I’ll know who by tomorrow.”

Myrtle’s gaze snapped to Duncan.

“You’re stirring trouble, boy.

Let the police handle it.”

“I’m protecting my sister,” Duncan shot back, scarf snapping.

“She’s not going to some gated cage.

Bruce’s got her covered.”

Mishka’s chest tightened, the dream’s hum sharper.

She looked at Angus, his face etched with worry, and Myrtle, her control suffocating.

The dream’s rift—You’ve opened the door—echoed, but so did her exhaustion.

Music, the stage, the spotlight—it felt heavy, too much.

“Maybe… maybe Dad’s right,” she said, voice soft.

“I need a break.

From music, from everything.

I’ll go to Eldergrove.”

Duncan’s jaw dropped.

“Sis, you serious?

The mansion’s your soul—your studio, your songs!”

Bruce’s hand tightened on hers, his voice low.

“Mishka, you don’t have to do this.

My place is safe.”

She shook her head, eyes distant.

“I’m tired, Bruce.

The dream, Jean, the press—I need quiet.

Just for a while.

I’ll work at Dad’s company, like before.

Back to an office, something normal.”

Angus nodded, a rare softness in his eyes.

“Smart choice.

Eldergrove’s secure, and you’ll have your old office at the tech company.

Commute’s easy—twenty minutes into Toronto.”

Myrtle’s smile was thin, approving.

“Sensible, for once.”

Duncan frowned but relented.

“Fine, but I’m still tracking Liam.

You’re not out of my sight, sis.”

Bruce’s jaw clenched, but he nodded.

“I’m setting up surveillance at Eldergrove too.

My team’s on it.”

In Eldergrove, the gated estate’s high walls loomed, the house modern but sterile compared to the family mansion’s warmth where Mishka had lived with Angus and Myrtle.

Her personal maid, Milla, bustled in, her short bob bouncing, eyes bright with dreams beyond housework.

“This place is fancy, Miss Mishka,” Milla said, unpacking boxes.

“Quiet, perfect for a reset, yeah?”

Mishka smiled faintly, the dream’s hum faint but persistent.

“Yeah.

You still chasing that movie dream, Milla?”

Milla grinned, stacking towels.

“Heck yeah.

Got a werewolf horror script—low-budget, gritty.

Pitching it in Toronto next month.

You in for a cameo?”

Mishka laughed, the sound easing her tension.

“No werewolves, Milla.

Maybe a quiet role.” The dream’s claw flashed, unsettling her.

The next morning, Mishka drove to Angus’s tech company in Toronto, the city’s skyline gleaming.

Her corner office, from her pre-music days, felt familiar—sleek desk, a photo of a younger Duncan and her mother’s smile.

She sank into the chair, emails and spreadsheets a grounding routine.

The dream’s rift lingered, but the hum faded in the hum of office chatter.

By noon, she was sorting project files, her old rhythm returning.

A coworker, Sarah, popped in, her smile warm.

“Mishka, you’re back!

Coffee run later?

We missed you.”

Mishka nodded, smiling.

“Sure, Sarah.

It’s… good to be here.” The normalcy felt like a shield, dulling the dream’s echoes.

Duncan called, voice tense.

“PI’s got more on Liam.

He’s at a bar nightly, three guys, one with that claw tattoo.

Talking ‘payback’ for Jean—nothing solid, but they’re moving.”

Mishka’s grip tightened.

“Be careful, Duncan.

I’m safe here.

Milla’s with me, Dad’s got security.”

Bruce texted: Eldergrove cameras up.

Team’s patrolling.

You good?

She replied, Good.

Thanks.

But the dream’s eyes flickered in her mind.

Evenings in Eldergrove brought unexpected lightness.

Milla, ever the spark, turned the sterile house into a hub of fun.

One night, she dragged Mishka to the estate’s community center, fairy lights strung for a residents’ movie night.

“Come on, Miss Mishka,” Milla urged, grinning.

“Old horror flick—werewolf stuff, my vibe!”

Mishka hesitated, the dream’s werewolf flashing, but joined her, laughing as neighbors argued over popcorn flavors.

Milla whispered, “See that guy, Tom?

Cameraman, says he’ll read my script!” Her excitement pulled Mishka in, and they stayed late, Milla pitching her movie while Mishka sipped hot chocolate, the community’s warmth a balm.

Another evening, Milla hosted a script-reading party, roping in neighbors—retirees, a chef, a tech nerd.

“You’re my star,” Milla teased, handing Mishka a page.

Mishka read, her Siren voice softening the room, and the group clapped, the chef offering cookies.

For the first time in weeks, Mishka felt light, the dream’s hum nearly silent.

But at night, alone, the hum returned, sharp and metallic.

She strummed a borrowed guitar, notes grounding her, but the dream’s rift—You’ve opened the door—lingered.

Bruce’s team patrolled, flashlights cutting the dark, and Duncan’s updates grew urgent: “Liam’s crew’s planning something.

Tattoo guy’s been asking about Eldergrove.”

One night, Mishka stood at her window, the estate’s walls stark in the moonlight.

Milla was downstairs, scribbling script notes, humming off-key.

A shadow moved beyond the gate—brief, glinting like metal.

Mishka’s breath caught, the dream’s claw echoing.

Duncan’s call came through, voice tight: “Mishka, the tattooed guy’s close—spotted near Eldergrove’s entrance.

His tattoo… it glowed.”

Mishka’s heart pounded, the guitar slipping from her hands.

She moved toward the gate, the metallic scrape louder now, like claws on steel.

Milla’s humming stopped, her voice calling, “Miss Mishka?

You okay up there?”

“Stay inside, Milla!” Mishka shouted, pulling on a jacket, her scar tingling.

She stepped into the chilly night, Bruce’s security team’s flashlights sweeping the perimeter.

A figure emerged from the shadows—not the tattooed man, but a tall, handsome young man in a tailored coat, his dark hair catching the moonlight, a warm smile softening his sharp features.

“Miss Mishka?” he called, his voice smooth, carrying a faint accent—old money, confident.

“I’m Julian Voss, from the Voss family.

Big fan.

Sorry to show up like this, but I live in Eldergrove, too.

Saw the lights, heard you were here.”

Mishka froze, the dream’s hum pulsing.

“You’re… a fan?” she asked, wary, glancing at the gate where the glint had been.

Julian nodded, stepping closer, his green eyes earnest.

“Huge.

Your album got me through some rough nights.

I know you’re taking a break, but… you gotta sing again soon.

The world needs your voice.”

She softened, his sincerity disarming, but the hum sharpened, the dream’s eyes flickering in her mind.

“Thanks, Julian.

I’m just… trying to find normal right now.”

He grinned, boyish yet polished.

“Normal’s overrated.

You’re a star.

My family’s got a charity gala next month—Toronto, big crowd.

One song?

I’d owe you forever.”

Milla appeared at the door, eyes wide.

“Miss Mishka, who’s this?

Everything okay?”

“He’s a neighbor,” Mishka said, waving her off.

“Julian Voss, Milla.

He’s… a fan.”

Milla’s brows shot up, recognizing the name.

“Voss?

Like, billionaire Voss?

Movie investors?” She grinned, nudging Mishka.

“Tell him about my script!”

Julian laughed, charming.

“Send it my way, Milla.

I know people.” He turned to Mishka, softer.

“Think about the gala.

No pressure, but you’re missed.”

A security guard approached, flashlight steady.

“Ma’am, we checked the gate.

Nothing on the cameras, but we’re doubling patrols.” His eyes flicked to Julian, cautious.

Mishka nodded, the hum deafening now.

“Thanks.

Julian, I’ll think about it.

I need to get inside.”

He bowed slightly, backing away.

“Goodnight, Mishka.

Sing soon.” His smile lingered as he vanished into the estate’s shadows.

Inside, Milla chattered about Julian’s family, but Mishka’s mind was elsewhere.

The dream’s claw, the glowing tattoo—too close to Julian’s sudden appearance.

Duncan’s text buzzed: Tattooed guy’s still in Eldergrove.

PI lost him near the gate.

Stay sharp.

Mishka glanced at the window, the moonlight glinting off something metallic in the grass—a small, claw-shaped charm, its edges faintly glowing.

Her breath caught, the dream’s voice whispering, You’re mine now, as Milla’s script pages fluttered, a faint scrape echoing from the walls.