Page 54 of Panther in the Shadows
That should comfort me. It doesn't. Dying trying means failing. Means another victim dies anyway. Means Elspeth and the others rise as weapons for a necromancer's army.
Back in Rafe's quarters, the protective wards I built earlier shimmer faintly, responding to my agitation. Salt circles. Purification barriers. Defenses that might buy us minutes if the necromancer attacks directly.
Not enough.
"There has to be a way to identify her." I pace the room. "Some magic that can trace the necromantic signature back to its source."
Rafe looks up from the Amsterdam research. "Like what?"
"Water-scrying. Dangerous, but it's the only way." My grandmother's warnings echo in my mind. "The victims died in water. Their deaths created a link. If I tap into that through tidal magic, I might be able to see who's controlling them."
"Might?" His eyes narrow. "What's the risk?"
"The vision could be corrupted. The necromantic energy might overwhelm me." I meet his gaze. "Or the scrying could pull me too deep. Drown me in the same magic that killed the victims."
"No." He's on his feet, crossing to me. "Absolutely not. We find another way."
"There isn't another way. Not one that gives us answers before she kills the next victim." My hands find his chest. "This is what sea witches do. We read the water. We follow the currents. This is just taking it deeper."
"Too deep. You said it yourself. The ritual could kill you."
"It could. But not trying guarantees someone else dies." Neither of us speaks for a moment. "Every hour we wait is another hour she prepares to kill again. Another hour for her to choose her target. I need to know who she is. Where she is. What she's planning."
His hands cup my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "If something happens to you. If this ritual goes wrong?—"
"Then you stop the necromancer any way you can. You honor your promise. You protect this island." I cover his hands with mine. "But I don't plan to die. I plan to see who she is and come back with information that ends this."
The war plays out across his features. Protection versus logic. Finally, his shoulders drop. "What do you need?"
"Salt water from the convergence point where Brigid died. Candles. My grandmother's scrying bowl." I pull away before I lose my nerve. "And you need to be ready to pull me out if it goes wrong. If I start drowning, if the magic overwhelms me, you break my concentration. Physically if necessary."
"How will I know?"
"If blood comes from my nose or eyes. If I stop breathing. If my magic starts consuming me instead of channeling outward." The list of warning signs comes from half-remembered lessons. "Any of those signs, you end it. Understood?"
He nods, jaw tight.
Salt water from the convergence point where Brigid died. Black candles arranged in a circle. My grandmother's scrying bowl, ancient silver worn smooth by generations, filled with the tainted water. I ring myself with a circle of salt for protection.
Rafe watches from outside the circle, every line of his body tense.
"Last chance to change your mind."
"I'm not changing my mind." I settle cross-legged before the bowl. "Remember. If it goes wrong, break the circle. It will break my concentration. Don't hesitate."
"I won't."
The ritual begins with breathing. Deep inhales that sync my heartbeat to the tidal patterns. The ocean's rhythm flows through Stormhaven's magic, through every drop of water connected to the sea. The tainted water in the bowl carries that rhythm, twisted and wrong, but still connected.
My power unfurls. Reaches for the water. Sinks beneath the surface and follows the thread of magic back through the deaths, through the binding circles, through the necromantic signature staining every victim.
The vision hits like drowning.
Cold water closes over my head. Water filling my lungs. The harbor surrounds me, dark and endless. Bodies float in the depths. Marco. Brigid. Others I don't recognize, their terror hitting me like physical blows.
Chains. Twisted magic binding them together, linking them to something deeper.
I follow the chains down. Pressure builds. My lungs scream. Darkness thickens until only glowing symbols remain visible.
