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Something between a laugh and a sigh escaped him. “When you put it that way...”

“We need help,” I insisted, meeting his gaze. “All of us. Even you.”

The moment stretched between us, charged with everything we weren't saying. Finally, Sean nodded. “Fine. But we do this carefully. Secure channels, dead drops, the works.”

“I'll coordinate with Alana,” I said, already reaching for my phone. “Get her working on the journal while Skye handles the tech.”

“And me?” Sean asked, his voice lighter despite everything.

“You keep us alive while we figure this out.”

His lips curved into a half-smile. “That, I can do. Someone's gotta handle the dirty work.”

Looking at them both I felt something shift between us. We were an unlikely alliance: a federal agent, a hunter, and a hacker. But perhaps that's exactly what we needed to be.

Because somewhere in the city, Phoenix was preparing to unleash something ancient and terrible. And we were the only ones who knew enough to stop them.

“Right then,” Sean said, checking his phone. “Sun's coming up. Who wants coffee while we plan how to stop an ancient being from destroying reality?”

Skye raised their hand without looking away from their screens. “Make mine a triple shot. If we're saving the world, I'm going to need the caffeine.”

“Extra strong it is,” Sean nodded, heading toward the kitchen area. “We're gonna need it. Pretty sure apocalypse prevention wasn't in the federal training manual, right, Agent?”

I almost smiled despite everything. “No, but I've been doing my own research.”

“Of course you have,” Sean said, and there was something almost fond in his exasperation.

15

GHOSTS OF THE PAST

Dawn crept through Sean's warehouse windows like an unwelcome guest, painting everything in shades of grey and regret. My neck ached from hours hunched over case files and ancient texts, and the floor around us looked like a paper bomb had detonated. Somewhere between midnight and morning, our investigation into Phoenix had devolved into a maze of dead ends and coffee cups.

I stretched, trying to work out the kinks in my shoulders. Sean had disappeared into his kitchen a few minutes ago, the soft clink of mugs suggesting more caffeine was coming. The familiar domesticity of it all felt dangerous, this easy rhythm we'd fallen into despite ourselves.

A soft brush against my leg made me freeze. I looked down to find myself being studied by a pair of sapphire eyes set in a magnificent cloud of grey and white fur. The Himalayan cat regarded me with aristocratic disdain, as if questioning my right to exist in her domain.

“What the hell?” I muttered, staring at the unexpected feline. The cat, because of course Sean, deadly hunter of supernaturalthreats, had a fancy cat, simply yawned and settled between me and a stack of demon lore.

“Her name's Roxie.” Sean's voice carried from the kitchen. “And she doesn't like most people, so consider yourself honored.”

“You have a cat.” I couldn't quite keep the disbelief from my voice. “A fancy cat.”

“Everyone needs someone to come home to.” He emerged with fresh coffee, and I caught something almost soft in how he looked at Roxie. It was jarring, this glimpse of gentleness from someone I'd seen decapitate monsters without blinking.

“Even ruthless hunters?”

“Especially ruthless hunters.” He handed me a mug, our fingers brushing briefly. “Though if you tell anyone about her, I'll have to kill you.”

“Your secret's safe with me.” I watched him settle back against the wall, noting how the early light caught the silver in his hair. The comfortable silence stretched between us, broken only by Roxie's quiet purring.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe it was seeing this unexpectedly gentle side of him, but the question that had been burning in my mind for weeks finally slipped out.

“Tell me about Eli.”

The change was instant. Sean went completely still, that predatory stillness that usually preceded violence. “How do you know that name?”

The file hadn't been easy to find. CITD didn't typically investigate overseas incidents, especially ones officially classified as animal attacks. But a series of deaths in London that matched a pattern I'd been tracking had led me to requisition files from British intelligence. That's where I'd found it, a case labeled as an unsolved homicide, with witness statements mentioning two men were at the scene. One dead, throat tornout. One survivor, described only as “Irish male, late twenties.” The file included grainy CCTV footage showing a man who could only be Sean, carrying someone out of an alley, covered in blood not his own.