Chapter 187: 187 Shadows Stilled

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187: Shadows Stilled 187: Shadows Stilled The air in Mishka’s living room hung thick with tension, the shattered window letting in a cold Toronto breeze.

Lucinda, unmasked, clutched her ears, her face twisted in pain from Mishka’s piercing Siren voice.

The syringe lay on the floor, its green liquid pooling harmlessly on the hardwood.

Ivan, the scarred man’s brother, froze at the broken window, his detonator blinking, but his eyes darted between Mishka and the police lights flashing closer, their sirens cutting through the night.

Mishka’s heart pounded, her knife steady in her grip, her Siren voice humming with a defiant edge.

“Drop it, Ivan,” she commanded, her voice a resonant chord that made the air vibrate.

Ivan flinched, his fingers loosening on the detonator, and it clattered to the ground, its red light fading.

Lucinda staggered, her hands still pressed to her ears, her cat mask discarded, her face pale with fury and defeat.

Bruce’s guards stormed through the front door, their boots heavy on the floorboards.

“Down!” Bruce barked, tackling Ivan before he could reach the rifle slung across his back.

Two officers swarmed Lucinda, wrenching her arms behind her back and snapping cuffs on her wrists.

She spat curses, her voice venomous but powerless against the Siren’s lingering echo.

“You’ll regret this, Mishka,” Lucinda hissed as she was dragged to a police van, her eyes burning with Jean’s family’s unrelenting grudge.

Milla clung to Mishka’s arm, her script pages scattered across the floor, her eyes wide with fear and relief.

“Miss Mishka, you’re unreal,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“You stopped them both.

Just… wow.” She glanced at the broken window, the night now quiet save for the crackle of police radios.

Bruce approached, his face grim but softened by pride, his tailored jacket smudged from the scuffle.

“No more explosives on him,” he said, nodding toward Ivan, now cuffed and slumped in the van.

“Lucinda’s syringe—probably a sedative, not lethal.

Lab’s checking it.

Cops swept the estate—no other threats.

You’re safe, love.” He rested a hand on her shoulder, his touch warm and familiar, a reminder of their year-long romance, cemented by two unforgettable fashion shows—Toronto and Milan—where Mishka’s Siren voice had soared alongside his designs, and where he’d confessed, months ago under a Milanese moon, that he was a werewolf.

Mishka exhaled, her legs shaky, the pendant at her throat a grounding weight.

The music box in her pocket chimed faintly, its melody echoing the ballads she’d sung at Bruce’s launches.

“Thanks, Bruce,” she said, her voice hoarse but firm, leaning into his embrace.

She felt the quiet strength in him, the same strength he’d revealed when he admitted his secret, his eyes glowing faintly in the dark as he swore to protect her.

“I just want this to be over.”

The police cordoned off the estate, their lights casting red and blue across the manicured lawn, now scarred by the night’s chaos.

Bruce pulled her closer, his designer’s eye catching the smudge on her gala dress—a piece he’d crafted for her Milan performance.

“You were fearless,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across the bandage on her cheek.

“But no more heroics tonight, alright?”

Milla hovered nearby, her bob disheveled, clutching her script pages.

“Miss Mishka, this is going in my movie,” she said, her voice brightening despite the night’s terror.

“Your voice, Bruce’s designs—this is epic!

But please, stick to singing for now.” She grinned, her fear easing.

Mishka managed a faint smile, the weight of the night lifting in Bruce’s arms.

“Deal, Milla.

Let’s get you home.”

The next morning, Eldergrove’s vast estate was quiet, the fairy lights restrung, the gate repaired, its blackened iron polished to a shine.

Mishka and Milla walked the winding path to Mrs.

Callahan’s cottage, the air crisp with autumn’s bite.

The old woman greeted them with warm tea and sharper eyes, her silver hair gleaming under the morning light.

Her stage journal lay open, its pages filled with notes on courage and secrets.

“Dear, you’re a marvel,” Mrs.

Callahan said, her voice warm but laced with a knowing edge.

She poured tea, her hands steady.

“Lucinda and Ivan in cuffs, Elena’s crew crumbling—Clara would’ve loved your fire.

You and Bruce, too—those shows of yours, Toronto and Milan, pure magic.” She smiled, her eyes flicking to Mishka’s pendant.

“But you’ve stirred something older, dear.

The estate’s shadows aren’t just human.”

Milla frowned, sipping her tea.

“Mrs.

Callahan, you mentioned werewolves before.

At the gala, you said the estate hides secrets.

Were you… serious?” Her voice wavered, half-laughing, half-curious, her scriptwriter’s mind spinning.

Mrs.

Callahan’s eyes twinkled, her smile cryptic.

“Eldergrove’s been here longer than us, dear.

These woods, these stones—they hold stories.

Clara spoke of eyes in the dark, howls under the moon.

I’ve seen tracks near the oak grove, too big for dogs, too deliberate for bears.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping.

“Wealthy werewolves, Mishka.

Old families, patrons of the arts.

Composers, sculptors, minds as sharp as your voice.

One funded Clara’s first gala, long ago.

They protect this place, and your singing’s woken them.”

Mishka’s fingers brushed the pendant, her Siren heart stirring.

“Wealthy werewolves?” she asked, her tone curious but steady, her thoughts flickering to Bruce’s confession in Milan—his quiet admission of his nature, the way his eyes had glowed under the moonlight as he vowed to stand by her.

“Like… guardians of the estate?” She glanced at Milla, whose pen was flying across her notebook.

“Not just guardians,” Mrs.

Callahan said, tapping the journal.

“Talented.

Their art rivals yours—music, designs, creations that hum with the estate’s pulse.

Your voice, Mishka, it’s a beacon.

They’re watching, maybe protecting.

Power calls to power.” She sipped her tea, her gaze piercing.

“The moon calls them, and the oak grove answers.”

Milla leaned forward, her eyes bright.

“Werewolf patrons?

Miss Mishka, this is gold!

Your voice, Bruce’s designs, now werewolves?

My script’s gonna be wild!” She paused, glancing at Mishka.

“Wait, Bruce… he’s got that intense vibe.

Is he… you know?” Her voice dropped, her excitement tinged with nerves.

Mishka’s stomach twisted, her Siren voice humming low.

She hadn’t shared Bruce’s secret with anyone, not even Milla, honoring his trust.

“Bruce is… protective,” she said carefully, her smile tight.

“He’s just a designer with a knack for keeping me safe.” But her mind raced—the tracks in the grove, Bruce’s speed, his ease in the woods.

He’d told her the truth, but had he mentioned others?

Mrs.

Callahan’s smile tightened, her eyes keen.

“Bruce is loyal, dear.

Clara trusted him, and she didn’t trust lightly.

But you know him best—his heart, his secrets.” She leaned closer, her voice a whisper.

“Your voice draws truth, Mishka.

Sing, and the estate will answer—human, werewolf, or otherwise.”

Mishka’s heart raced, the pendant warm against her skin.

She thought of Bruce’s confession, the night in Milan when he’d bared his soul, his werewolf nature no longer a barrier but a bond.

“I’ll talk to him,” she said, her fingers brushing the music box, its melody echoing their shared ballad.

“He’s already been honest with me.”

Mrs.

Callahan’s eyes widened, then softened, a faint smile forming.

“Then you’re ahead of most, dear.

He’s one of them, isn’t he?

No threat to you, but part of this place’s pulse.

Ask him about the others—Clara’s notes hint at more.” She handed Mishka a torn journal page, a song for truth.

“Sing this, when you’re ready.

It’ll call them out.”

That afternoon, VoltCore buzzed with normalcy, the Toronto skyline a steady backdrop.

Mishka sank into her corner office, her sensor schematics a grounding puzzle.

Sarah burst in, her ponytail bouncing.

“Mishka, you’re a legend!

Taking down Lucinda and Ivan?

And Bruce—saw him dropping off coffee.

Guy’s smitten, and those Milan designs?

Iconic.” She grinned, tossing a file onto the desk.

“Cops say the warehouse is clean now.

No more of Jean’s crew.”

Mishka smiled, her cheeks warming at the thought of Bruce’s quiet gestures—coffee, a hand-stitched scarf, the way he’d held her after the attack.

She texted him: Dinner tonight?

Your place.

Need to talk.

His reply was instant: I’ll cook.

Just us.

Everything okay?

That evening, Mishka arrived at Bruce’s sleek Toronto loft, its walls lined with sketches from his collections, the air warm with the scent of roasted herbs.

He greeted her with a kiss, his eyes soft but searching.

“You sounded serious in that text,” he said, stirring a pan on the stove.

“What’s up, love?”

Mishka set the music box on the counter, its faint chime filling the space.

“Mrs.

Callahan told me about the estate’s werewolves—wealthy, talented, like you.

She says my voice woke them.” She held up the journal page, her Siren voice steady.

“You told me about yourself, but… are there others?

Are you part of this?”

Bruce’s hand stilled, his eyes glowing faintly, just as they had in Milan.

“She’s sharp, that old woman,” he said, his voice low.

“Yes, there are others.

Old families, like she said.

They’ve kept Eldergrove safe for generations—artists, creators, like me.” He stepped closer, his touch gentle.

“I didn’t tell you everything because it’s their story to share.

But your voice, Mishka—it’s calling them.

They’re curious, not dangerous.”

Mishka’s breath caught, the pendant glowing under the loft’s soft lights.

“Will they show themselves?” she asked, her fingers tracing the journal page.

Bruce smiled, a hint of his werewolf strength in his gaze.

“Sing that song, and they might.

But I’ll be there, always.” He pulled her close, the estate’s secrets humming between them, a melody of trust and mystery.

Mishka leaned into him, her thoughts swirling.

“Mrs.

Callahan said they’re patrons—composers, sculptors.

Are they like you, blending art and… this?” She gestured vaguely, meaning his werewolf nature.

“Do they know about us?”

Bruce nodded, setting the pan aside.

“Some do.

My family’s one of the oldest.

We’ve funded galas, built studios, kept the estate’s heart alive.

Your voice—it’s like ours, Mishka.

A gift that resonates.” He took her hand, his fingers warm.

“They’re cautious, but they’ll come forward if you sing Clara’s song.

It’s a signal, an invitation.”

She studied his face, the man who’d designed dresses that shimmered under Milan’s lights, who’d fought for her safety.

“Why didn’t you tell me about them sooner?” she asked, her voice soft but firm.

Bruce’s eyes softened, a flicker of regret.

“I wanted to protect you from their world until I was sure it was safe.

Jean’s family stirred things up, made them wary.

But you’re part of this now—your voice, our bond.” He squeezed her hand.

“Sing, and I’ll introduce you.”

Mishka nodded, the journal page a weight in her pocket.

Later, at the community center, she rehearsed Clara’s song, her Siren voice filling the studio with raw power.

The notes felt ancient, alive, as if the estate itself listened.

Outside, the oak grove loomed, its shadows stirring under the moon.

Milla, waiting in the wings, scribbled furiously.

“Miss Mishka, this is it—the Siren and the werewolf pack.

My script’s alive!”

Mishka smiled, her resolve firm.

“One song at a time, Milla.” But as she sang, the air shifted, a distant howl answering from the grove, faint but undeniable.

Bruce stood by the door, his eyes glowing, a silent promise that Eldergrove’s secrets were hers to uncover.