The Storm Door

The rain in the Salt District didn’t wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker. It drummed a relentless, headache-inducing rhythm against the single pane window of Lyra’s second-story office. The room smelled of stale coffee, damp wool, and the low-tide brine drifting off the harbor two blocks east.

Lyra sat with her feet up on the scarred desk, nursing a mug that had gone cold an hour ago. She wasn't waiting for a client. She was just waiting for the night to end. Being a Siren in a city run by shifters and vampires meant she was useful, but never welcome. Her voice was a weapon, and nobody invited a loaded gun to dinner.

The heavy frosted glass of her door rattled. Not a knock—a collision.

Lyra didn't flinch. She swung her boots off the desk just as the door flew open.

Beckett filled the frame. The Alpha of the Iron Tooth pack was soaking wet, his trench coat heavy with water, his dark hair plastered to his skull. He smelled of ozone, wet pavement, and a terrified, sharp musk that made the hair on Lyra’s arms stand up.

He didn't say hello. He didn't ask if she was busy. He slammed a stack of cash onto her desk. The bands broke, sending hundreds of bills fluttering onto the floor like dead leaves.

"I need you," he rasped.

Lyra looked at the money, then up at his face. Beckett was usually a statue of stoic control, a man who led by silence. Tonight, his eyes were wild, the amber irises bleeding into the white.

"Hello to you too, Beckett," Lyra said, her voice naturally melodic, a low hum that vibrated the dust motes in the air. "What happened?"

"They took them," Beckett said. He braced his hands on her desk, leaning in. His knuckles were split and bleeding. "Three of them. From the nursery. An hour ago."

Lyra’s stomach dropped. Pups. Werewolf children were sacred, protected with a ferocity that bordered on religious zeal. To take one was suicide. To take three was an act of war.

"Who?" Lyra asked, standing up.

"Professionals. No scent. No tracks. They vanished." Beckett’s jaw worked, the muscles jumping. "We caught the driver of the getaway van. A human mercenary. He won't talk."

"Beckett, you have claws," Lyra said softly. "You don't need me to make a human talk."

"I broke his fingers," Beckett said, his voice cracking. "I broke his knee. He just laughs. He’s on something. A blockers drug. Pain doesn't touch him."

He reached out, grabbing Lyra’s wrist. His grip was bruising. "He’s on a clock, Lyra. I can feel it. If we don't find them tonight, they're gone. I need you to Sing it out of him."

Lyra looked at his hand on her wrist. It was the first time he had touched her in six months. The last time was when she’d saved his beta from a vampire glamor, and he’d patted her shoulder like she was a well-trained spaniel.

She knew what he was asking. Using the Voice to strip a mind wasn't like singing a lullaby. It was an invasive, violent frequency. It ruptured capillaries. It drained her life force, leaving her bedridden for days.

She should say no. She should demand triple the hazard pay. She should tell him to go to hell for only coming to her when he was desperate.

But she looked into his eyes and saw the terror of a father losing his children. And beneath that, she saw the man she had been foolishly, quietly in love with for two years.

"Where is he?" Lyra asked.

Beckett released her wrist instantly, turning for the door. "Warehouse 4. The Echo Chamber."