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JACKSON

I should be asleep.

That’s what normal people do after watching half a city burn and barely avoiding a magical napalm blast.

But I’m not normal. Not anymore.

It’s just after 3 a.m. and I’m buried in stacks of records in my apartment—digital files, physical photos, classified PEACE memos I shouldn’t have, ritual glossaries I don’t fully understand. The riot’s done, the streets are scorched clean, and the survivors are locked up behind PEACE walls waiting to be processed or quietly disappeared. Seraphine stayed behind to do the interrogations—apparently they won’t talk to humans. Too weak. Too breakable.

I didn’t argue.

I said “fine” and came home.

But I can’t stop thinking about her.

The way she moved through fire like it owed her something. The way she looked at me before she turned away—like she wanted to kiss me. Like she almost let herself.

Almost.

But “almost” is poison.

So instead of sleeping, I dig.

The files I pulled from Redbone’s broker include a scanned cache of pre-Veil arcane surveillance reports—shit most humans weren’t supposed to know about. Old watchlist photos, grainy images from rituals or supernatural gatherings captured before The Veil fully collapsed. Most of them are corrupted. Most aren’t labeled.

But one catches me.

It’s not labeled.

Just tagged with a year.

1906.

It’s a street photo. Black and white. A crowd of people gathered around a burning building—some kind of urban fire, a block lost to chaos. They’re dressed like something out of a museum. Bowler hats. Corsets. Newsboys frozen mid-shout.

But in the back, on the far right, near the alley is a woman.

Eyes narrowed. Hair braided back. Lips set in a hard line I’ve seen during bad days. She’s turned away just enough to stay anonymous to anyone else.

But I know that face.

Same bone structure.

Same fucking eyes.

Same Seraphine Nightshade.

No aging. No difference.

She looks exactly the same.

I sit there, staring at it, heart thudding like a war drum in my chest.

This isn’t speculation.

This isn’t a feeling.

This is proof.

She’s not just a powerful something.

She’s not just a witch with secrets.

She’s not aging. At all.

Immortal?

Cursed?

Fae?

What the fuck is she?

And how the hell has no one noticed?

I stand. Grab the file. Grab my keys.

I don’t text. I don’t call. I just drive.

Her building’s coded tighter than a vault, but I’ve been here now. And I’m not above charming her door ward with a little old-fashioned detective stubbornness. By the time I knock, I’m vibrating with rage and exhaustion.

The door opens, and she’s in the same clothes from earlier—boots off, jacket gone, hair loose around her shoulders in a way that makes my thoughts stutter for half a beat.

But I’m too far gone for distractions.

I hold up the file.

She sees the look in my eyes and exhales slowly.

“Jackson—”

I shove the photo toward her. “Don’t. Not tonight. Just don’t. ”

She glances at it. Her jaw tightens.

“I found it in a cache buried under four levels of encryption. You’re standing there in 1906 like it’s another fucking Tuesday.”

“You shouldn’t have gone looking.”

“I had to look!” I snap. “Because you won’t tell me anything, Sera. I’m drowning in half-truths and magic and monsters, and you keep telling me to stay in my lane like this isn’t already personal. I’ve almost died multiple times on this case alone and I know you know more. So, I have to do my own digging since I know there’s truth out there somewhere to help enlighten me. And now, because of your secrets, I have my own findings.”

She looks away.

That tells me everything.

“I’m not stupid,” I say. “I know what this is. You’re not just connected. You’re ancient. You’ve been here. All this time. What are you hiding? What the hell are you running from?”

Her shoulders rise—slow, rigid.

And then she turns. Eyes like twin infernos.

“I’m not running,” she says, voice low. Dangerous. “I’m surviving.”

“Same thing.”

“No,” she hisses. “It’s not. You think you want answers? You think you’re ready to stand in the storm that follows them? You don’t know what I’ve done, Cole. You don’t know what I’ve buried. And if I tell you—if I show you—there’s no coming back.”

I meet her gaze.

Unflinching.

“Try me.”

She steps in close. So close I feel the heat radiating off her skin.

“You have no idea what you’re asking and who you are putting in danger by asking.”

“I’m asking for the truth.”

She laughs—but it’s bitter, dry.

“You want the truth?” she says. “Then here it is. You should walk away. While you still can.”

“Is that what you really want?”

Her expression shifts—just a flicker. Pain. Regret. Something human.

Then it’s gone. She steps back. And I let her.

But as I walk to the door, my hand still wrapped around that photo.

“I’m not walking away. You don’t get to scare me off with riddles and warnings. You want me out? You’re gonna have to burn the bridge yourself.”

I leave. And I don’t look back.

But God, I feel her watching.