Page 138 of Psycho Pack

"Perhaps," the attendant replies. She sets down the taper and turns to face me fully with a sigh. "To answer your question… yes. If she chose to stay, she would be welcome. All of you would be, though it would require certain... adjustments."

She casts a pointed, judgmental glance over me.

"Adjustments?" I echo, interested.

"We do things differently here. Our customs, our ways of living… they take time to learn. To understand." She pauses, considering her next words carefully. "But for those willing to try, to truly embrace our ways... there is always room. Especially for the omega of the lost prince."

The thought is tempting. More tempting than it should be.

A fresh start.

A chance to be something other than what I was made to be. What I made myself into.

But I'm lying to myself.

Ivy doesn't want me.

And she shouldn't.

Not that it matters anyway. I'm sure I'm going to die soon. The angel of death has followed me all my life, and I can feel it closer than ever now.

But it does matter to me that I know Ivy is safe when I breathe my last, and this strange slice of impossible heaven on earth just might make that possible.

"What's the catch?" I ask.

She laughs softly. "The 'catch,' as you say, is complete dedication to our ways. No half measures. No keeping one foot in the outside world." Her eyes grow serious. "We maintain our isolation for a reason. Those who choose to stay must choose it completely."

"A gilded cage is still a cage," I point out.

"Is it a cage if the door is always open?" She spreads her hands. "We choose to stay because what we have built here is worth preserving. Worth protecting. Even from ourselves."

I think of Ivy again. Of how she chose to stay with the pack even when I offered her freedom. Of how she's slowly teaching all of us that maybe being bound by choice isn't the same as being trapped.

Fuck.

When did I start thinking like this?

The drugs must be wearing off wrong.

The attendant watches me with those knowing eyes. "Think about it," she says softly. "There is time."

Is there?

I'm not so sure.

Not for me, at least.

But before I can question her further, the temple door opens and another attendant appears. "You are needed," she says to the first one, who bows slightly to me before gliding away.

Wonderful.

Now I'm alone with my thoughts, which are far too coherent for comfort as I approach the altar where the attendant was lighting candles.

Like everything else in this ornate city, the altar is a masterwork of white marble and gold filigree. But there's something different about this one. The surface is worn smooth in places, as if countless hands have touched it in devotion over the centuries.

The polished stone reflects the light from dozens of candles, their flames perfectly still in the unnaturally calm air. Brass censers shaped like birds and blossoms hang from delicate chains, trails of sweet-smelling smoke curling from their beaks like frozen breath. The smoke forms patterns in the air that seem almost deliberate. Almost like writing.

A marble statue looms over the altar. It's the bird, her jeweled eyes locked on me as her outstretched wings frame the tiered shelves and flickering candles. Only this statue has two eyes rather than three.