Page 9

9

SERAPHINE

I t’s barely past six and the city hasn’t woken yet. My place is silent, save for the soft rustle of papers across my desk. Runic sketches line the table like scars. Three murders. One ancient sanctuary. Layers of forgotten languages and blood-etched spells. Each symbol whispers something ugly. None of it tells me enough.

I sip cold coffee, the taste bitter on my tongue. My heels are kicked off beside the chair. Hair pinned back. Eyes red from hours without sleep.

The shadows keep inching closer across the floor, agitated.

They know something’s coming and are begging to be used.

I just don’t know what yet.

knock. knock. knock.

Three sharp raps at the door.

No one knocks on my door.

Ever.

I’m already armed when I open it. Blade tucked behind my back. Spell humming under my breath.

Jackson.

Wearing the same damn leather jacket. Same scowl. Same annoyingly stubborn expression like he owns the goddamn sunrise behind him only he doesn’t have his usual smug smirk in place.

“You know how early it is?” I snap.

He shrugs, eyes flicking over my shoulder into my apartment. “You sleep in a fortress and still answer the door half-dressed. Brave.”

“I live alone.”

“Yeah. No shit.”

I narrow my eyes. “How the hell do you know where I live?”

“I’ve got my own sources,” he says, pushing past me like he was invited.

I let him.

Mostly because I want to know what the hell’s in the file he just tossed on my desk.

“I didn’t say come in,” I mutter.

“You also didn’t say don’t, ” he replies, already pulling out one of my chairs. He drops into it with that lazy detective sprawl of his, legs wide, confidence oozing from every damn pore like he was born in a trench coat and a lie.

I glance at the folder. “What’s this?”

He leans back, arms folded. “Everything I dug up after you dropped me off like yesterday’s trash.”

“You’re not trash.”

“Then stop treating me like it.”

I don’t flinch, but I feel it.

“You knew about the blood echoes,” he says. “You knew those runes were connected. And you knew who Black Sun was before we ever even heard the name.”

I slowly close the folder without looking at it. “And?”

“And I’m not useless, Sera.”

His use of my nickname so casually instantly sends prickles up my back, but I let it go. This time.

“I’ve been chasing ghosts since I was twenty-three and watched one eat my sister alive. Don’t pat me on the head and tell me to stay in the car while you save the world.” His voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t shake. It just lands , heavy and real.

I stare at him. Hard.

He stares back.

Eventually, I say, “There are things worse than Black Sun.”

“You know, I heard that as well. Enlighten me.”

I walk to the window. Portland’s quiet, but there’s a tension riding the wind—like the whole city’s holding its breath.

“I don’t know yet,” I lie.

He laughs, bitter. “Bullshit.”

“I’m not ready to tell you.”

“Try me.”

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. PEACE priority alert.

Riot downtown. Supernatural conflict spilling into human territory. Multiple casualties. All hands.

I sigh, grab my gear, and glance back.

“Let’s go,” I mutter.

The scene is chaos.

Smoke rolls through the streets like ghostfire. Sirens scream from a dozen directions. Supernaturals in partial shift form—fur, claws, glowing eyes—tear through barricades while PEACE enforcers try to hold the line without igniting a full-on civil war.

I pull up to the cordon and swing my door open before the car even stops. Jackson’s right behind me.

“What the fuck happened here?” he mutters.

“This is backlash,” I say grimly. “Retaliation. Supernatural community’s been pushed too far. Lira’s death was the spark. The blood echo sites are the fuel. They think your kind is doing this, or not doing anything about it.”

A shifter barrels toward us—massive, wolf-spined and out of control. Jackson raises his gun, but I’m faster. Shadows whip out from my palm, wrapping around the creature like chains and slamming it into the asphalt.

“Go!” I shout. “Get to the back line. Help triage.”

He runs without question.

I head for the center.

I know who’s behind this—Typhon’s Brood. I see their marks burned into walls and their colors twisted into banners waved like flags. Someone organized this, and it sure as hell wasn’t a street kid with a chip on his shoulder.

It was someone with purpose. Someone with power. Those fucking shifter supremacists.

I’m holding the line near a collapsed storefront when I feel it—magic. Old, corrupted, bleeding into the air like oil. I spin just in time to see a warlock hurl a bolt of crimson light at my back.

Jackson tackles me from the side.

We hit the pavement together, his arm around my waist and the ground a blur.

The blast hits where I was standing.

Flames lick at the sky.

“Fuck,” he groans, rolling off me. “You’re welcome.”

“I had it under control,” I snap, trying to ignore the fact that his hand is still on my waist and I don’t hate it.

“Sure you did.”

“I can protect myself. I’ve made it this far without you.”

He rolls his eyes. “A simple thank you would be nice.”

We lock eyes.

Everything slows for a second—just a second as the chaos still ensues around us.

His eyes are storm-dark, shadowed, and unflinching.

I lean in without thinking, without really knowing what I’m doing.

So does he.

The air between us grows hot and heavy and full of maybe.

Someone shouts, causing me to remember where we are. I pull back and push his hand off of me as I get up.

He’s still laying there as I’m already walking away.

“Come on, we have damage control to take care of.” As I say it, I know I don’t just mean the riot.