The Forgotten Ones
The past is not yet over. In the last episode, we saw how Falcon’s maker, Arabella, lost her control and departed Charleston in a fury two centuries ago. Now, in the present day, Falcon’s choices have made her vulnerable, and Arabella has returned to prove a deadly point. Meanwhile, Manon encounters a different, older kind of danger while pursuing her work.
Manon had been photographing the old Roper Hospital for three days now. Built in 1850, closed in 1998, it was a monument to suffering on the edge of the French Quarter, destined soon for demolition.
She adjusted her tripod in the maternity ward, autumn light slanting through broken windows. Her phone buzzed. Falcon: How’s the shoot going?
Good. Should be done by sunset. Dinner after?
Always. Be careful in there.
Manon carried iron now—nails in her camera bag, a letter opener in her boot, basic defenses taught by Landon. She was aware now that the city’s forgotten places were not just architectural ruins—they were territories.
She moved deeper into the hospital, toward the surgical wing, saving the old operating theater for last.
She pushed open the door and stopped.
Someone was already there. A young woman, sitting in the tiered seating, perfectly still. Her skin was sallow, gray-tinged in the dim light. And her eyes, when they turned to Manon, were completely black.
“You shouldn’t be here,” the woman said. Her voice echoed strangely, like multiple voices speaking slightly out of sync.
Manon kept her hand on her camera bag, feeling for the iron nails. “I have permission from the property owner to photograph.”
“Not that kind of permission.” The woman stood, her movements wrong—too fluid. “This is our place. The forgotten ones. The ones who died in these rooms.”
“I’m documenting the building before it’s demolished. Preserving its memory,” Manon said, keeping her voice calm.
“Pretty words.” The spirit moved closer, gliding rather than walking. “But you’re one of her pets, aren’t you? I can smell her on you. The Guardian. The one who claims to protect but couldn’t protect us.”
“Falcon doesn’t control what happened in the past—”
“She could have stopped it!” The spirit shrieked, the echo becoming a deafening roar. “She was here! She walked these streets while we died! And she did nothing!”
The windows rattled. Manon’s flashlight flickered and died. She fumbled in her bag, found the iron nail, and swung it in a wild arc. It connected—she felt resistance, heard a shriek that made her ears ring. The spirit recoiled, its form flickering.
“Iron!” It hissed. “You come prepared.”
“I learn fast.” Manon backed toward the door, nail extended. “I’m leaving now. You can have your theater. But I’m taking my photographs. I’m telling your story whether you want me to or not.”
“Tell them we died badly,” the spirit said finally, watching her with black, bottomless eyes. “Tell them we weren’t just buildings and history. We were people. We hurt.”
“I will,” Manon promised. “I swear.”
Atonement and Trust
Manon didn’t tell Falcon immediately. She wanted to process the fact that she had faced a supernatural danger alone and survived through her own preparation and quick thinking.
Later, while editing the surgical theater photographs, she saw it: in the tiered seating, barely visible in the shadows, were figures—overlapping exposures that shouldn’t have been possible. The dead, captured on digital film.
Her phone rang. Falcon. “I’m outside your building. Arthur told me you were at Roper Hospital today. Are you alright?”
Three minutes later, Falcon was at her door, pulling Manon into her arms. Manon told her everything.
“You could have been hurt,” Falcon said finally.
“But I wasn’t. I handled it.”
“This time. Manon, these places—”
“I’m not giving up my work because it’s dangerous,” Manon interjected, pulling back to meet Falcon’s eyes. “And I’m not letting you wrap me in bubble wrap because you’re scared.”
Falcon sighed, a gesture of surrender and respect. “You’re right. I’m sorry. You were brilliant and brave and I’m proud of you. Even if every protective instinct I have is screaming.”
“You can be scared. Just don’t let it turn into control.”
“I won’t,” Falcon promised. “But I am upgrading your iron collection. And teaching you some actual defensive techniques.”
Manon then brought up the spirit’s accusation: “The spirit said something. About you being here when people suffered in that hospital. About you not stopping it.”
Falcon went very still. “Yes. I was Guardian. I knew about the terrible conditions, the experiments, the deaths. And I did nothing because I’d learned from Arabella to keep the mortal and supernatural worlds separate.” Her voice was bitter. “I’m trying to atone. For all the years I looked away.”
“Then let me help you,” Manon said, gesturing to her laptop. “Let me tell their stories. Document what happened so it’s not forgotten. That’s my contribution to this strange life we’re building.”
“You make me want to be better,” Falcon confessed. “More present. More engaged with the world instead of just walking through it.”
They shared a kiss—vulnerability, trust, the terrifying intimacy of being truly seen. Later, as Manon drifted toward sleep, Falcon whispered into her hair: “I won’t let anything hurt you. I will burn this city down to keep you safe.”
The Final Arrival
Arthur was waiting when Falcon returned to the Battery mansion just before dawn.
“We have a problem,” he said without preamble.
Falcon sighed. “What now?”
“Arabella’s here.”
Falcon caught herself on the foyer table, centuries of control deserting her. “What did you say?”
“She arrived tonight. Rented the old Middleton townhouse on Tradd. She knows about Manon.”
Falcon stared at the dawn light just beginning to creep in. She had broken all her own rules, had revealed herself, had fallen completely and irrevocably in love. She had made herself vulnerable. And Arabella was here to exploit it.
“She’ll come for Manon,” Falcon said, the certainty cold in her chest.
“Yes.” Arthur’s voice was gentle. “What do you want to do?”
“I’m not hiding her,” Falcon said, remembering Manon’s courage. “And I’m not leaving her. Arabella can rage all she wants. Manon stays.”
“Then we prepare for war.”
“Then we prepare for war,” Falcon agreed.
Arabella had spent two hundred years waiting to prove a point. And she had never been patient when she wanted something.
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