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SERAPHINE

T he alley reeks of old piss, wet asphalt, and something worse—burned silver and vampire blood. I recognize it immediately. It’s got that acidic tang that curls up your sinuses and makes your stomach clench like a fist. That kind of scent stays with you, stains your clothes, gets into your hair. Stains your soul if you let it.

The body’s splayed out like a goddamn warning sign. Limbs unnaturally bent. Throat ripped open. Runes carved into the flesh, glowing faintly with the dying embers of dark magic. This wasn’t just murder. This was a message.

And whoever sent it knew exactly what they were doing.

“Ms. Nightshade,” a PEACE enforcer in a too-clean uniform steps beside me, eyes a little too wide as he tries not to look at the body. “Heard you’d want to see this for yourself.”

I glance at him—rookie. Maybe six months in. Too green to be on a scene like this, too nervous to be talking to me.

“Of course I want to see it for myself,” I mutter, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear before I catch myself and drop my hand. Ears. Careless.

I stand still in the quiet that follows. I don’t crouch. Don’t kneel. That would be too vulnerable. Instead, I reach out and extend a shadow from the edge of the alley, slithering toward the corpse like smoke finding its way through a cracked door. It touches the runes lightly. The spell fizzles and dies with a hiss.

Definitely ritual magic. Old, crude. Not something you’d see in high coven circles. This is outlaw work. The kind that whispers promises if you’re desperate enough to listen.

Behind me, I hear boots crunch on broken glass and I sigh. Not the kind of sigh that’s tired. No, this one’s full of venom.

“Underboss Nightshade?”

I already hate the way he says my name. Like it’s a test. Like he’s tasting it.

I turn.

And there he is.

Leaning a hip against the alley wall like he’s got all the time in the world, Detective Jackson Cole looks exactly like the kind of trouble I don’t have time for. Dark jeans, wrinkled button-down rolled to the elbows, and a leather holster that hangs low off his shoulder. His hair’s a mess—like he forgot to care—and his smirk has been practiced in the mirror far too many times.

I’ve seen him around on the crime scenes, and all I know is I don’t like him. He rubs me the wrong way, cocky, a little too arrogant, so…. human.

“And it’s Ms. Nightshade to you. No one calls me Underboss up here.”

“Oh, you’re right. That’s for all you creatures that go and hide in the dark.”

His voice is gravel and amusement. I want to punch it right out of his throat.

“This is a PEACE-level crime scene,” I say, turning my attention back to the body. “Not a playground for washed-up cops with hero complexes.”

He steps in closer, just inside my personal space. I don’t flinch, but I feel the brush of his energy. It’s human, mostly. Clean. But there’s something sharp in him. A fracture line, not yet broken, but close.

“Well, lucky for you, I’m your new partner.”

I freeze.

The word drops like a brick in my stomach.

“Excuse me?” My voice drops, ice and steel.

He flashes a badge. Not a PEACE one. A fusion—temporary clearance. Fuck.

“Internal Affairs liaison,” he says. “Which, in this case, means I get to babysit you and make sure you don’t go all shadow queen on the locals.”

My shadows stir behind me, just a flicker, but he sees it.

“Was that a threat, Nightshade?” he asks, tilting his head, eyes narrowed.

“It was a warning.”

He grins. “Noted.”

I stalk past him and kneel finally, now that he’s distracted. The dead vampire stares at me with cloudy, bloodless eyes. Aristocrat, judging by the ring still clinging to one gloved finger. The sigil is old money—Carpathian lineage. This isn’t just murder. This is political.

“Victim’s name is Lord Marek von Dael,” Jackson offers, voice more serious now. “Bigwig in the Vampire High Council. Here for peace talks.”

I glance up sharply. “He was under my protection.”

“Guess you fucked that up, huh?”

I stand slowly. “You’ve got a death wish.”

“I’ve got a job to do,” he counters. “Same as you. We can fight each other, or we can figure out who did this before another blood noble ends up decorating a dumpster.”

I stare at him, trying to decide if I hate him more than I need him.

He stares back.

Eventually, I speak. “Fine. But stay out of my way.”

He smirks again. “Wouldn’t dream of it, partner.”

Ugh.

He moves to the body, squats beside it without asking permission—disrespectful bastard—and examines the runes.

“These markings... you recognize ‘em?”

I hesitate.

“Yes.”

“Want to enlighten the class?”

“No.”

He chuckles. “You really are a delight.”

“And you’re a thorn in my ass.”

“Gonna be a long investigation, then.”

I turn away before I say something I’ll regret. My fists are clenched, knuckles white. I can feel the shadows itching just under my skin, restless. They don’t like him. I don’t like him. But the magic on that body—the crude carving, the layered wards, the sacrificial precision—it’s familiar.

This wasn’t random. It was surgical. A message wrapped in horror and left on my doorstep.

And now I’ve got a human partner playing at cop in a supernatural warzone.

Lovely.

“Come on,” I mutter. “We’re going to see someone.”

“Oh? First date already? I didn’t bring flowers.”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t leave you there.”

He follows anyway.

Cocky son of a bitch.

But beneath the sarcasm, the swagger, the too-clever words—I see something in him. Not just that sharp mind. Something buried. Anger. Purpose. Loss.

That makes two of us.

And that’s almost worse than the body in the alley.