It had been a close call. Her nephew and his friends had saved her from the darkly-clad woman, brought respite from the nine ghosts that haunted her every moment. But, as Mona sat by Alan's bedside, listening to the hiss and beep of the machines keeping her nephew alive, her face in her hands, the cost was high. How was she going to explain this to her sister? Losing Aaron had almost broken Vivian; so how would Alan's mother even handle almost losing her only son?
    The ghosts whispered incessantly, even now in her grief. They were telling Mona that she could take vengeance for her nephew, that it'd be easy if she embraced the power they had granted her. Like crushing an egg. They weren't as powerful in the day or when she could see the moon. The night brought shrieking banshee wails condemning Mona for not embracing her nascent magical capabilities. They kept telling her she could forge souls into black obols, how to use the cursed things to secure her rightful position as a leader of the Obsidian Cabal. To send Metallia Noctis scurrying for cover. The seductiveness was that it wouldn't even require the deaths of anyone who would be missed; San Francisco was filled with lost and derelict people. This was the real horror of what the ghosts whispered to Mona. How easy it would be to take what she wanted.
    Mona's jaw tensed as she agreed with something. She would kill Noctis or die trying. Even if her sister and nephew would never agree with the price the ghosts were asking.