2. Caius #2
Anouk glances at the brass clock on the wall.
“I’ll have my people look into Cordelia. Financial records, travel history, anything unusual. We should meet tomorrow to compare findings.”
“During normal business hours.”
She walks me to the door. The shop is quiet around us—herbs sleeping in their jars, potions simmering in their cauldrons, the mist outside curling against the windows with unusual interest.
I pause at the threshold. Turn back.
She’s standing closer than I expected. Close enough that I can see the faint shadows under her eyes, the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers grip the doorframe as if she needs the support.
Close enough that her scent wraps around me—lavender and sage and an undertone that’s purely her.
“Your magic.” The words come out before I can stop them. “Whatever’s happening with it. You don’t have to handle it alone.”
She sucks in a tiny breath. Just enough for me to notice.
“Goodnight, Alpha Sternwolf.” Her voice is steady, but a crack shows in the composure. A hairline fracture in the ice. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I step into the night. The door closes behind me.
Tomorrow. After years of waiting, we have a tomorrow.
I head toward The Den with hope burning in my chest.
The Den never truly closes.
The converted mill sits at the heart of Ironwood Row, its exposed beams and stone floors designed to handle any form a shifter might take.
The massive fireplace burns eternally, the bar serves drinks strong enough to affect shifter metabolisms, and the back room—the Stone Circle—hosts every meeting of consequence that the Protection Network needs to hold.
At half past two in the morning, the main room is occupied by the usual collection of insomniacs and night-shift patrol members.
A cluster of wolves play darts in the corner.
Two bear shifters argue about sports near the fireplace.
Veren Tahann is definitely cheating at cards against a mountain cat who hasn’t noticed yet.
He doesn’t look up as I pass. “Lose something, wolf? You’ve got your murder face on.”
“Not now, Veren.”
“Suit yourself.” He deals another card off the bottom of the deck without breaking eye contact with me. “I’ll be here. Being suspicious of you is exhausting work, but someone has to do it.”
And in the Stone Circle, the other alphas are waiting.
I push through the door to find Torin already seated, his massive frame making the stone chair look almost comfortable.
Aslan lounges against the wall with the grace that tigers seem to be born with.
Elio is examining his fingernails with studied disinterest. And Rhodes is, predictably, taking notes.
“You’re late.” Torin’s voice is mild. The bear alpha doesn’t do accusations—just observations that somehow carry more weight than shouting ever could.
“I had a meeting.”
Aslan straightens from the wall. “She let you into her apothecary. After midnight. That’s progress.”
“It was professional.” I take my seat at the head of the stone circle. “Elder Mathilda was murdered. The coven leader and I are coordinating an investigation.”
“Murdered.” Rhodes stops writing. His lion’s mane of golden hair bristles slightly—the closest he ever comes to showing surprise. “That’s not what the official reports say.”
“The official reports are wrong. Mathilda contacted both of us before she died. She was going to reveal critical information—about the Preservers and whatever they’re hiding. Someone silenced her first.”
A moment of silence. Then Aslan uncrosses his arms and leans forward. “A Preserver agent on the Elder Council. Another one.”
“It looks that way.”
“This is the third in a year.” Rhodes is scribbling furiously. “Iskra, Valesh, and now potentially another. The infiltration is deeper than we realized.”
“Anouk suspects Elder Cordelia Ashworth.” I watch their reactions as I say the name. “Forty-year council member. Specialist in magical law. Conservative traditionalist.”
Elio nods slowly. “There are gaps in her history. Years unaccounted for. Travel to locations where other ‘incidents’ occurred.” He pauses. “I’ve been watching her for some time.”
“Why am I only hearing this now?”
“Because I couldn’t prove anything.” Elio’s face is unreadable. “I still can’t. She’s been in place for forty years, Caius. If she’s a Preserver agent, she’s the deepest cover we’ve ever encountered.”
I file this away. We’ll need more evidence. Careful investigation. Patience.
“So.” Torin’s voice cuts through the tactical planning. “The witch. You’re courting her.”
“I’m investigating a murder.”
“With that expression you make when she’s nearby.” Elio’s smile returns. “The one that says ‘mine’ in approximately forty-seven languages.”
“I don’t have an expression—”
“You’ve been professionally pining for her for nearly a decade.” Torin’s voice is mild, almost gentle. The same tone he uses when explaining obvious things to particularly dense cubs. “At some point, the professionalism becomes the excuse.”
“I’m not pining.”
Four sets of eyes stare at me with varying degrees of disbelief.