Marcus figured "fieldwork" meant more bullet-catching, maybe running suicides until he puked.
Turned out Amara had something quieter—and way stranger—in mind.
Late afternoon light slanted through the atrium's glass roof, laying orange bars across the stone floor. A faint breeze carried magnolia scent from the woods and something coppery that made Marcus's new instincts twitch.
Amara set a wooden box on a low table between them. Old wood, burn-scarred, etched with the same moons-and-roots pattern he'd noticed around the house.
"Open it."
The lid groaned like it hadn't moved in a century. Inside lay six objects on black velvet:
• a rusted railroad spike
• a hummingbird feather
• a three-inch shard of cracked mirror
• a .38 caliber lead slug, flattened at one end
• a tiny bottle of murky water
• a strip of red silk
"Looks like a yard sale," Marcus said.
"Looks deceive." Amara pulled two chairs together and motioned for him to sit. "Moonborn senses arrive in layers. Strength was layer one; reflexes, two. Today we wake the subtle layer—reading the invisible."
He touched the railroad spike. Heat flared up his fingertip, so vivid he jerked back. "It's hot!"
"Not really. Your skin's reading its history. That spike came from the Western & Atlantic line, pulled out the night of the 1906 race riot. Blood soaked into the metal. Hold it long enough, you'll taste the fear."
Marcus swallowed. The spike looked harmless enough, but he slipped his hand in the front pocket of his cargo pants instead.
"Pick any object. Breathe slow. Let whatever comes… come."
He chose the feather—seemed safest. Balanced it on his palm, closed his eyes. At first, nothing. Then a flicker: bright sun, sugar-cane fields, the whoosh of a tiny heart beating so fast it blurred into a hum. He smelled nectar, tasted it on his tongue. The image vanished.
He blinked at Amara. "That real?"
She nodded. "Touch enough moments and you'll learn which visions lie. Again."
Marcus hesitated, then grabbed the mirror shard. This time the rush slammed him: downtown night traffic, neon blinking, a woman's scream echoing between buildings. He saw himself in the reflection, but older—jaw harder, eyes gold-bright—standing over a body with blood on his knuckles.
He dropped the glass. It clinked on stone, spun like a flipped coin. His pulse hammered.
"You saw a maybe," Amara said softly. "Mirrors show potential, not destiny. Nothing written in glass can't be changed."
He forced a shaky breath, wiped sweat off his neck. The tracker on his wrist beeped—POWER 41 %.
She pushed the bottle toward him. "One more. The hard one."
"Mystery swamp water? Great." He uncorked it. Rot, brine, lilies, and… grief? He closed his eyes—and fell.
Dark water closed over his head. Chains dragged at his ankles. A woman's voice rose, not screaming but singing, some old Creole lament. He tasted salt, felt nails biting his cheeks—his nails, clawing for air. Just before panic snapped him in two, cool fingers touched his forehead.
"Enough." Amara's voice, firm. The vision broke like glass in a garbage truck. He was back in the atrium, breath tearing in and out, shirt plastered to his chest.
Amara recorked the vial. "That's bottled memory from the Bayou St. John massacre, New Orleans, 1838. Useful for scrying lost things—but brutal if you take too big a sip."
Marcus wiped his eyes; they stung as if he'd surfaced from chlorine. "So lesson three is… objects talk?"
"They scream, whisper, flirt, lie. Your job is to listen without letting them drown you." She set the items back in the box. "Tonight the Covenant envoy will hand you something and ask what you read. After that, physical trials are a formality."
"Who's coming?"
"Magistrate Pennington. Witch, civil-war vintage. Old Boston family, zero patience." Amara's mouth tightened. "She's fair but clinical. Don't give her a reason to stamp you 'dangerous.'"
Marcus nodded, palms still tingling from bayou water. "Any other pop quiz I should know?"
"You'll duel a shadowfall at sunset."
"Right, you mentioned shadowfalls. Sounds… poetic."
"Nothing poetic," she said. "Animated darkness, born when moonlight hits places soaked in malice. Think smoke that bites." She lifted the box. "Rest an hour. Erik will bring protective salve for your eyes. Shadowfalls love targeting vision."
He rose, wobbling like he'd gotten off a tilt-a-whirl. "Amara, the mirror—when I saw myself… I looked—"
"Harder, colder?" she finished. "Every path to power has toll booths. We decide what we pay." She offered a rare, unarmored smile. "And you, Marcus Johnson, have better guides than most."
He crashed on his bed, thirty-minute nap turning into ninety. Woke to Lenora shaking his foot. "Up, soldier. Sunset's flirting with the treetops."
She smeared a pungent paste under his eyes. Mint, sage, something metallic. The tracker read 55 %. Good thing: he felt like a phone on Low Power Mode.
Back lawn, again. The sky bled orange and violet; the moon, pale now, sat halfway up like it was eavesdropping. Amara and Erik stood beside a circle carved into the grass—thin white powder forming runes he couldn't read.
Amara nodded at him. "Inside the ring. When the first star appears, the shadowfall manifests. Hold it, shape it, dismiss it. Three steps."
"Hold, shape, dismiss," he repeated, more to himself.
She handed him a silver baton about a foot long. "Focus rod. Keeps the darkness from burrowing into your thoughts. Don't lose it."
He stepped into the circle. Powder crunched under his shoes, releasing a smell like struck matches. Sunset dropped; a single star winked over the treeline. The temperature fell ten degrees.
Dark mist seeped from the soil, coiling like cigarette smoke in reverse. It gathered, thickened, congealed into a rough human outline—no eyes, no mouth, just silhouette.
Marcus's skin prickled. The baton vibrated, hungry for something. He gripped it two-handed.
The shadowfall struck.
Fast—like Matthias but fluid, not muscular. Marcus ducked the first swipe, baton raised. The tracker chimed 60 %. Each dodge stoked his pulse. The thing hissed, a sound like ripping cloth.
Hold it. He darted in, let the misty claws skim his shoulder, grabbed its "wrist" with his free hand. Cold bit deep, but he anchored, forcing moon-current down his arm. The shadow shuddered, solidifying enough to feel like packed snow.
Shape it. He remembered the root-and-moon engravings, pictured those lines branding the darkness. Silver light shot from the baton, carving sigils into the smoky torso. The creature convulsed, shrinking, folding inward until it was no bigger than a basketball.
Dismiss it. He exhaled, willing the ball of night to scatter like dandelion fluff. It resisted, snarling silently. So he thought of Keisha's laugh, of his mom singing Al Green while washing dishes. Light bloomed in his chest, flowed through his hands. The shadow cracked, shards of ink drifting up and away, gone.
Silence. Even the cicadas paused.
Amara's slow clap broke the stillness. "Textbook."
Erik grinned, broad and proud. Lenora whooped from the veranda.
Marcus's heartbeat finally caught up, hammering joy into his ribs. Tracker: 72 %.
Amara joined him in the circle. "Magistrate Pennington arrives within the hour. You just did the hardest part of her evaluation."
"Then why do I feel like the test hasn't started?"
"Because it hasn't." She squeezed his shoulder. "Pennington measures intent, not just skill. She'll decide whether the boy I brought in from Zone 6 has the spine to wield Moonborn authority without turning tyrant."
Marcus looked at the scattered sparks of shadow drifting into the night sky. "Guess we show her."
"Guess we do," Amara echoed. But her eyes tracked the tree-line, worry cutting through the confidence. "Let's change. The Magistrate dislikes informal attire."
They headed for the house together. Somewhere beyond the woods, wolves howled—too many for a normal pack.
Erik heard it too. "Renegade werewolves this close to Buckhead? That's new."
Amara stiffened. "Or Dante making allies."
Marcus clenched the silver baton, now warm in his palm. The night suddenly felt crowded.
First lessons over. Real game about to start.