Chapter 31
Syneca
When the clock chimes thirteen bells, make a wish quickly, before the shadows hear it first.
“Pairs make sense,” Lucette said. Her mind was already three steps ahead of the rest of us as we made our way across Grimora, leaving the tragedy of the games behind. “Wickett and Syn take the northern docks with Silas. Calder, Pip, and I handle the southern section.”
“Why split it that way?” Pip asked, steadier now, but still subdued.
“Strategy.” Lucette ticked off points on her fingers.
“Silas and Pip can fly. Aerial surveillance from both directions. Calder and Syn both know what Vitoria actually looks like beyond that one photograph we’ve seen on the banners.
Wickett and I are both tactical. Split the strengths. Cover more ground.”
Wickett nodded once. “Agreed.”
He pulled Calder aside, speaking about what they’d heard, rumors of smuggling, unusual activity, patterns that didn’t match legitimate trade. And then what to search for, which questions to ask.
Theater. All of it. We didn’t need to find anything. We just needed to look like we were trying in order to keep the Magistrate from acting on his death threats. Just as Wickett had suggested.
Pip swooped low to pick something shiny off the ground. After a quick examination, she made a sour face and tossed it over her shoulder. “Shouldn’t we be asking about the Phoenix? That’s who we’re supposed to be hunting.”
Calder’s expression flattened. “I have a feeling anyone who would have anything to say about her is already dead, Pip.”
Silence. Then Pip pulled out her tiny sword with deliberate care, nodding once. The clocktower rang out across the city. Deep bells marking the thirteenth hour.
“Sixteen bells,” Wickett said. “We meet back at Chancellery House. No exceptions.”
No one asked what happened if we didn’t make it back. We all knew. And with that, we went our separate ways.
Wickett and I walked to the northern docks in silence. Apparently, we’d exhausted our quota of near-kisses and emotional revelations for the day.
Fine by me. I needed to think. Needed to process Vitoria’s moves, the dead families, Calder’s suspicions that were starting to sound less like paranoia and more like terrible, inevitable logic.
Wickett moved with purpose, his stride so long I struggled to match his pace. Silas crept ahead, a shadow among shadows, barely visible, just how he liked it.
“What if the hunters are there?” I asked finally.
“We make a show of it. Performance. Make them believe we’re more dangerous, and more confrontational, than they expect.”
My stomach dropped. “And if the performance requires blood?”
His jaw tightened. “It won’t come to that.”
“You can’t know—”
“I can make sure it doesn’t.” He glanced at me. “Trust me.”
The words hung between us, weighted with everything that had happened in the hallway this morning. Everything that almost happened.
I did trust him. That was absolutely a fucking problem.
The docks came into view as clouds moved in overhead, the sky turning that peculiar purple-gray that belonged to neither day nor night.
The smell hit first. Rotting fish, brine, the acrid sting of hot tar that stuck in your lungs, something chemical and sharp that made my eyes water.
Lanterns bobbed on ships anchored in the harbor, their lights reflecting off water so black it looked like polished obsidian.
Wickett pulled a rolled parchment from his jacket, a shipping manifest covered in official stamps and signatures. He made a show of studying it, his voice carrying just enough to be overheard by anyone who might be listening from the shadows.
“The Serpent’s Breath was scheduled three days ago. Never arrived.” He traced a line with his finger. “And the Dahlia Pointe left port, but there’s no record of it reaching its destination, nor of its loss. Often a sign of smuggling.”
I played along, leaning in to examine the manifest. “Leads or deliberate misdirection?”
“Could be either.” His hand found the small of my back, steering me subtly away from the water’s edge. Widow’s Bay had claimed plenty of lives. The touch was brief, barely there, but deliberate. Keeping me from getting too close to whatever lurked beneath that black surface.
The docks stretched out before us. Warehouses and processing buildings in various states of decay, some lit from within by lantern light, others dark and abandoned to the rats and weather.
Crates stacked haphazardly leaked spoiled grain and straw.
Fishing nets hung from rusted hooks, still crusted with dried scales and salt.
The skeleton of a dry-docked ship in for repairs loomed above us, its ribs exposed to the sky like some enormous beast picked clean by scavengers.
Everything smelled of salt and rot. With industry ground to a halt, goods spoiled on the docks. It still must have been low tide to produce a smell this strong, though.
Silas moved to my side, his presence pressing against my awareness with warning.
Careful.
A warehouse loomed ahead, larger than the others, with lamplight leaking through cracks in the weathered wood. The doors were closed but not locked, I noticed. Not barred. Just... waiting.
Wickett headed straight for it without hesitation, and I followed because questioning him now would break the performance we were giving. He pushed the door open with confidence, like he had every right to be here.
A man inside clearly disagreed.
He emerged from behind a stack of crates with a shout.
The shifter was massive, easily matching Wickett’s height, but broader across the shoulders, built like someone who’d spent a lifetime moving heavy things and breaking heavier people.
His long hair was pulled back from a face that was all sharp angles and old scars.
A thick beard, braided with what looked like small bones, covered most of the man’s face.
Tattoos covered his arms in intricate patterns.
He wore simple clothes but moved with the easy grace of a predator comfortable in his own skin.
He squinted against the late afternoon sun streaming in behind us. Without being able to see our faces clearly, without recognition to temper his response, suspicion changed to open aggression. Surely he had no clue the Ripper had just opened his door.
The shift was smooth, practiced, beautiful in the way that deadly things often were.
Human form rippling and reshaping into something else.
A tiger, massive and golden, with stripes like shadows and fangs that could punch through steel.
He landed on all fours with enough force to crack the floorboards.
A growl rumbled through the warehouse, low and promising violence.
Instinct alone had me drawing on power, reaching for the endless sea just outside the door. Wickett didn’t draw his blade. Didn’t move at all except to place himself slightly in front of me.
“Stand down, Jorn. It’s me.”
The tiger paused. Amber eyes focused on Wickett’s face, recognition flickering through his animalistic fury.
He shifted back, orange fur changing into flesh. “Veyne?” His voice was rough, but I couldn’t quite place his accent, making his words roll and growl. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I took a step back.
Wait.
They knew each other. Not just casually. Not just in passing. Wickett had called him by name before the shift completed. Had known exactly what to say to make him stop.
“We had a schedule!” Jorn continued, “You were supposed to send word before coming. That’s how this works. That’s how we keep everyone alive.”
Wickett’s mask slipped for just a heartbeat, worry showing in the knot of his brows before he smoothed his features. “Things changed. The schedule had to change with it.”
“No shit, things changed.” Jorn grabbed a clipboard from a crate, sliding his finger down the paper.
“This is the third shipment this month with complications. Your father’s hunters are circling closer every day.
” He stepped forward. “We can’t keep doing this.
It’s only a matter of time before they figure out what’s happening here, and then we’re all dead. All of us.”
Oh.
Oh.
Wickett wasn’t just defying his father. He was actively dismantling what Tiberius had built. A willing participant helping smuggle witches from under the Magistrate’s nose. Risking his life, his position, everything he’d ever had or been.
For people like me. It was him. The whole time. And the shock of it chilled me. Who the hells was the Ripper?
“How long?” My voice came out quieter than I intended.
Wickett turned to face me, and the vulnerability in his eyes was stark, unguarded. “Long enough. I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t risk it.” He paused, jaw working. “But now you know.”
The weight of his trust settled over me.
Still, I took a step back, wondering what else he might be hiding.
Because I hadn’t seen this coming at all.
But there was only one question that came to mind.
One question that I knew he would expect me to ask, even if I already knew the answer.
I’d been performing my whole life too. “Did you help Vitoria? Did you help her escape?”
His expression hardened immediately, the vulnerability slamming shut behind walls of ice. “Even I have my limits. A dead Phoenix saves the world from burning.”
I nodded, forcing myself to look relieved. Theater and all that.
He’d kill her on sight. No, he’d kill me on sight. No questions, no trial, no chance to prove innocence. Just death, because that’s what I deserved in his mind.