Page 13

13

JACKSON

I wake up tied to a chair in what smells like rust, gasoline, and burnt spell powder.

My mouth tastes like blood and iron. My wrists are bound with something laced in salt and iron shavings—fuck me, they knew what they were doing. It’s not just rope. It’s enchanted rope. The kind designed to pin you down in case you're more than you look.

Joke’s on them. I’m just a guy.

A pissed-off guy.

My head throbs. My ribs ache like I got clocked by a troll. My thoughts are cloudy, but the fear? That’s crystal clear.

The room’s small. Metal walls. Cracked windows with charm glyphs drawn on them in faded blood. Industrial as hell. No sound from outside. Basement, probably. I can feel the heat radiating through the floor. Furnace room?

Someone moves behind me.

Leather boots. Slow. Deliberate.

I stiffen.

“You’re awake,” a voice says—low, male, and bored. “Took longer than I thought. You humans are so fragile.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I croak, lifting my head.

The man steps into view. Pale, wiry, maybe thirty, maybe three hundred—hard to tell with the kind of monsters I’ve met. His neck’s inked with a twisting vine of runes that glow faintly when he talks. Black Sun sigils. Confirmed.

“Who are you?” I rasp.

He grins. “Nobody important.”

“You’re holding me hostage. That feels pretty fucking important.”

He shrugs. “We don’t need your name. Just your blood. Your link.”

My stomach sinks. “What link?”

“To her. ”

Fuck.

“Sera?”

“She’s not who you think she is.”

I glare at him. “I know enough.”

“You don’t know shit. ” He leans in, breath hot and rancid. “You think you’re her partner? Her friend? You’re a key, Cole. A latch. You’re part of an old binding. You’ve touched the echo. Carried the mark. She’s used you.”

I twist against the ropes. “You're full of shit.”

He smiles. “Sure. Keep believing that.”

Then he raises a hand—one finger glowing with a burning crimson rune—and I feel pain shoot through my shoulder like someone’s lit a match under my skin.

I scream.

The world blurs.

Then the shadows change.

The air turns cold.

And then it explodes.

Not literally.

But everything feels wrong, too still, like the silence before lightning hits your soul.

Then comes the real blast.

A wave of dark, crawling magic surges through the room like black fire—silent, hungry, ancient. The lights pop. The air vibrates. My skin prickles.

And the door slams open.

She steps through like a goddamn nightmare.

Black coat flowing behind her. Shadows crawling along her boots like they missed her. Auburn hair wild. Green eyes glowing with that unnatural, unholy light I’ve only seen once before—and never this strong.

Seraphine Nightshade is furious.

The man turns, mouth open to cast something—too slow.

Her shadow strikes first.

It slams into him like a beast, flattening him to the ground with enough force to crack the floor beneath. His scream cuts off halfway through.

I blink.

“What the fuck—” I start.

She raises a hand. The runes on the ropes melt in an instant. They hiss. Smoke curls around my wrists.

I fall forward, and she’s there. Catching me. Her arms strong, the scent of smoke and old cedar clinging to her skin.

“How did you know where I was,” I whisper, dazed.

Her voice—raw and soft—hits something in me I didn’t know I had left. “I just did. I can’t–”

But then a second figure charges through the doorway, roaring like he thinks he’s already won. This one’s bigger, thicker-built, bloodied up with a ward knife glowing in one fist and some twisted brand etched into his arm.

“Shield yourself!” Sera shouts, voice jagged with panic.

I try. I really do.

But I’m too slow.

The blast hits just beside me, heat and noise and light—and Sera moves like a blade. Her body shields mine as her hand flares with raw shadow.

A vortex of black rips across the room.

The second man is gone—scattered in a mist of blood and magic and scream.

But the force is too much.

It knocks me back. My head cracks against the floor. Vision blurs, tilts, spins.

I see her—her outline blurring at the edges, shadows wrapping around her like a shroud.

She’s reaching for me. One hand stretched out across the chaos.

“Jackson—”

And the world goes black.

When I wake, it smells like cloves and ink and the kind of old magic that seeps into your bones.

Her place.

Silk sheets. Wardlight glowing from a carved obsidian lamp. Rain ticking against the glass. My chest still aches, but the searing pain’s gone. Replaced with something gentler. Slower.

I sit up.

And she’s there.

At the window, wrapped in a dark robe. Hair loose. Barefoot. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen.

She turns.

And I know.

This time, she’s not dodging.

“Before you ask,” she says, “you were gone almost four hours. I tracked the glyph left in your apartment. You were being prepped for sacrifice.”

“Why?”

She hesitates.

And then crosses the room slowly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“To get to me,” she says quietly. “To use you. As a link. A weapon. A... siphon.”

“Siphon for what?”

“My magic.”

I stare at her.

Her face is carved stone, but her voice is soft.

“I’m not just connected, Jackson. I am magic. I was born of it. Not made. Not learned.”

“You’re a witch.”

She nods. “Not a hedge witch. Not a spellcrafter. I’m what they used to call Primordials. A line bred with raw power before covens and rules and registration. It’s outlawed now. Hidden.”

“And that’s why you’ve been hiding.”

She doesn’t speak.

Just watches me.

Like she’s waiting for me to run.

But I don’t. I reach out and touch her hand.

She tenses—like she’s expecting a blow, not comfort.

“You saved me,” I say. “That matters more than what you are.”

“You don’t know how bad this can get.”

I smile faintly. “I’m starting to.”

We sit there in silence, the rain the only sound between us.