Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
WYATT
Derren Bale still walked free.
Wyatt stood at his office window, coffee gone cold in his hand, watching the morning crowd on Main Street. The Devourer was out there somewhere. Wearing his human mask. Smiling his human smile. Plotting whatever fresh hell he’d come here to unleash.
Patient.
The beast had been relentless since Narla told him the truth. Since she’d wept against his chest and handed him files that proved a centuries-old monster had been feeding on supernaturals while the world looked the other way.
Hunt. Kill. Protect.
Wyatt’s grip tightened on the mug until the ceramic creaked. He forced his fingers to relax. Forced his breathing to steady. He wasn’t about to lose it now.
But God, he wanted to.
His phone buzzed. A text from Beck:
Target left library at 0847. Heading toward market district.
The wolves had been tracking Derren around the clock.
Discreetly—the pack knew how to shadow prey without being noticed.
Days of surveillance had established a pattern.
Morning coffee at the bakery. Afternoon visits to local businesses, always charming, always helpful.
Evening drinks at Wolf Moon Brewery, buying rounds and telling stories about his artifact collection.
Building trust. Establishing himself as a valuable member of the community.
Making himself indispensable before anyone realized what he really was.
Another text, this one from Aero:
Located relevant material in the archives. Council records from the purge. Need to discuss in person.
Wyatt’s gaze drifted to the window that faced Moonstone Lane. Three blocks away, just visible if you knew where to look, the amber facade of Spellbound Lights caught the morning sun.
He found himself planning patrol routes that passed her shop. Finding reasons to call and check in. Waking in the night to pad down the hallway and listen at her door, just to confirm she was still breathing.
She’d been in his spare room since that night at the station. Her scent layering over his in the cabin. Her candles appearing on surfaces. Her owl judging him from every available perch.
Days of not letting himself take it further than that kiss. Deliberate restraint. Because if he started, he wasn’t sure he could stop, and she needed time. Needed space to process everything that had changed.
His restraint was fraying at the edges.
Wyatt drained the cold coffee and set the mug aside. Time to check in with the network.
Aero’s office at the Continental Council’s Haven Shores outpost was a study in organized chaos. Books stacked on every surface. Scrolls in languages that predated most civilizations. The dragon elder stood at a massive desk, ancient texts spread before him, his expression carved from granite.
“I found fragmentary accounts from survivors of the purge.” Aero didn’t look up as Wyatt entered. “Witches who helped in the hunts. They developed methods for detecting Devourers—imperfect, but functional.”
The folder he offered contained copies of handwritten pages, the ink faded, the language archaic. Wyatt scanned the contents while Aero translated.
“Truth magic is the key. Not conventional truth spells—those fail against the glamour. But magic that reveals essential truth. The kind that reveals fundamental nature, rather than what it pretends to be.”
Narla’s candles after the surge.
The realization landed with physical force. Her surge-altered magic showed people their fated mates—the essential truth of who belonged to them. If it could reveal that, what else might it expose?
“Her flames,” he said. “They could strip his disguise.”
Aero nodded. “The accounts describe using ‘light that cannot lie’ to force Devourers into their true forms. Once exposed, they become vulnerable.” His gaze met Wyatt’s, ancient and deadly. “Delos and I, when the time comes, we’ll be ready.”
“And if the candles don’t work?”
“Then we find another way.” Aero’s voice held the certainty of someone who’d lived eight centuries. “He’s survived this long by hiding. By picking off isolated targets who couldn’t fight back. Haven Shores isn’t isolated.”
Wyatt’s tension eased from his shoulders. Not relief—relief was for after the monster was dead. But validation, maybe. Confirmation that his instincts to protect, to fight, weren’t just his panther’s possessiveness.
“I need to check on her,” he said. “She’s at the shop.”
Aero’s expression shifted—the faintest flicker of emotion that might have been amusement on anyone else. “Go. I’ll contact you if I find anything else.”
Wyatt was halfway to the door when Aero spoke again.
“Sheriff.” A pause. “The accounts mention more. Devourers fixate on threats. When they identify threats that could expose them, they become obsessed with eliminating them.”
Wyatt’s blood ran cold. “Narla’s candles.”
“And Narla herself.” Aero’s voice was flat with warning. “She’s not just a witness anymore. She’s the weapon that could destroy him. If Derren realizes that—”
“He won’t touch her.”
The words came out harder than Wyatt intended. His panther surged so close to the surface, his vision flickered, the world going sharp-edged and predator-clear.
Aero inclined his head. “See that he doesn’t.”