Page 23 of Panther in the Shadows
"Pack what you need," he says, watching me with those yellow-tinged eyes. "Clothes. Your grandmother's research on sea magic. Anything that might help us figure out who's doing this, why, and how to stop them."
The familiar scents of salt and whiskey and old wood surround me, but everything feels different now. Violated. Something bound my sister’s corpse to magic that shouldn't exist. Used my failure against me.
I move through the inn on autopilot. Grab a bag. Clothes. Gran's grimoire from the hidden compartment behind the bar. The knife she used for rituals. Salt and blessed water.
Gran's favorite whiskey sits behind the bar. I pour two glasses. Drink mine neat, let the burn cut through everything else, and pour myself another. Fear. Exhaustion. The bone-deep knowledge that I failed Elspeth once.
Rafe takes the second glass. Drinks it in one swallow.
"Ready?" he asks.
The whiskey in my abandoned glass swirls without me touching it. Ripples spreading from the center in perfect circles. My magic responding to emotions I can't suppress even as I try to push them down.
You should have saved us that day.
Elspeth's voice. Young and drowned and accusing. The truth I've carried for years finally given form. Given teeth.
"Ready," I lie.
Tomorrow we hunt the woman who turned my sister into a weapon. But tonight, the guilt sits heavier than it has since the day the ocean took her.
CHAPTER 6
RAFE
The walk from her inn to my warehouse isn't far, but every shadow stretches too long, every wave sounds too loud. Moira walks beside me like she might shatter if I breathe wrong.
My shoulder throbs where that thing wearing her sister's corpse tore into me. Four parallel gashes that burn with corrupted magic, deep enough that blood soaks through my shirt despite the pressure I'm keeping on the wound. Panthers heal fast, but whatever that drowned thing was, its claws carried poison that fights my shifter metabolism.
Moira carries her bag clutched against her chest like it contains the only weapons she trusts. Her grandmother's grimoire. Salt and blessed water. The knife used for rituals. Everything she needs to fight magic that shouldn't exist, except she's trembling so hard the salt container rattles against the blade.
"Watch your step." My hand catches her elbow when she stumbles over uneven cobblestones. The contact sends a jolt through my system that has nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the way her magic responds to mine.Salt and shadow. Water and darkness. Complementary elements that recognize each other even when their bearers resist.
She pulls away the moment she's steady. Puts distance between us again like proximity might burn. An hour ago, she watched her dead sister try to drown her, and I showed up in my other skin to tear that corruption apart with teeth and claws. Trust takes time to build. Terror builds walls faster.
The warehouse squats at the end of the dock like a predator waiting for prey. Weathered wood and salt-stained stone that's processed everything from herring to contraband for the better part of two centuries.
That's exactly how I want it.
My men know better than to be visible when I approach with company. The lights stay off. The loading doors remain closed. But I feel them watching from positions I've drilled into them over five years of careful operations. Torres on the second-floor catwalk. Santos behind the stacked crates near the east entrance. Miguel somewhere in the rafters with a rifle, because my second-in-command trusts nothing and no one except my orders.
Good. That paranoia keeps us alive.
I key the code into the side entrance. Six digits that change weekly, known only to me and updated through methods that leave no paper trail, no digital record. The lock clicks. The door swings inward on hinges I oil myself because details matter, and squeaking hinges announce presence when silence serves better.
"Inside." I gesture for Moira to enter first, then follow and secure the door behind us. Three separate locks. Two different keys. A bar that drops into iron brackets older than my exile.
The interior matches the exterior. Dim lighting from scattered bulbs barely illuminates rows of crates and cargo nets, fishing equipment that looks functional but hasn't touched water in years, and the salt-rot smell that clings to everythingnear the ocean. Authenticity in every detail, because customs agents who get curious need to find exactly what they expect.
Moira stops three steps inside. Her gaze sweeps the space with the careful assessment of someone cataloging exits and threats. Smart woman. Dangerous woman. The kind who survives by staying alert even when exhaustion drags at her bones.
"This way." I move past her, leading deeper into the warehouse's labyrinth. Past the public face and into spaces my men know to avoid unless summoned. The real operation runs below and behind, in rooms that don't appear on any official plans and spaces carved from stone that predates the building itself.
A door hidden behind a false wall of stacked supplies. Another code. Another lock. Then stairs descending into darkness that would leave humans blind but gives my panther perfect vision.
Moira hesitates at the top.
"I can see in the dark." I don't look back. "You can't. Take my hand or take the rail, but move. We're exposed up here."
