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SERAPHINE

I wake before the sun cracks the sky, the city outside still quiet, holding its breath like it knows what the day has planned.

My bedroom smells like clove, leather, and ash—residual notes from the shielding wards I reset every night before sleep. The silk sheets are cool against my skin, but I’m already up, padding barefoot across the stone floor, the shadows in the corners pulling slightly toward me like they’re saying good morning .

I don’t answer them.

They’re not friends. They’re just familiar.

My penthouse overlooks the Willamette River, floor-to-ceiling windows stretching wide open into the gray sprawl of Portland’s skyline. I stand there, watching the water reflect nothing but the sky, and I feel that old coil of tension unwind slightly. Only slightly.

My mornings are sacred.

Espresso first—double shot, black, no sugar. I drink it by the window while going through encrypted messages sent overnight: reports from PEACE informants, murmurs from the vampire courts, two shifter enclaves arguing over a territorial dispute near Forest Park. The usual bullshit. No word yet on who’s behind Marek’s murder or the slaughtered wolf boy from the club basement.

The magical echo from that site is still stuck to my skin, clinging like soot. I’ll need a deeper cleansing later, something with fire and salt, but for now I run a bath and add a drop of ward-oil. Just one drop. It turns the water iridescent, like dragonfly wings.

The water’s hot, almost scalding. Just how I like it.

When I step out, I towel off and glance at myself in the mirror. I look tired, but dangerous—high cheekbones, sharp jaw, skin pale as bone. My eyes glow faintly in the low light, green-gold and not entirely human. I brush my auburn hair into a sleek wave and pin it half-up, carefully, making sure no ear tips peek through.

My suits are armor, and today I choose black. Tailored wool, pressed to perfection, with a blade-slit in the lining just in case. I finish the look with blood-red lipstick and gold rings stacked like wards across my fingers. No necklaces. No bracelets. Nothing that could snag.

By the time I step outside, the city’s begun to stir. But inside, I’m already sprinting.

—

The warehouse on SE 11th and Main looks like it’s been abandoned since the fifties. Rusted siding, busted windows, and a scent in the air that making my hair stand up.

Jackson’s already there, leaning against the hood of his unmarked sedan, sipping what I’m betting is gas station coffee and looking entirely too smug for someone who smells like burnt sugar and sleep deprivation.

“You’re early,” I say, striding up.

“I don’t like being late. Makes me feel... unprofessional.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You’re wearing the same jeans from yesterday.”

“And you’re judging me before we’ve even broken in. Relationship off to a great start.”

I nod toward the rusted hulk of a building. “Let’s go.”

He falls into step beside me, eyes scanning the surroundings. “You never said why we’re here.”

I hesitate. “I have a source. Someone who said they’d seen something—related to the murders. She said to meet her here.”

“She supernatural?”

“A cat shifter,” I reply, voice clipped. “Her name’s Lira.”

I open the heavy steel door with a flick of magic and a sigh I try to hide. It gives way with a metallic groan.

Inside, the air is thick. The scent hits first—blood, old magic, and something… off. Like singed fur and fear baked into the walls.

Jackson whistles under his breath. “Something died in here.”

“Not something,” I whisper. “Someone.”

And then I see her.

Suspended by wire-thin strands of silver thread, strung up like a marionette with her arms outstretched and eyes wide open. Slit pupils. Tawny skin now drained to gray. It’s Lira. Or what’s left of her.

I freeze.

Jackson notices.

“You knew her?”

“She was my informant,” I murmur, stepping closer. My voice stays calm, but my throat’s thick. “She worked the south docks, kept ears on Typhon’s Brood for me. Said she’d heard rumblings about a third ritual. Told me to meet her here. Said it was important.”

He studies my face like he’s looking for a crack.

“This looks… personal.”

“It is,” I snap, sharper than I mean to be.

He backs off a half-step, nodding. “Okay.”

I crouch near the sigils painted on the floor in blood—perfect circles, lines drawn with steady hands. The same style. Same dark magic. But it’s evolving.

“Third victim,” he mutters. “Shifter. Same symbology. They’re building to something.”

“No,” I whisper, tracing a pattern with gloved fingers. “This isn’t building. This is something.”

He stares down at me. “You okay?”

I breathe in through my nose and exhale slowly, trying not to feel the pulse of echoing magic clawing at my skin. It wants in. It knows I’m one of the old blood. It remembers.

Jackson watches me closely. “You’re tense.”

“Because there’s a murder scene, Cole.”

“No,” he says. “Because you feel the same thing I do. But it’s stronger for you. Like this place is whispering to you.”

I stand abruptly. My magic flares beneath my skin, snarling to be released. The shadows in the corners of the room react, pulling toward me like iron to magnet.

The spell’s still echoing.

I breathe too deep and it rushes up through my throat like ice, curling around my ribs, trying to pry its way in.

Shit.

I clamp down on the surge of power so hard it gives me a migraine. I press a palm to the cold concrete and pour the excess into the floor, grounding myself.

But Jackson notices. Of course he fucking does.

His voice cuts through the silence. “That thing that just happened—what was that?”

“Backlash,” I snap, more harshly than intended. “The spell’s still resonating. You’re not sensitive enough to feel the full wave, but it’s strong.”

He stands slowly, dusting off his knees. “You ever gonna tell me what you are?”

“No.”

“You’re not a vampire. You’re too warm. Not a shifter. You don’t smell like blood or pine or fur. Not fully fae?—”

“Stop guessing.”

He watches me for a moment, arms crossed. “So I’m right. You’re something . Something you’re hiding.”

I rise and face him fully, letting a sliver of shadow flicker across my fingertips. Just a taste.

“You want to keep dancing in this world, detective, you’d better learn the difference between curiosity and suicide.”

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t fucking flinch.

We stare at each other across the room, tension thick between us. He’s not stupid. I give him that. He sees more than he should. That’s a problem.

I look back at Lira’s body.

“I owed her,” I say quietly. “She fed me intel when no one else would talk. She knew the risks. But I should’ve been faster.”

Jackson’s voice softens. “This wasn’t your fault.”

“The hell it wasn’t.”

My magic stirs again, angry this time. Not at him—at the world. At whoever thinks they can carve through the people I rely on without consequence.

“Whoever did this,” I whisper, “wanted me to see it.”

Jackson tilts his head. “You think it’s about you?”

“I think it’s about power,” I say. “And leverage. And fear.”

He kneels by Lira’s suspended body, noting the angles. “It’s more precise than the last two. Cleaner. Like practice makes perfect.”

“He’s escalating,” I mutter.

“No,” Jackson replies. “He’s refining. And he’s watching us.”

I glance at him. “How do you know?”

“Because if I were him, I’d be watching you, too.”

That earns him a sharp look, but he doesn’t react. Just meets me there, eye to eye.

“Whoever’s doing this,” he continues, “they know how to stay just ahead. And if you’re hiding something that might help me catch them, now’s the time.”

He’s not wrong. But my secrets are centuries old. Locked deep. Hidden for a reason.

Instead, I let just the tiniest whisper of shadow curl around my foot. Barely visible. Barely there.

Enough for him to blink.

Then I pull it back and turn away.

“Get your samples,” I say coldly. “We’re done here.”

He exhales, almost a laugh. “Not even close.”