Jace's Protective Growl

The hum of the minivan was a thin, reedy sound against the vast, inky canvas of the night. Outside, the world was a blur of muted greens and grays, the trees lining the highway mere ghosts in the periphery. Inside, the air was thick with a nervous tension, a silent acknowledgment of the precariousness of our flight. Rain’s knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, but his senses felt stretched, attuned to something beyond the reach of my own. Kelly, beside me, kept glancing out the window, her brow furrowed. Jessica, ever focused, was tracing glowing symbols on a small, worn book in her lap, her lips moving in a silent incantation. Jace, in the back, was a coiled spring, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a taut watchfulness. Star, beside him, was unnervingly still, his eyes, even in the dim interior light, seemed to hold a distant, ancient wisdom.

“He’s close,” Jace announced suddenly, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the seat. He wasn’t looking at me, his gaze fixed on the dark expanse behind us. “I can feel it.”

Rain’s jaw tightened. “How close?”