Page 27 of Panther in the Shadows
But wanting her doesn't mean I deserve her. Crime lords who built empires on fear and blood don't get women like Moira Flynn. Women who spend years hiding their power because using it means facing the worst day of their lives. Women who still try to save people despite carrying guilt that would crush anyone else.
I move to my room and retrieve the burner phone I use for brotherhood communications. Text Declan a single line:Need to meet. Tomorrow. Bring everyone.
His response comes in seconds:Trouble?
Always. But this is personal.
Location?
My place. Noon.
We'll be there.
I set the phone aside and sink onto my bed. The shoulder wound pulses with each heartbeat. Exhaustion drags at bones that want nothing more than to shift and curl up somewhere dark and safe.
But my mind won't stop circling the problem. Someone powerful enough to bind a spirit for who knows how many years. Someone cruel enough to feed on a child's suffering. Someonebold enough to perform ritual murders in the open, leaving blood symbols and corrupted magic like territorial markers.
And someone who decided Moira Flynn needed to be involved. Marked. Threatened. Broken.
They made a mistake there. A fatal one.
She's under my protection now. That means keeping her safe from the necromancer using her sister as a weapon. From whatever's killing people on this island. And from me, if necessary. Because the last thing she needs is another predator circling when she's already being hunted.
CHAPTER 7
MOIRA
Morning doesn't bring relief.
Grey light filters through the screen that pretends to be a window, and for three heartbeats I forget where I am. Then memory floods back. Elspeth's drowned corpse. Rafe's teeth tearing into corrupted magic. Our boat capsizing while I reached for power that wouldn't answer.
The bed linens smell like expensive fabric softener and him. Shadow and danger wrapped in Spanish silk. The thought takes root before sense prevails, and heat climbs my neck.
Outside the guest room, coffee scent mingles with something else. The metallic tang of evidence bags. Death preserved in plastic.
Evidence spreads across the massive table when I emerge. Photographs. Maps. Items sealed in plastic that carry the stench of death even through the barrier. Rafe's already working, dark hair falling across his forehead as he studies something. The burgundy shirt makes his golden eyes more prominent. The shoulder I treated last night shows no sign of injury through the fabric, though the wounds must still be healing beneath.
"Coffee's fresh." He gestures toward the kitchen without looking up.
The expensive espresso machine gleams in his kitchen. Hand-blown glass catches the light. Even the coffee beans smell smuggled from somewhere specific and illegal.
"What is all this?" The evidence demands attention more than caffeine.
"Evidence from all the murder scenes." Exhaustion carves shadows under his eyes that weren't there yesterday. "Took me most of the night to gather it without alerting the brotherhood. They'll be here soon, but I wanted you to see it before they arrive."
The victims. Danny Morrison's father and two other dock workers among them. The whispers that travel through my inn made them names. Seeing the evidence laid out like this makes them real.
Photographs show rocky shores. Tidal pools. The old pier where fishing boats tie up during storms. Each one marked with symbols that appear to depict sea witch magic.
"May I?" Coffee forgotten, I gesture to the nearest evidence bag.
Rafe nods.
The bag contains what looks like an ordinary rock. Grey stone worn smooth by centuries of waves. But the moment my fingers touch the plastic, residual magic floods through me like ice water.
Sea power. Corrupted. Twisted into nausea and wrongness.
"This was at the first site?"
