Page 8

8

JACKSON

H er eyes glow in the dark.

Just faintly—like embers smoldering under ash. It’s not a trick of the light. I know what I saw in that crumbling sanctuary. And it wasn’t adrenaline or fear or some kind of temporary borrowed magic.

It was her.

Seraphine Nightshade.

Something more. Something not human and dangerous enough she won’t even tell me, even with the world knowing what it knows now.

For a moment, she just stares at me. Her expression unreadable. Jaw tight, lips pressed in that flat line she wears like armor.

And then she blinks. And the glow’s gone.

“Don’t start chasing ghosts, Cole,” she says, voice flat as concrete. “You’ll never stop.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

She brushes past me like I didn’t just watch her rip a demon apart out of thin air using power that doesn’t belong to anything listed in PEACE’s database.

“Jesus Christ, are you even?—”

“I’m done with this conversation,” she cuts in, sharp as broken glass. “We have leads. Runes. A dead sanctuary with secrets stuffed in its bones. Let’s not waste time playing what’s Sera hiding this week. ”

I follow her back to the car in silence, fists clenched so tight my nails dig into my palms.

I want to yell. Demand more. Force something out of her.

But she gives nothing. No apology. No remorse. Just that cold, polished exterior and the unspoken dare to push harder.

So I don’t.

Not yet.

We drive back into the city without a word.

She pulls up in front of my building just as the streetlights flicker on—old bulbs buzzing like they’re afraid of the dark themselves. Portland hums around us, restless, too bright for a city this tired.

“You’ll hear from me when I have something solid,” she says, eyes still on the windshield.

I stare at her. “That it?”

“I’m going to dig into those runes. Hit a few sources. Ask some questions that only get answered in blood or favors.”

“I could help.”

She finally looks at me. Just for a second.

“You’re already helping. Stay alive.”

And then I’m standing on the curb, door shut, engine growling as she peels off into the night like it can’t hold her.

I don’t go upstairs right away.

Instead, I walk.

Through side streets and alleys, over cracked sidewalks that know my name. The city hums like it’s watching me, keeping its secrets tucked behind glowing signs and shuttered windows. But I know better. Secrets have a scent. And tonight, I’m hunting.

I’m tired of being kept in the dark.

Seraphine’s lying. Not just dodging. Lying. And not the kind of lie you use to protect yourself from paperwork. No—this is deeper. Older. The kind of lie you wrap your whole life around like armor.

And I want to know why.

So I go where the shadows talk.

There’s a place called Redbone in Old Town. It doesn’t have a sign. The door’s marked with an iron nail and a streak of soot. You only get in if someone lets you. Lucky me—I saved the bouncer’s niece from a blood-pact dealer last year. Favors in this world? Worth more than gold.

The inside is dim, warm, and smells like wet ash and tobacco. Supernaturals sip drinks made from things that shouldn’t be ingested. A siren’s singing low in the corner booth, voice like honey melting on a blade.

I head to the bar.

“Tovah,” I say.

The bartender turns. Human—barely. Hair white as salt. One milky eye. The other’s bright blue and too sharp for comfort.

“Detective Cole,” she drawls. “Still breathing. Guess miracles happen.”

“I need names.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Looking for someone who knows rune languages. Old ones. Black Sun kind of old.”

Her mouth flattens. “Not a name you say casually, detective. Not if you like your teeth where they are.”

“I’m not casual.”

She pours something dark into a chipped glass and slides it toward me. “Drink first.”

I don’t hesitate. It burns like lies going down. Perfect.

She leans closer. “Talk to Wren. She’s upstairs. Don’t touch anything in her space. Don’t ask about the eye. And if you hear drums? Run.”

“Noted.”

Wren’s a half-blood Fae with fingers like needles and a sense of humor as dead as her houseplants. She keeps stacks of enchanted parchment in glass cases and speaks seven dead languages, all of them sarcastic.

When I show her a sketch of the runes from the sanctuary, she goes still.

“That’s not containment,” she says finally.

“What is it?”

“Lure magic. But not for people. For things. ”

“Like what?”

“Ever heard of a blood echo?”

I shake my head.

She lifts one long finger. “Echoes are spells left unfinished. Rituals broken halfway. But if you feed them blood, they finish themselves. Doesn’t matter who. Doesn’t matter why.”

My stomach tightens.

“And this echo?” I ask. “It’s tied to Black Sun?”

“Maybe,” she says. “Or something worse.”

“What’s worse?”

She leans in. “Black Sun isn’t the threat. They’re the lockpick. Someone else is trying to open the door.”

I leave with my head buzzing, my stomach twisted, and a phone full of scribbled notes I can barely read.

Back at my apartment, I throw the deadbolt, draw the blinds, and stare at the ceiling.

Seraphine’s lying.

She’s hiding what she knew about those runes already. About what she knows about Black Sun.

And whatever she’s hiding might get us both killed.