Christopher opened a massive black umbrella, shielding Eloise from the icy drizzle that had begun to fall over Long Island. He guided her down the expansive driveway.

Waiting at the curb was a black Rolls-Royce Phantom Extended Wheelbase. Its license plate bore a single, highly restricted digit.

A driver in white gloves opened the heavy rear door. Eloise slid into the cabin. The air inside smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive leather.

The Phantom pulled away smoothly, the engine silent. In the rearview mirror, the Foreman villa shrank into a meaningless speck before disappearing entirely.

Christopher sat opposite her in the rear-facing jump seat. He poured a cup of hot Earl Grey tea from a silver thermos and handed it to her.

"The Palmer family," Christopher began, his voice low and steady, "is not a name you will find on Forbes. The family operates from a private island in the Caribbean. They control global shipping lanes and deep-sea mineral rights."

Eloise held the warm teacup. Her fingers traced the gold rim. Her heart rate remained steady. She felt no sudden surge of joy or relief.

"I need time," Eloise said, her eyes fixed on the rain streaking the window. "I am not abandoning my life or my practice as a clairvoyant just because you found me."

"Of course, Miss Palmer," Christopher bowed his head slightly. "The family respects your boundaries. We are merely here to serve."

The Rolls-Royce merged onto a winding coastal road overlooking the Atlantic, heading away from the Long Island estates. The rain intensified, slashing against the glass.

Suddenly, a searing heat bloomed against Eloise's chest.

She gasped, her hand flying to her sternum. The raw amethyst amulet she wore under her shirt felt like a burning coal. The heat pierced through her skin, radiating directly into her ribcage.

Eloise squeezed her eyes shut.

A violent vision forced its way into her mind. She saw blinding, sterile white lights. She heard the piercing, continuous scream of a flatlining EKG monitor.

An old man's face flashed before her-an oxygen mask strapped over his mouth, his eyes clouded with the unmistakable, suffocating fog of death.

The amethyst vibrated against her chest, syncing perfectly with the frantic hammering of her own pulse. It was a life-and-death resonance. A soul was being ripped from the physical world prematurely.

Eloise's eyes snapped open. A faint, dark purple light flickered in her irises.

She could feel it. Three miles ahead, on a sharp bend of the mountain road, a massive shadow of death was gathering. If she didn't intervene, the reaper would take a soul that wasn't scheduled to die.

Eloise slammed the teacup down onto the silver tray.

"Speed up," she commanded. Her voice was no longer quiet; it carried the heavy, absolute authority of a commanding officer.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. He looked at Christopher. The butler gave a single, curt nod.

The driver slammed his foot on the gas. The Phantom roared, surging forward through the heavy rain like a black torpedo.

Eloise unzipped her broken bag. She dug past her clothes and pulled out the stack of slightly damp parchment runes.

Her fingers moved with practiced speed, pulling out a specific card-the Sun Rune, drawn in red ink, representing absolute vitality. She pinched it between her index and middle fingers.

Through the thick fog ahead, a cluster of flashing red and blue emergency lights pierced the gloom. It was a massive medical convoy.

The driver didn't swerve or perform any reckless maneuvers. Instead, he accelerated with terrifying smoothness, overtaking the lead vehicle before precisely and decisively angling the massive Phantom across both lanes. He brought the vehicle to an imposing, regal halt. It wasn't a stunt; it was a statement of absolute dominance. It completely blocked the path of the approaching convoy: three armored black Range Rovers and a heavy-duty mobile ICU truck.

The lead Range Rover slammed on its brakes, stopping less than two feet from the Phantom's doors.

Instantly, the convoy erupted into a synchronized defensive formation. The doors of the Range Rovers flew open simultaneously.

Eight Private Military Contractors, wearing heavy Kevlar vests and holding short-barreled automatic rifles, poured out into the rain.

They fanned out in a flawless tactical wedge, raising their weapons. Eight black muzzles aimed directly at the Rolls-Royce.

Christopher's face hardened. He recognized the insignia on their tactical gear. "Miss Palmer, stay inside. That is the Montoya family's private army. They control Wall Street. They will shoot first."

Eloise ignored him. She pushed open the heavy door of the Phantom and stepped out into the storm.

The freezing rain instantly soaked her trench coat, but her posture remained perfectly straight. She walked directly toward the barrels of the rifles.

"Hands on your head! Get on your knees! Now!" the lead PMC captain roared over the sound of the rain, his finger resting heavily on the trigger.

Eloise didn't even look at him. Her eyes were locked on the back of the mobile ICU truck. She could see the thick, black miasma of death swirling around the reinforced steel doors.

Two massive guards broke formation. They charged at her, raising the heavy stocks of their rifles to smash her knees and force her down.

Eloise didn't stop walking. As the first guard swung his weapon, she sidestepped by a fraction of an inch. She reached out, her fingers locking onto the pressure points of his wrist joint.

With a sharp twist and a shift of her body weight, she used his own momentum against him. The two-hundred-pound mercenary flipped over her hip and crashed violently into the flooded asphalt.

The second guard froze in shock. In that split second, Eloise slipped past him and reached the side of the mobile ICU.

She raised her hand and knocked her knuckles against the bulletproof glass. Three sharp, heavy strikes.

The sound cut through the storm, echoing loudly inside the armored cabin.

The PMC captain racked the bolt of his rifle. The metallic clack was deafening. "Last warning! I will blow your head off!"

Slowly, the black tinted window of the ICU truck rolled down just a few inches. The faint, blue glow of medical monitors spilled out into the dark rain.

Eloise leaned toward the gap. "The man inside isn't dead yet," she said, her voice cutting through the noise of the storm. "I can save him."

"Are you insane?" a shrill, arrogant woman's voice snapped from inside the cabin. "Shoot this psychotic scammer right now!"

Eloise ignored the insult. She raised her hand, holding up three fingers.

She looked through the crack in the glass, her expression entirely bored. "Consultation and intervention fee. Nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars. Cash or wire transfer."

The highway fell dead silent. The only sound was the heavy rain hitting the asphalt and the heavy breathing of the mercenaries.

The bulletproof window lowered another two inches. Eleanor Montoya's face appeared in the gap. Her skin was perfectly lifted and tightened by expensive surgeons, but right now, it was twisted into an ugly snarl.

"Did you not hear me?" Eleanor screamed at the guards outside. "Shoot her! She's a deranged beggar trying to extort us!"

Beside Eleanor, a younger woman draped in a Chanel shawl leaned over. Tess Logan covered her nose in disgust. "Nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars? That wouldn't even cover my weekly manicure. These street rats are getting desperate."

The PMC captain adjusted his grip on his rifle. He received the direct order from the family matriarch. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Before he could apply the final pound of pressure, a sound came from the deep shadows at the back of the cabin.

It was a cough.

It was incredibly weak, barely more than a ragged exhalation of air, but the moment it echoed through the truck, every single mercenary outside froze. The captain immediately pulled his finger off the trigger and lowered the barrel of his gun.

The interior motion-sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the back of the cabin.

A young man sat in a high-tech, motorized wheelchair. Camden Montoya's skin was the color of old parchment. A thick, gray cashmere blanket was draped over his lap, making him look frail enough to be shattered by a strong gust of wind.

His eyes were a striking, deep gray-blue. They held a terrifying emptiness, a profound exhaustion that looked right through the physical world.

Camden raised a pristine white handkerchief to his mouth. He coughed twice more. When he pulled the cloth away, a faint web of red blood stained the white cotton.

Eleanor's face instantly shifted from rage to cloying sweetness. "Camden, darling, please don't strain yourself. The cold air will worsen your condition."

Camden didn't look at his stepmother. He slowly turned his head, locking his gray-blue eyes onto Eloise standing in the rain.

Their gazes collided through the open window. For a fraction of a second, Camden felt a strange, violent stutter in his chest. His heart missed a beat.

"On what basis," Camden asked, his voice raspy but dripping with the heavy, crushing authority of an apex predator, "do you claim he is alive?"

Eloise stared right back at him. "The man in the pod, Barton Montoya, has a flat brainwave. But his heart meridian still holds a sliver of life force."

She leaned an inch closer to the glass. "He suffered a cerebral hemorrhage three days ago at exactly 3:00 AM. It was accompanied by a massive, retrograde blood flow-a total reversal of circulation."

Eleanor's face drained of all color. The blood reversal was a level-one classified Montoya family secret. Not even the hospital staff knew the full truth.

Tess panicked, grabbing Eleanor's arm. "She... she must have bribed the nurses! She's a corporate spy!"

Camden's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. He studied Eloise's posture, the way she stood perfectly still in the freezing rain, completely unfazed by the guns or the money.

Eloise glanced at her bare wrist as if checking a watch. "You have three minutes," she said coldly. "Once the reaper crosses the threshold, not even an archangel can drag your grandfather back."

Camden's index finger tapped once against the leather armrest of his wheelchair. It was a subtle, rhythmic tap.

He slowly turned his head toward his personal assistant standing by the door.

"Cole," Camden ordered, his voice devoid of emotion. "Open the intensive care pod. Let her try."