Retired Army Colonel Brenda Hollins Races To Save Her Bruised Daughter From Abuse and Supernatural Captivity, Only To Uncover A $5 Million Blood Covenant That Reverses Everything She Believed
The safehouse was a small, unassuming cabin nestled deep in the marshes, shrouded by ancient live oaks draped in Spanish moss. It was damp, smelled of salt and decay, but it was secure.
Maya had collapsed onto the worn sofa, a silent, trembling mess. I watched her, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. She was my daughter, but the strangeness of this situation, the bruises, the whispers, it all felt wrong.
“Maya,” I said, my voice gentle. “I need you to tell me everything. From the beginning.”
She just shook her head, pulling her knees to her chest.
“I can’t, Mom. It’s too much. He’ll find us.”
The fear in her eyes was genuine, but it was also… performative. Like a child playing a role.
I didn’t press. Instead, I moved to her travel bag, the one she’d clutched so tightly at the hospital.
“I need to check your things,” I stated, not asking for permission. “For anything that might give us a clue.”
She flinched but didn’t protest. My eyes scanned the contents: a few changes of clothes, a small toiletries bag. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then, my hand brushed against the lining of her heavy winter coat, still crumpled from the hospital bed. It felt oddly thick, almost lumpy.
I ran my fingers along the seam, searching.
A small, almost invisible pocket. I reached in, pulling out a slim, leather-bound journal. It was old, the cover faded and worn, the leather soft beneath my fingers.
I opened it, my breath catching in my throat.
The pages were filled with intricate, swirling symbols I’d never seen before, interspersed with lines of what looked like archaic script. My eyes darted to the top of the first page.
And there it was. Maya’s distinctive, elegant cursive. Her handwriting.
My heart hammered against my ribs. This wasn’t some ancient, forgotten text she’d stumbled upon. This was *her* creation.
“What is this, Maya?” I asked, my voice flat, holding up the journal.
She gasped, her eyes widening in horror, but there was a flicker of something else there too—panic, yes, but also a hint of calculation.
“Mom! Where did you… Gideon must have put it there!” she cried, her voice cracking.
She scrambled up, reaching for it, but I pulled it away.
The symbols on the pages seemed to throb under the dim cabin light, pulsing with a faint, almost imperceptible energy. Lowcountry spirit seals, the outline had said.
This wasn’t just a journal. It was a covenant. And Maya had written it.
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