Page 57 of Panther in the Shadows

"We handle it together. She's using Elspeth to hurt me. Using the bound spirits to build power." Fierce. "And I'm not letting you face whoever this is alone. She wants to destroy you. This is personal."

His expression softens. Then he leans forward, presses his forehead to mine. "You're the most stubborn person I've ever met."

"Good thing you like stubborn."

"I like you. Stubbornness included." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. "But if this goes wrong?—"

"It won't. We're smarter. Stronger. And we know what she's planning." My fingers tighten on his. "But we need to move fast. Another death tonight means she's running out of time to complete the ritual. The next victim could be targeted any moment."

His phone buzzes. He reads the message, and his expression goes carefully blank.

"What?"

"Declan says someone broke through the wards at Old Tom's cottage." His eyes meet mine. "He's missing."

Old Tom. The old harbor master who brings me fish from his morning catch. Who tells stories about Gran. Who's known me since I was a child.

Terror crashes through my defenses.

"She has him."

Rafe's already moving, grabbing his jacket. "Declan's coordinating a search. Every shifter on the island is looking."

"They won't find him in time." Stand despite the spinning. "We need to go to where she'll perform the ritual. Where she'll complete the binding."

"You just nearly died?—"

"And Old Tom will actually die if we wait." Sharp. Clear. "No more preparation. We end this tonight."

He studies me. Sees the determination. The fear. The absolute certainty that delay means death.

"All right. We end it tonight." He steadies me when I sway. "But you stay behind me. You don't engage Catalina directly. And if I say run, you run."

"Understood."

Another lie. Because when we face the woman from Rafe's past, when my sister's corpse stands between us and the necromancer, running won't be an option.

I grab my grandmother's grimoire from where it lies on the dresser. The leather warm under my fingers. Salt water still stains the pages from earlier, but the spells remain legible.

Old Tom, with his booming laugh and weathered hands. Who calls me 'little Moira' no matter how old I get.

Now he's bait for me.

The grimoire weighs heavily in my hands, pages filled with protection spells and binding rituals my grandmother used to guard our shores. But none of them account for this—a necromancer who knows Rafe's name, who speaks of theft and vengeance, who's powerful enough to raise the drowned and twist them into weapons.

I turn from the dresser. Rafe stands by the door, his back rigid, hands braced against the frame like he's holding himself in place.

"She knew who you were." I repeat. "That necromancer. She used your full name."

His shoulders tense further, but he doesn't turn around.

"Rafael." I cross toward him, grimoire tucked against my side.

Now he turns. And the look in his eyes—raw and dangerous and haunted—makes my breath catch.

CHAPTER 14

RAFE