Chapter 223: 223 The Auction House

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223: The Auction House 223: The Auction House “That’s horrific.” Sarah stood up, pacing now, her analytical mind clearly working through the implications.

“And the Covenant you mentioned—they’re like supernatural law enforcement?”

“More like a governing body.

They try to maintain peace and protect our communities.”

Sarah stopped pacing, turning to face Mishka directly.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?

We’re friends, aren’t we?”

The hurt in her voice made Mishka’s chest tighten.

“We are.

You’re one of my closest friends, Sarah.

But keeping this secret isn’t about trust—it’s about protection.

The fewer people who know about Eldergrove, the safer everyone here is.

And if you knew, you’d be at risk too.”

“I think that ship has sailed,” Sarah said wryly.

“I’ve seen too much to unsee it now.”

“I know.

And I’m sorry.

I never wanted to put you in this position.”

Sarah sat back down, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

“Okay.

So what happens now?

Are you going to make me forget?

Can you do that with your Siren thing?”

“I could,” Mishka admitted.

“But I won’t.

Not unless you ask me to.”

“Would I even know if you did?”

“No.”

Sarah considered this, then shook her head firmly.

“Don’t.

I don’t want to forget.

This is real, and I want to know the truth, even if it’s terrifying.” She met Mishka’s eyes.

“What I do want is to help.

These threats against you, against your community—there must be something I can do.”

Mishka felt unexpected tears prick her eyes.

“Sarah, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.

You’re my friend.

And from what you’re telling me, you’re protecting people who just want to live in peace.

That’s not something I can turn my back on.” Sarah’s expression softened.

“Besides, you’ve had my back at work more times than I can count.

Time I returned the favor.”

“This is different from covering for someone in a meeting.”

“I know.

But my offer stands.” Sarah pulled out her phone.

“Now, tell me more about these security concerns.

Maybe there’s a technological angle we haven’t considered.

I am an electrical engineer, after all.”

As Mishka began to explain the security setup around Eldergrove, she felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders.

Sarah listened intently, occasionally asking sharp, technical questions that Mishka hadn’t even considered.

Her colleague’s practical, analytical approach to the impossible situation was oddly comforting.

When they finally wrapped up nearly two hours later, Sarah stood to leave.

At the door, she turned back.

“Mishka?

Thank you for trusting me with this.

I know it wasn’t easy.”

“Thank you for not running screaming,” Mishka replied with a small smile.

Sarah grinned.

“Oh, I might still do that later.

But for now, I’m here.

And Mishka?” Her expression turned serious.

“Be careful.

From everything you’ve told me, this Jean person sounds dangerous.

Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

After Sarah left, Mishka returned to the window, watching her friend’s car pull away from Eldergrove.

The secret was out—at least to one more person.

It should have terrified her.

Instead, she felt oddly relieved.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Bruce: “Everything okay?

Saw Sarah leaving.”

“Better than okay,” she typed back.

“I’ll explain tonight.”

As she set her phone down, Mishka caught her reflection in the window glass.

Behind her, she could see the protective wards Emma had strengthened shimmering faintly in the morning light.

Ahead, Sarah’s car disappeared around the corner, carrying her friend back to the ordinary world that would never quite look the same again.

Sometimes, Mishka thought, the best allies came from the most unexpected places.

The tip came from Duncan three days after Mrs.

Callahan’s collapse.

Mishka was exhausted, having spent the previous seventy-two hours rotating between checking on the elderly woman, helping Emma with her crash course in ward magic, and maintaining some semblance of normalcy at VoltCore.

Sarah had been covering for her absences, but even her friend’s goodwill had limits.

The message from her brother arrived just as she was contemplating whether she had the energy to shower before collapsing into bed.

“Found something.

Supernatural artifacts being auctioned illegally.

Tomorrow night.

Downtown warehouse district.

Could be connected to Jean’s network.

Want backup?”

Mishka stared at her phone, then showed it to Bruce, who’d been reviewing security reports at her kitchen table.

“Absolutely not,” he said immediately.

“You’re running on fumes, the community is in crisis, and we don’t know if this is legitimate intelligence or a trap.”

“Which is exactly why I need to go,” Mishka countered.

“If Jean’s network is selling supernatural artifacts, we need to know what they have.

Some of those items could be dangerous in the wrong hands.

Or they could be evidence we can use against her.”

Bruce set down his tablet, his amber eyes serious.

“Then let Julian and his security team handle it.

That’s what they’re trained for.”

“Julian’s stretched thin managing doubled patrols because of the failing wards.

And Duncan specifically asked for me.” She softened her voice.

“Besides, you know my Siren abilities could be useful for gathering information without raising suspicion.”

“Or for getting you killed if someone recognizes you.”

“That’s why you’re coming with me.”

Bruce blinked.

“I am?”

“You just said I shouldn’t go alone.

So we go together.

Duncan makes three.

That’s a reasonable team for reconnaissance.” She reached across the table and took his hand.

“Bruce, we need information.

Mrs.

Callahan is dying, Emma’s learning magic that should take years to master in a matter of days, and our protective wards are weakening by the hour.

If there’s even a chance this auction is connected to Jean, we have to investigate.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then sighed.

“I want Julian informed.

And we set clear boundaries—reconnaissance only.

No heroics, no confrontations.

We observe, gather information, and leave.”

“Agreed.”

“And you wear the protective charm Mrs.

Pemberton made for you.”

“Already wearing it.” Mishka pulled the delicate silver chain from beneath her shirt, revealing a small crystal pendant that pulsed with faint magical energy.

“She insisted after the break-in.”

The next evening found them dressed in expensive but understated clothing, the kind worn by people with money who didn’t need to advertise it.

Duncan had texted them an address in an industrial area of Toronto that Mishka rarely visited—all converted warehouses and trendy lofts with ground-floor galleries and boutique coffee shops.

The particular building they wanted was older, less renovated, with bricked-over windows and a single discreet entrance down an alley.

“Charming,” Bruce muttered as they approached.

“Nothing says ‘legitimate business’ like a mysterious warehouse in a dark alley.”

Duncan was waiting near the entrance, dressed in a dark suit that somehow made him look both respectable and dangerous.

He nodded at them.

“Invitation’s in your name, Mishka.

They think you’re a private collector interested in rare occult items.

Bruce is your security consultant, I’m your acquisition advisor.”

“How’d you get an invitation?” Mishka asked.

“Let’s just say I’ve been building a cover identity in supernatural artifact circles for the past six months.” Duncan’s expression was grim.

“What I’ve found isn’t pretty.

There’s a whole underground market dealing in items stolen from supernatural beings—some taken from the victims of trafficking operations.”

Mishka felt sick.

“Objects taken from people Jean captured?”

“Among others.

The network is bigger than we thought.

Jean’s operation is just one branch of a much larger tree.” He glanced at his watch.

“Auction starts in ten minutes.

Remember, we’re here to observe and identify buyers.

Don’t bid on anything unless it’s absolutely necessary for cover, and for God’s sake, don’t do anything to blow our identities.”

The entrance led to a freight elevator operated by a massive man whose neck was thicker than Mishka’s thigh.

He didn’t speak, just looked them over with cold eyes before pressing the button for the third floor.

The elevator lurched upward with a grinding sound that did nothing to calm Mishka’s nerves.

The doors opened onto a scene that looked like it had been pulled from a Gothic novel.

The warehouse’s third floor had been converted into an elegant gallery space, complete with track lighting, burgundy curtains, and display cases containing objects that made Mishka’s skin crawl.

There were perhaps fifty people scattered throughout the space, speaking in hushed tones as they examined the items up for auction.

“Stay close,” Bruce murmured, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back.

“And keep your abilities dampened.

There are supernatural beings here—I can smell at least three different shapeshifter bloodlines, and that’s just near the entrance.”

Mishka nodded, carefully maintaining the mental barriers she’d learned to keep her Siren nature from being immediately obvious.

She moved through the crowd with Duncan and Bruce flanking her, playing the role of interested collector while her eyes catalogued everything.

The items on display were disturbing in their variety.

A case held what appeared to be vials of blood, each labeled with cryptic codes.

Another contained jewelry that pulsed with trapped magic.

There were books bound in materials Mishka didn’t want to identify, weapons that radiated power, and—most horrifying—several ornate collars that made her think of the magical restraints Jean had used on trafficking victims.

“Those are control collars,” Duncan whispered, following her gaze.

“See the runes etched into the metal?

They’re designed to suppress a supernatural being’s abilities and make them susceptible to commands.

Highly illegal under Covenant law, and incredibly valuable on the black market.”

“Who would buy something like that?” Mishka asked, though she already knew the answer.

“People who want power over beings they can’t otherwise control.

Collectors, criminals, researchers who don’t care about ethics.” Duncan’s jaw tightened.

“People like Jean’s associates.”

A bell chimed softly, and the crowd began moving toward a raised platform at the far end of the space.

An auctioneer stepped up—a thin woman in an immaculate black suit, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun.

When she smiled, Mishka caught a glimpse of slightly too-sharp teeth.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the woman said, her voice carrying an otherworldly resonance that made the air vibrate.

“Welcome to tonight’s exclusive sale.

As always, all purchases are final, payment is due immediately, and discretion is absolutely essential.

Those who violate our confidentiality agreements will find themselves…

permanently removed from our guest list.”

The threat was clear.

Mishka felt Bruce tense beside her.

The auction began with smaller items—books, talismans, vials of various supernatural substances.

Bidding was fierce, with buyers using numbered paddles to maintain anonymity.

Mishka watched, memorizing faces, noting who bid on what.

Duncan was doing the same, his phone discretely recording everything despite the “no photography” signs posted throughout the space.

Then they brought out a mirror.

It was antique, the frame carved from dark wood and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

But it was the surface that drew Mishka’s attention—instead of showing a normal reflection, the glass seemed to swirl with silvery mist.

“Lot seventeen,” the auctioneer announced.

“A scrying mirror, approximately two hundred years old, of Romani origin.

Capable of showing the viewer distant locations, hidden truths, and—for those with sufficient power—glimpses of possible futures.

Recovered from the estate of a recently deceased seer in Eastern Europe.”

“Recovered,” Duncan muttered.

“That’s one way to say ‘stolen from a dead woman’s home.'”

The bidding started at ten thousand dollars and quickly escalated.

Mishka found herself tracking the bidders—a woman in her sixties with calculating eyes, a young man whose hands trembled with eagerness, and a figure in the back whose face was obscured by shadow that seemed somehow unnatural.

The mirror went for forty-five thousand dollars to the shadowy figure.

“Next,” the auctioneer continued, “we have a particularly rare item.

Lot eighteen: a Siren’s Pearl.”

Mishka’s breath caught.

Bruce’s hand found hers, squeezing tightly.

A pedestal was wheeled forward, displaying a luminous pearl the size of a robin’s egg.

It shimmered with an internal light that pulsed in rhythm with—Mishka realized with horror—a heartbeat.

“For those unfamiliar,” the auctioneer said, “a Siren’s Pearl is created through a specific and quite painful process involving the voluntary sacrifice of a Siren’s voice.

The pearl contains the essence of that voice and can be used by the possessor to command supernatural beings, particularly those of aquatic nature.

This particular specimen was acquired approximately six months ago from a source in the Maritime provinces.”

Six months ago.

Mishka remembered hearing through Covenant channels about a Siren who’d gone missing in Nova Scotia.

A young woman named Celia who’d simply vanished one night, leaving behind only a splash of blood on a dock.

“They killed her,” Mishka breathed.

“They murdered her and ripped out her voice.”

“Mishka,” Bruce warned softly.

“Control yourself.”

She realized her hands were clenching into fists, her Siren nature pushing against her barriers, wanting to scream, to compel everyone in this room to tell the truth about what they’d done.

With enormous effort, she forced herself to breathe, to maintain her cover.

The bidding on the pearl was intense.

It climbed past one hundred thousand, then one-fifty.

Mishka watched in growing horror as people casually bid on what was essentially a piece of a murdered woman’s soul.

“Two hundred thousand,” a voice called from near the front.

The speaker stepped forward slightly, and Mishka’s blood turned to ice.