Chapter 2 Archives of ashes

The archive smells like death that has been catalogued.

Not real death. Paper death. Cold, dry, dusty, with a little smoke still in it even after two years. Reid Library basement, UWA. No sun. Fluorescent light that hums. Aircon set at 18 degrees to keep books alive and archivists half-dead.

I work 9am to 2pm. Five hours. $28.50 an hour. $142.50 a day before tax. Yesterday I was Thalia-Vesper Bellerose-Winchcombe, heiress of Bellerose Tower. Today I am Box 42.

Box 42 is _Bellerose Family Ledger 1888-1902_. My own family. I sit with white cotton gloves that are too big and a soft goat-hair brush that costs $45 and belongs to the library. Each page has ash on it from the fire in our storage in 2021. Dad said electrical. Insurance said suspicious. I say Dad smoking near old paper because he was broke.

I brush. Soft, soft. Ash off. Photo. Entry.

Page 112: _Nov 3rd 1891 - Purchased honey blood girl, 16, from London for £400 - for Charles Jr. breeding._

My great-grandfather bought girls. Wrote it down like he bought a horse.

Mrs. Keene peeks over the shelf. "Thalia, dear, you've been on Box 42 for three weeks."

"Box 42 is fragile," I say. "It needs a slow brush."

She nods, but she pities me. Private school girl with hole in the elbow of blue jumper, boots that still have rain inside from penthouse leak.

Dignity is a process, I tell myself. Dignity is showing up and brushing ash off your own shame for $28.50.

My phone buzzes under the desk. Photo message. Unknown number.

My mother's grave. Karrakatta. Someone spray-painted in red: *$4.8M - PAY - K*

Second photo: Me. Yesterday. Bus stop to tower, carrying Bunnings bucket. Blue jumper, hole visible. Long lens.

They watched me. They photographed my mother's grave.

My hands start shaking.

Third message: _Lobby. Now. - Dad_

I take my gloves off. Ash under nails, no polish. Working hands. Not heiress hands.

The lobby is glass and concrete, students, and coffee smells. And in the middle, Alistair Bellerose-Winchcombe.

He looks like he hasn't slept since Bali.

Tom Ford suit now wrinkled, open collar, sweat, beard three days, eyes red. The brown envelope was wet at the corner like he held it too tight in the rain.

"Thalia! Thank God," he runs, grabs my elbows. Students stare. "I went to penthouse, door broken, rain inside, I thought they took you -"

"Who took you? Bren?" I whisper.

"Bren and Mik! Last night at a villa in Bali, with a hammer and blowtorch. They said I owe $4.8 now, not $3.9. Interest. They said if I don't bring $200k by Friday, they come to Perth and take you for one night to clear interest. One night, Thalia. You know what that means."

One night. $200k. Virgin honey blood night. My $28.50 an hour dignity cracks right down the middle.

"Dad, you left me a note. Gone to Bali to fix_. You left me with rain leaking. With two men with blowtorches. Is that fixed?"

"I tried to get money from Silas! Your uncle

"I know who Silas is. He came last night. Umbrella. He said he bought debt."

Alistair goes white. "No. No. Your mother said never call Silas. He is -"

"He said I owe him now. $4.8m. He owns an archive. He owns a tower. He said you work for him too."

Alistair pushes the envelope to me. Photos fall. Grave, me with bucket, penthouse door with same red spray: *PAY - K*

"He owns everything!" he cries as security walks over. "Winchcombe Capital is Silas! You work for him! We live in his building! We breathe his air! Please, you have to find Kaelen!"

"Who is Kaelen?"

"Kaelen Bellerose. Your cousin. Greenbushes Pack. Lithium. He hates Silas. He rents the 38th floor to spite him. He has money. He -" Guard pulls him. "Your mother was his first -"

"Don't say my mother in the lobby!"

Guard drags him out into Perth rain.

I stand there, envelope in hands, everyone looking at a private school girl whose father got dragged out.

Mrs. Keene: "Thalia? Want to go home early?"

Home? Penthouse that says PAY - K, owned by Silas? Or a basement at 18 degrees owned by Silas?

I open envelope. Inside a business card. Black, thick, embossed *W*. Back, handwriting, sharp: _You brushed ash off my family ledger for 3 weeks at $28.50. Cute. Come to the 38th floor at 6pm. Wear something that can be torn. I can clear $4.8m before Friday and make K disappear. Your choice, little bird.

My phone buzzes again. Different number.

Don't go to Silas. He will put you in a cage and never let you out. Come to me at 6pm, 42A. I will tear K apart for free if you let me smell honey blood once. - K.B._

6pm. Two wolves. Same hour. One tower.

I chose the 38th floor. Because 42A is my home that leaks and says PAY. I don't want to be home.

6pm. Bellerose Tower. I take a service lift because the main lift needs a key I don't have anymore. Red dress in tote bag, still folded. Wearing a blue jumper with holes, because I am stubborn, because dignity is still a process.

38th floor. Winchcombe Capital lobby. Glass, steel, no receptionist after 5pm. Doors open automatically, like they knew I was coming. Like Silas knew.

Lights off, except one office at the end. Library again. Same smell as Peppermint Grove. Leather, lemon oil.

I walk. Boots squeak. My wrist is still red from Mik.

I push the door.

Two men inside.

Not one.

Two.

Silas in navy suit, dry, holding umbrella again even though inside. And next to him - massive frame, 6'4", black t-shirt, tattoo on neck, hair tied back, boots with mud, like he came from Greenbushes mine, not boardroom. Eyes amber already, not grey. Faint tremor in a massive frame, like he is holding a wolf back.

Kaelen.

Both look at me at the same time. Both inhale, at same time, like they smell honey blood at same time.

Silas smiles, cold. "Thalia-Vesper. You wore the jumper again. Disappointment number two. And you brought the red dress again, I see the shape in the bag. You knew you'd say yes."

Kaelen doesn't smile. He steps forward, one step, floor creaks under weight. "You told her to wear something that can be torn, you sick bastard? She's 24. She's your niece's cousin. She's -"

"She's not your Luna either, Kaelen. You rent my building to be near her. Don't pretend you're better."

I am shaking. "Dad said Friday. $200k or they take me to Osborne Park. Which one of you - "

Silas interrupts, soft, but eyes on Kaelen, not me: "We both will pay. But we want different things. I want Luna for board meetings. He wants Luna for pack fights. Choose. Now."

Kaelen looks at me, amber eyes full of pain, not collector cold. "Thalia, don't choose him. He had your mother. He had first Luna. Ask him what happened to her. Ask him where her body really is. Ask him why there is no body in Karrakatta grave you brushed ash for, only an empty coffin."

Empty coffin?

Silas's smile drops. Just falls off like a mask.

"Kaelen," Silas says, quiet, with that controlled rage from last night, "you shouldn't have said that."

Kaelen growls. Real growl. Not human. Windows vibrate.

"Tell her, Silas. Tell her your first Luna didn't die in a car crash in 2018. Tell her you kept her in Peppermint Grove library for four years because honey blood makes wolves live longer. Tell her your mother died of mold but you kept Thalia's mother alive in a cage because her blood smelled like honey. Tell her!"

My bag falls. Red dress falls out, silk on expensive floor.

My mother's grave photo in envelope - spray-painted PAY - K. but if the coffin is empty, who is the grave for?

Silas looks at me, grey to amber, longer now, black nail tapping book again - same book, Box 42 ledger - and says:

"Your mother is upstairs. 42A. Alive. I brought her back this morning from Grove. She has been waiting to see you for 8 years. But she is not the same woman who left. Honey blood changes when caged too long. Go up and see her. Or stay here and let us decide who owns you. Your choice, little bird. Before the fire goes out.