Page 46 of Panther in the Shadows
"Multiple victims." The words come gargled, each one harder than the last. "She made me watch. Held my head so I couldn't look away. Then she did this to me." His other hand trembles toward his chest, trying to show me something.
That's when I see it. Carved into his shirt in symbols glowing faintly with necromantic power. Not drawn on. Carved through fabric and into skin beneath, precise cuts that must have taken time. Must have hurt. The same marks from the ritual sites. The same pattern Moira identified as binding magic.
But worse. These symbols are fresh, still bleeding, still pulsing with power that makes my skin crawl. The necromancerdidn't just kill him. She marked him. Turned him into a message written in flesh and magic.
"She said to tell you." Marco's grip tightens with desperate strength, the last surge before the end. "Said the sea witch is pretty." Blood trickles from his mouth, steady now. "Said the sister will have company soon." His breath rattles. "The ritual is almost ready. The last death will be special."
Cold spreads through my chest like poison. "Marco, stay with me. Tell me where. Tell me who she is. Give me something I can use."
"Didn't see her face. Just her voice." His eyes fix on something beyond my shoulder. Something I can't see. Something that makes his pupils dilate with pure terror. "Cold. Like nothing lives there anymore. Like the bottom of the ocean where things die slow in the dark." He shudders, entire body convulsing. "She knows about the sea witch now. Knows the sea witch is with you. She says..."
"What does she say?" I shake him gently, trying to keep him focused. Trying to keep him here.
"That love makes beautiful targets." Marco's hand falls from my jacket, hitting the concrete with a wet slap. "That the last death will hurt the most. That you'll watch her drown like I watched them drown. That you'll feel what I felt."
"Marco." Firmer shake. "Marco, stay with me."
But his eyes are already empty. Fixed on that invisible thing beyond my shoulder. Chest still. The water that had been trickling from his mouth stops flowing.
I stay kneeling there, one hand still on his shoulder, feeling the cold seep from his body into mine. Holding someone who trusted my organization to be safer than the streets. Who died delivering a message meant to terrify. Who spent his last moments watching people drown and then drowning himself, used as a puppet to deliver threats.
The necromancer is escalating. Not content with taunting us at the cove, she's bringing the war to my doorstep. Using my people as messengers.
The necromancer just declared war. On my territory. On my people. On the woman sleeping in my bed three floors below.
Around me, my dock workers stand frozen. Watching their boss kneel beside a dead man. Watching me process this. Some of them have families. Kids. People who'd grieve if they ended up like Marco.
The rage that builds in my chest is cold and controlled and absolutely lethal.
Santos appears at my shoulder. Waits. He knows better than to interrupt when I'm thinking. When I'm planning violence.
Santos nods once, sharp and military, and starts issuing orders to the men. They scatter, some carrying Marco's body inside, others pulling out phones to check security footage. The loading dock clears quickly, efficiently, leaving only bloodstained concrete and the salt-stink of death.
I stand there, staring at the spot where Marco died. Love makes beautiful targets. The last death will hurt the most.
Moira's face flashes through my mind. Her hair spread across my pillow. Eyes watching me with trust I haven't earned. The way she felt in my arms last night, like she belonged there. Like she was always meant to be there.
The necromancer wants to drown her. Make me watch. Take away what I just found. She's about to learn the same lesson my family learned seven years ago—you don't threaten what's mine and live to regret it.
Moira's dressed when I return, sitting on the edge of my bed in a pair of her jeans and a sweater that's probably mine based on how it hangs on her frame. She takes one look at my face and stands. "What happened?"
"One of my dock workers was killed. Before he died, he delivered a message from the necromancer." I move to the bathroom, turning on the water. I need to wash Marco's blood off my hands. Need the cold to shock some sense back into me. "She knows you're here. And she's threatening that the last death will be someone we love."
"Someone we love." Her voice goes hollow. Empty. "She's targeting people close to us."
"Yes." The water runs red, then pink, then clear. But my hands still feel stained. Still feel the cold of Marco's skin. "Marco said she made him watch. Held his head so he couldn't look away. Forced him to deliver her message. Then killed him slowly enough that he suffered. Carved symbols into his chest while he was still alive. Still conscious."
She's silent for a long moment. Just stands there, processing. Then: "What was the message?"
I meet her eyes in the mirror. Force myself to say it. "'The sea witch is pretty. The sister will have company soon. The ritual is almost ready. The last death will be special.'" Each word tastes like ash and fury. "'Love makes beautiful targets. The last death will hurt the most. You'll watch her drown like I watched them drown.'"
The color drains from her face completely. "She's going to kill someone we care about. Make us watch. Make us feel it."
"That's what she wants us to think. Wants us scared. Paranoid. Looking over our shoulders instead of hunting her." I dry my hands, turn to face her. The rage sharpens into something useful. "But she made a mistake."
"What mistake?"
"She told us the ritual is almost ready. Which means we're running out of time, but so is she. She can't afford to wait anymore. She needs the remaining deaths soon." My jaw sets. "And that makes her vulnerable. Rushed. More likely to make mistakes. More likely to get caught."
