Page 5 of Property of Mako
But things had gotten stranger.
People started disappearing in New Orleans. Teenagers vanishing in the night. An urban legend of pale figures along the highways at the edge of the dark woods and swamps. Strange symbols drawn in alleyways. A girl found wandering naked with no memory and puncture wounds along her spine.
Other than Lily, though, they were all in the city.
Until they weren’t.
It started with a flyer.
Taped to a lamppost outside a liquor store, faded and water-stained. Just a missing girl. Not Lily—but the same vacant eyes, the same eerie details. Shifting my paper bag in my arm, I paused to read it.
Marissa Quinn. Age: 17. Last seen: Fontaneau Boulevard walking home alone. Last seen wearing a red hoodie, carrying sketchbooks. If seen, contact… and there was a number listed.
I stared at it too long, something cold and foreboding pressing against the back of my neck. Goosebumps broke out over my skin.
That made five.
Including Lily, five girls, gone without a trace in the last three months.
No bodies. No messages. Just silence.
The cops rolled their eyes. I didn’t.
If they wouldn’t do anything, I would. So I started digging. Not just local news—forums, dark web threads, conspiracy pages. The things I began to uncover seemed like things from a book or a movie.
No, I didn’t believe in monsters, not really, but I was desperate enough to follow the digital breadcrumb trail of fringe voices who swore something ancient was behind the disappearances. It seemed utterly crazy, but it was all I had to go on. The dark web threads I stumbled upon all mentioned the same things.
“The Crimson Chalice Covenant.”
“The pale men who buy girls that shine too bright.”
“The blood cult riding shadows near the crossroads.”
“Stay away from the woods near the iron bridge. It’s where the veil wears thin.”
“Ask the tattooed freaks on Blackthorn Avenue—they know.”
That last one stuck. Tattooed freaks on Blackthorn Avenue? It specifically said… they know.
That was how I found myself on Blackthorn Avenue at 2:03 in the morning. I’d been sitting there since it got dark because didn’t everything that was bad happen under the heavy cloak of night?
My phone rang.
“Shit,” I muttered as I hurried to silence the vibrating that sounded amplified in the quiet darkness. “Yes?” I whispered after seeing my friend Abby’s number.
“What are you doing? Wanna come over for wine and some binge TV?” she hopefully asked. She’d called me every day. She’d also been trying to keep me busy, but I’d been blowing her off.
“I’m busy,” I whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” she asked. “Lyra, what are you up to?”
“I’ll have to tell you about it later. I’ll call you in the morning,” I promised.
“Lyra… please tell me you aren’t playing detective.”
I remained silent.
“Lyra, you can’t?—”
