Page 75 of Panther in the Shadows
Through the corrupted water, I see Grayson's massive bear form grappling with Marco near Declan's boat. The bear's jaws close around the corpse's torso, dragging it deep. Water churns with violence as they disappear into the darkness below. Declan's grey wolf fights in the shallows near the rocky shore, surrounded by pale figures that keep rising no matter how many times he tears them down.
In the water with me, another corpse surfaces. Brigid. Those empty, glowing eyes lock onto me and she moves through the water like she was born to it. Limbs bending at impossible angles. Moving faster than anything dead should move.
I shift back to human long enough to grab the boat's railing and shout across the comms. "Breaking their necks doesn't work. Drowning them doesn't work. They just reform."
"Any bright ideas, panther?" Jax's voice comes through between snarls. He's somewhere to the north, holding his position on shore. The sounds coming through the comms tell me he's not having better luck.
An idea surfaces. Dangerous. Maybe impossible. But the only thing that makes sense.
"The bindings." I dive again as Brigid lunges for me. "Catalina's using necromantic bindings to hold their souls to their corpses. Break the binding, free the soul."
"And how exactly do we do that?" Declan's voice crackles through the comms.
Instead of answering, I slip into the darkness between moments, shadow-walking through the space where light hasn't reached, moving faster than eyes can track.
The underwater world transforms when I move through shadow. Everything slows. The corrupted particles suspended in the water become visible—tiny motes of death magic drifting like ash. Brigid's corpse moves through it all, arms outstretched, fingers grasping for where I was.
I emerge behind her. The binding snaps into focus with brutal clarity.
Blue-white threads wrap around her torso in intricate patterns. Not random. Deliberate. Woven with precision that speaks of years of practice. The threads pulse with Catalina's will, forcing the soul to animate dead flesh. Forcing it to serve. The necromantic magic is beautiful and obscene all at once.
But I can see the weak points. Places where the threads cross. Where one slash could unravel everything.
My claws aren't just physical. They're shadow made solid. Darkness given teeth. The gift that came with my exile—the ability to walk between moments and strike from nowhere.
I slash through the binding.
The threads resist for a heartbeat. Then they snap with a sound like breaking glass. Blue light explodes outward, bright enough to turn the corrupted water momentarily clear. The necromantic magic unravels in a cascade, thread after thread dissolving as the binding collapses.
Brigid's body goes limp in the water. The animating force gone. Just a corpse now, nothing more. It sinks slowly, arms drifting, hair floating around her face.
Then the soul rises.
A translucent shape that looks like Brigid but younger. Healthier. The way she looked before whatever circumstances led to her death. Her face finds mine and there's gratitude there. Relief so profound it makes my chest tight.
She mouths two words: Thank you.
Then she dissipates into the night air like smoke, finally released from her torment.
I surface, breaking through the corrupted water with a gasp. My lungs burn. Need air. Need to tell the others.
But something's wrong.
The boat—Moira's boat—lists badly to one side. More of the hull has splintered. And rising from the depths… Elspeth.
Moira backs away from her own sister, hands raised but not attacking. Not fighting. Horror and grief war across her features as the child corpse advances.
My panther instincts scream. Moira's in danger. Moira needs help.
"It works." I broadcast through the comms, words coming fast. "The bindings are only visible in shifted form. Look for blue threads wrapped around their torsos. You need to get behind them and slash through those threads with your claws. Break the bindings and the souls are freed."
A corpse is already approaching, moving faster than the others. Learning. Adapting to our tactics. This one used to be a fisherman—I recognize the weathered hands, the build of someone who spent decades hauling nets. Now those hands reach for me with inhuman speed, fingers bent at wrong angles.
Shadow takes me. The world slows. I see the binding wrapped around his torso, more complex than Brigid's. Catalina's learning too. Adapting her necromancy to make the bindings harder to break. But there—a weak point where three threads cross.
I emerge behind it and slash through the intersection. The binding collapses in a burst of blue light. Another soul freed. Another body that stays down and sinks into the corrupted depths. But there are so many of them. For every soul I free, three more corpses surface. Catalina has an army down there. Decades of drowned sailors and lost fishermen. All waiting to rise.
Then Catalina's voice cuts through the chaos. Amplified by magic. Carrying across the Sound like she's standing right next to me.
