Page 6

6

SERAPHINE

I t’s just past 7 a.m. and I haven’t slept.

I’m sitting at the edge of my rooftop garden, half-dressed and barefoot, watching the sun crawl over the city like it’s apologizing for showing up. My coffee’s cold. My hands are trembling, and that pisses me off more than anything.

This isn’t supposed to rattle me. I’m not the kind of woman who lets ghosts crawl under her skin—not anymore.

But the mark on Jackson’s neck won’t leave my mind.

Ancient blood magic. The kind not taught, not shared. Not used. Not unless you’re desperate or dangerous or both. Whoever hit him last night wasn’t just trying to track him—they were trying to tether something to him. Anchor it. Maybe a curse, maybe a gate, maybe a goddamn death-spell. I’ve seen that kind of magic before. A long time ago. And I swore I’d never see it again.

It doesn’t make sense.

Jackson’s human. Mundane, even. No bloodline, no trace of power. He shouldn’t be worth the effort—unless he’s being used as bait. Or worse... unless I’m the target.

And that brings me to the real question: why?

What does this have to do with the murders? With Lira? With the goddamn vampires strung up like crucifixion warnings?

One answer keeps rising in my mind like bile. A name I’ve buried for centuries.

Black Sun.

I breathe it out like a curse. Then I grab my phone.

“Yeah?” Jackson answers groggily, voice gravelly.

“You decent?” I ask.

“Define decent.”

“Put on pants and meet me downstairs of your place. We’re going to pay someone a visit.”

“Jesus, you know it’s Saturday, right?”

“Get your ass moving, Cole.”

I hang up.

Typhon’s Brood operates like a motorcycle gang married a black market cartel and raised a bastard child in a church basement. Violence is their language. Loyalty their currency. They hate humans, hate rules, hate being told what to do—which makes them exactly the kind of bastards who’d get their hands dirty on behalf of something darker.

We find our suspect holed up in a half-condemned auto garage that probably doubles as a chop shop. Name’s Gideon Mallick. Low-tier enforcer. Arrogant prick with a jaw like a cracked shovel and tattoos that scream “compensation.”

After trying to flee just from seeing us and then trying to attack Cole for simply being human, I decide it’s easier to question him restrained.

Jackson leans against the wall while I do the talking. He’s good like that—knows when to shut up, even if it kills him.

Gideon’s cuffed to a steel chair, bruised from resisting arrest, sneering like we’re beneath him.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “The ice queen herself. Didn’t think you dealt with street trash like me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say. “You’re not worth my heels. But unfortunately, you’ve been sniffing around places I care about.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I like the scent.”

I slam a shadow-imbued hand onto the table. The metal groans. His chair shudders.

“Cute. Keep talking, and I’ll make sure you can only smell your food through a tube.”

Jackson whistles softly. “Damn. You always flirt like this, Nightshade?”

I ignore him.

Gideon leans forward. “What do you want?”

“Three bodies,” I snap. “All ritualized. One of them was mine. I know you’ve heard the rumors. And I know you’ve been at Echolight recently—right before the attack.”

“Coincidence,” he says too fast.

“No such thing,” I say. “Especially not in this city.”

“We don’t deal in blood magic,” he mutters. “We think that shit’s disgusting.”

“But you know who does,” I press. “Who’s pulling the strings, Gideon?”

He says nothing.

Jackson chimes in, stepping closer, cool and calculated. “Funny thing, we just so happen to have enough dirt to book you for weapons trafficking and three counts of shifter-on-human assault. Want to guess how well a Typhon boy lasts in federal custody?”

“PEACE won’t touch me,” he sneers.

Jackson smiles. It’s not kind. “You’re right. But I will. And I don’t have a department breathing down my neck.”

Gideon shifts.

There it is, fear, just a crack. But it’s enough.

“I don’t know names,” he says finally. “But I know they call themselves Black Sun. Started showing up six months ago. All whispers. They recruit in the shadows, pay in magic and memory.”

I freeze.

He keeps going, oblivious.

“They’ve got people everywhere. Inside covens, shifter packs, even PEACE. You can’t stop them. No one can.”

“You sure about that?” I ask, voice like steel.

“Yeah. Because they’re not trying to destroy the world.”

“What are they trying to do, then?” Jackson asks.

Gideon meets my eyes.

“They want to remake it.”

I don’t breathe. I don’t blink. Just stare.

Because I’ve heard those words before.

Centuries ago. In a different life. Spoken by a monster who claimed he could turn the sun black and start time over from ash.

If Black Sun is back—it means the worst parts of my past are clawing their way to the surface. And this time, they’re not hiding.

They’re recruiting.

We leave the garage in silence after I tossed the key to the cuffs and left Gideon there, straining to reach them.

When we are in my car, Jackson breaks the silence. “You went pale back there.”

“Magic headache,” I lie.

After a beat he says, “That Black Sun name—means something to you.”

“Drop it.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Jackson—”

“You dragged me into this. I almost died last night. I’ve got a scar on my neck from a spell I can’t pronounce. You don’t get to shut me out now.”

I pull the car over hard enough to make the tires screech.

Then I turn and look at him.

Really look at him.

Messy hair. Stormcloud eyes. That damn stubborn line in his jaw that makes me want to punch him and kiss him in the same breath.

“They’re dangerous,” I say. “You think you’ve seen power? You haven’t. Not like this.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should be.”

Because if Black Sun really is back, we’re already too late.