Bound To The Alpha Demon: The Forgotten Soul

​"All it took was one drop of blood, and Chaos began."

​Elara Vance hated the color grey.

​It was unfortunate, really, considering she lived in Boston, a city that seemed to have signed a permanent contract with rainclouds. She stood on the sidewalk, clutching the strap of her worn-out beige tote bag, and stared up at the sky. It was a thick, soupy mass of clouds that looked like dirty dishwater.

​"Just once," Elara muttered to herself, adjusting her round-rimmed glasses, which were already collecting mist. "Just once, I’d like to see the sun before noon."

​A car sped through a puddle nearby, sending a spray of murky water toward the sidewalk. Elara gasped and did a little hop backward, nearly tripping over her own feet. She managed to save her shoes, but her balance was another story. She stumbled, her shoulder bumping hard into a metal lamppost.

​"Ouch." She rubbed her arm, sighing. "Great start, Elara. Totally graceful."

​She checked the time on her phone: 8:50 AM. She had ten minutes to get to the third floor of the Henderson & Sons Antiquities building, or she was going to be the late intern. Again.

​Elara fixed her cardigan, pulling it tighter around her waist. She wasn't like the other girls who worked in the city—the ones with the sleek trench coats and the boots that made a confident click-clack sound on the pavement. Elara was more of a sneakers and oversized sweaters kind of girl. She liked comfort. She liked blending in.

​She pushed through the heavy glass doors of the office building, a blast of warm, coffee-scented air hitting her face instantly.

​"Morning, Frank!" she chirped at the security guard near the elevator.

​Frank, an older man who always looked like he was half-asleep, blinked at her. "Morning, Miss Vance. Try not to drop your badge today."

​Elara felt her cheeks heat up. "That was one time, Frank! And the drain grate was loose!"

​She hurried to the elevators, pressing the button repeatedly as if that would make it arrive faster. When the doors finally slid open, she squeezed inside, murmuring apologies as her tote bag accidentally brushed against a man in a very expensive suit.

​Ding. Third floor.

​Elara stepped out into the lobby of Henderson & Sons. It was a beautiful place, she had to admit. The air smelled of old paper, beeswax, and lemon polish. Rows of glass cabinets lined the walls, filled with clocks that didn't tick and vases that had been glued back together centuries ago.

​This was her dream job. Well, technically, her dream job was to be a lead historian running her own museum, but being an intern at one of the most prestigious restoration firms in the city was a good start.

​She made her way to her small cubicle, which was tucked away in the corner behind a giant potted fern that looked like it was dying of depression.

​"You’re late," a voice drawled.

​Elara froze. She didn't need to look up to know who it was. The sharp scent of expensive perfume—something floral and overpowering—gave it away instantly.

​Chloe.

​Elara turned around, forcing a smile. Chloe stood there leaning against a filing cabinet, holding a steaming cup of coffee. She looked perfect. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, her lipstick was a sharp shade of red, and her pencil skirt didn't have a single wrinkle.

​"I'm not late," Elara said, checking her phone again. "It's 8:58. I have two minutes."

​Chloe took a slow sip of her coffee, her blue eyes scanning Elara from her messy bun down to her slightly damp sneakers. "Mr. Henderson was looking for you ten minutes ago. Something about a new shipment. But I told him you were probably stuck in traffic... or tripping over a flat surface somewhere."

​Elara’s grip on her bag tightened. "Thanks, Chloe. You're too sweet."

​"I try," Chloe smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. It was a shark’s smile.

​Chloe had been an intern here six months longer than Elara, and she made sure Elara never forgot it. Chloe wanted the Junior Restorer position that was opening up next year, and she saw Elara not as a colleague, but as a bug to be squashed.

​"By the way," Chloe added, pointing a manicured nail at Elara’s desk. "You left your files on the sorting table yesterday. I moved them back. Try to be more organized, okay? It looks bad on the department."

​"I was still working on those," Elara protested, feeling a flush of annoyance. "I had them organized by century!"

​"Well, now they are on your desk," Chloe said, turning on her heel. "Better hurry. Henderson is in his office."

​She walked away, her heels clicking rhythmically against the floorboards. As she passed, she gave Elara one last look—a glaring warning that said: Don't get comfortable.

​Elara let out a long breath, her shoulders sagging. She dropped her bag onto her chair and sat down, burying her face in her hands for a moment.

​"Focus, Elara," she whispered. "Don't let the mean girl ruin your day. You are a professional."

​She turned on her computer, the old screen humming to life. She loved this work. She really did. There was something magical about taking something broken and making it whole again.

​While the computer loaded, Elara’s eyes drifted to the small framed photo she kept next to her monitor.

​It was an old picture, the colors slightly faded. It showed a man and a woman sitting on a picnic blanket in a sun-drenched park. A little girl with unruly auburn curls and big glasses was sitting between them, laughing as the man tickled her side.

​Her parents.

​For a moment, the grey office faded away. Elara could almost smell the fresh grass and the strawberry jam sandwiches her mother used to make. She remembered her father’s laugh—a deep, booming sound that made everyone else smile.

​"History is a story, Elara," her father used to say, holding up an old coin or a jagged piece of pottery he’d found in the garden. "It’s proof that people lived, loved, and fought. And it’s our job to remember them."

​They had been so happy. Her childhood had been full of books, museum visits, and dusty road trips to historical sites. They were a team—The Three Vances.

​Then came the accident. A car crash on a rainy night just like this one.

​Elara blinked rapidly, pushing the memory away before tears could form. She couldn't cry at work. Chloe would probably bottle her tears and use them as a face mist.

​She touched the glass of the photo frame gently. "I'm doing it, Dad," she whispered softly. "I'm keeping the stories alive."

​Riiiing.

​The loud trill of the office phone made Elara jump. Her knee hit the underside of the desk with a loud thud.

​"Ow!" she hissed, rubbing her knee as she grabbed the receiver. She was really going to be covered in bruises by the end of the week.

​"Hello? Restoration Department, Elara speaking."

​"Elara! My dear girl!"

​The voice on the other end was booming and cheerful. Mr. Henderson.

​"Good morning, Mr. Henderson," Elara said, straightening up in her chair. "How are you?"

​"I am excellent, excellent! But busy!" Mr. Henderson said. "Listen, I need you to come down to the receiving bay immediately. We just got a delivery."

​"A delivery?" Elara asked, glancing at the pile of paperwork on her desk. "Is it the Ming vases from the auction?"

​"No, no," Mr. Henderson’s voice dropped an octave. He sounded excited, but also a bit nervous. "It’s a private acquisition. It just cleared customs this morning. It’s from Romania."

​Elara paused. "Romania?"

​"Yes. A crate from an excavated site near the Carpathian Mountains," Mr. Henderson whispered, as if he didn't want anyone else to hear. "The courier seemed very anxious to get rid of it. Said it was giving him the creeps."

​Elara felt a tingle of curiosity—the same spark she used to get when her dad found a mystery.

​"I want you to handle the initial cataloging, Elara," Mr. Henderson said. "You have a delicate touch. Much better than Chloe. She has no patience for the dusty stuff."

​Elara smiled. Take that, Chloe.

​"I'm on my way, sir," Elara said.

​"Good girl. And Elara?"

​"Yes?"

​"Bring your gloves. The heavy-duty ones. This crate... it feels cold. Unnaturally cold."

​Elara hung up the phone and took a deep breath. She grabbed her heavy canvas apron from the hook on the wall and tied it around her waist. It was too big for her, the strings wrapping around her slender frame twice, but she liked it. It made her feel like a craftsman or a scientist, rather than an intern who fetched coffee.

​She snatched her thick leather gloves from the drawer.

​"Going somewhere?" Chloe’s voice drifted over the partition.

​Elara didn't stop. She just waved the gloves in the air. "Basement duty. Don't miss me too much."

​She hurried toward the service elevator at the back of the hallway. The main elevators were for clients and executives; the service elevator was reserved for crates, cleaning supplies, and interns covered in dust.

​She pressed the button marked B2.

​The metal box rattled and groaned as it descended. With every floor they passed, the air grew cooler. By the time the doors dinged open on the sub-basement level, Elara could see her breath misting in the air.

​"Why is the heating always broken down here?" she muttered, rubbing her arms.

​The receiving bay was a cavernous concrete room filled with wooden pallets, bubble wrap, and the smell of damp cardboard. Under the buzzing fluorescent lights, Mr. Henderson was pacing back and forth near a large table in the center of the room.

​He was a small, thin man with a grey mustache that twitched whenever he was nervous. Right now, it was twitching a lot.

​"Ah! Elara! You’re here!" he exclaimed, looking visibly relieved. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, even though it was freezing down there.

​"I’m here," Elara said, pulling on her leather gloves. "Is this the package?"

​She looked at the object sitting on the table.

​It was a crate, roughly the size of a microwave. But unlike the usual clean plywood boxes they received from auction houses, this one looked like it had been through a war. The wood was dark, almost black, and stained with mud that looked suspiciously like wet clay. There were no shipping labels or fragile stickers—just a series of heavy iron bands wrapped tightly around it.

​"It arrived twenty minutes ago," Mr. Henderson said, his voice hushed. "The courier didn't even ask for a signature. He just dropped it and ran. Said his truck had been freezing cold ever since he picked it up."

​Elara adjusted her glasses, stepping closer. "It’s definitely... atmospheric."

​She reached out to touch the wood. Even through her thick leather glove, she felt a sudden chill. It wasn't just cold; it was a biting, unnatural frost that seemed to seep right into her bones.

​"What is it supposed to be?" she asked.

​"The manifest says 'Recovered Literature - 17th Century'" Mr. Henderson explained, handing her a small crowbar. "But it feels heavier than books. Be careful, Elara. The wood looks brittle."

​Elara took the crowbar. It was heavy in her hands. "Okay. Let's see what’s inside."

​She wedged the flat end of the crowbar under one of the iron bands. She braced her sneaker against the table leg and pushed.

​Creaaaaak.

​The sound echoed loudly across the empty concrete room, sounding almost like a high-pitched scream.

​"Easy, easy," Mr. Henderson murmured, wringing his hands.

​Elara put her weight into it. She might have been clumsy with coffee cups, but she knew how to open a crate. She leveraged the bar, and with a loud SNAP, the iron band broke.

​She did the same for the second one. Then, she carefully pried up the wooden lid.

​A puff of stale, dry air escaped the box. It smelled of sulphur, old parchment, and something metallic—like the air right before a thunderstorm.

​Mr. Henderson leaned in, his eyes wide. "Good heavens."

​Inside the crate, nestled in a bed of black velvet that had turned grey with age, sat a single book.

​It was massive. The cover was made of a leather so dark it seemed to absorb the light from the overhead bulbs. It didn't look like cowhide; it looked reptilian, textured with strange, swirling patterns that shifted if you stared at them too long.

​But the most striking detail was the lock.

​A heavy silver clasp held the book shut. It was carved into the shape of a wolf’s head, its jaws clamped tight over the edge of the cover. The silver was tarnished, but the wolf’s eyes seemed to glint with a subtle malice that made Elara’s stomach turn.

​"It’s a Grimoire," Elara whispered, the word slipping out before she could stop herself.

​"It certainly looks like one," Mr. Henderson said, adjusting his bowtie nervously. "This... this is beyond my expertise, Elara. This looks like occult work. Very rare. Very dangerous if mishandled."

​Suddenly, the wall-mounted phone buzzed loudly, making both of them jump.

​Mr. Henderson scrambled to answer it. "Henderson speaking!" He listened for a moment, his face growing pale. "The Board of Directors? Now? But I— yes, yes. I’m coming."

​He hung up and turned to Elara with apologetic eyes. "My dear, I am so sorry. The Directors have called an emergency budget meeting upstairs. If I don't go, they might cut our funding for the Egyptian wing."

​"Go," Elara said, nodding. "I can handle this. I’ll just... catalogue it. I won't do anything invasive."

​"You are a lifesaver," Mr. Henderson said, already backing toward the elevator. "Just photograph it! Don't try to open the clasp until I get back! It looks tricky."

​"I promise. Just photos," Elara said.

​"And Elara?"

​"Yes?"

​"If it starts... whispering... or anything odd like that..." Mr. Henderson gave a weak, nervous chuckle. "Just leave the room."

​The elevator doors closed, taking the warmth and safety of Mr. Henderson with them.

​Elara was alone.

​Silence descended on the receiving bay, heavy and oppressive. The only sound was the low hum of the ventilation system and the rapid beating of her own heart.

​She turned back to the crate. The book sat there, waiting.

​"Just photos," she told herself softly. "Easy peasy."

​She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, tapping the screen to snap a picture of the cover.

​Click.

​The image on her screen came out blurry, as if a thick shadow had passed over the lens.

​"Weird," she muttered. She tapped the screen to refocus and took another one.

​Click.

​This time, the photo was pitch black.

​Elara frowned. She looked down at the book again. Was it her imagination, or was the silver wolf head... smiling?

​She took a step closer, drawn in by a curiosity she couldn't control. It was the same magnetic pull she used to feel when her father told her ancient ghost stories—a mix of fear and a desperate need to know how the tale ended.

​She reached out a gloved hand, intending to gently brush the dust off the silver clasp.

​As her finger hovered inches from the wolf’s metal teeth, a sharp spark of static electricity jumped from the book to her glove.

​Zap.

​"Ouch!" Elara jerked her hand back.

​The overhead lights flickered violently. A low, vibrating hum began to emanate from the crate, sending tiny tremors through the table and into the concrete floor.

​Elara held her breath, her eyes locked onto the book. The wolf clasp didn't just look like a piece of silver anymore. It felt like a warning.

​And Elara Vance, being the clumsy, curious historian she was, had never been very good at heeding warnings.

The receiving bay was so suffocatingly quiet that Elara could hear the low hum of the vending machine from three floors up.

​She stared at the book. The book stared back.

​Well, not literally. But the silver wolf on the heavy clasp definitely felt as though it were watching her. Its eyes were small rubies—dull and clouded with centuries of grime—yet they seemed to track her every movement as she shifted her weight nervously from one foot to the other.

​"Okay, Elara. Focus," she muttered, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "It’s just leather and paper. Dead cows and dead trees. Nothing to be afraid of."

​Reaching out, she carefully brushed a layer of grey dust from the spine of the tome. Beneath the dirt, faint gold lettering began to shimmer faintly under the harsh fluorescent lights.

​Elara leaned in, squinting. She had taken two semesters of Latin in university—mostly because she thought the professor was cute—but she remembered enough to