Chapter 12
RAFE
Two hours later, I'm back in the warehouse office, forcing normalcy.
I sign manifests without reading them. Medical supplies, electronics, textiles—the legitimate front that keeps customs happy. My mind refuses to focus on profit margins when Marco's blood still stains my jacket.
Santos leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. Five years he's been my right hand on Skara, since I pulled him out of a bad situation at the docks. Loyal, efficient, smart enough to know when not to ask questions.
"Third container is light. Two crates short." Santos watches me with dark eyes that miss nothing. "Want me to handle it?"
"Handle it." Profit margins and supplier reliability should matter. They don't, not right now. Everything feels distant, unimportant compared to the ritual building toward completion.
"Rafe." He doesn't move. "What's going on?"
"Nothing concerning you."
"The sea witch staying in your quarters is nothing?"
Word travels too fast on this island. Always has. "Not your concern."
"It is when every supernatural on Skara is talking about it." He pushes off the doorframe. "When pack wolves are asking questions. When your attention is somewhere else instead of on the shipments keeping this operation running."
He's right. I've built everything on reputation and control. Any sign of weakness invites challenge. Any distraction becomes vulnerability someone will exploit.
"She's helping with a problem." My eyes meet his. "That's all you need to know."
"Is she the problem or the solution?"
Both. Neither. Everything knotted together in ways that defy simple answers. "Not your concern." The edge in my voice sharpens.
Santos doesn't look convinced, but he nods. Backs off. "Container inspection at ten. You there?"
"Yes." Routine matters. Business as usual demonstrates strength. "Anything else?"
"The body." He hesitates. "Marco's family wants to see him. What do I tell them?"
My chest tightens. "Tell them the truth. That he worked hard. That he was reliable. That his death was quick." The lies taste like ash. "And tell them the compensation includes funeral costs. Whatever they need."
Santos nods and disappears. Leaves me alone with manifests I can't read and questions I need answered.
My phone buzzes. Declan.
"Vega."
"We need to talk." The alpha wolf's voice carries authority even through the phone. "About Moira. About what happened to your dock worker. About what the hell is going on."
"That's why I called the meeting." I lean back in my chair. "Noon. My warehouse. I'll explain everything."
"This better be good. I've got nervous shifters asking why a panther's protecting a sea witch and why bodies keep turning up."
"It's not good. It's necessary." The distinction matters. "And by the time I'm done explaining, you'll understand why."
Declan's quiet for a moment. "We'll be there at noon." A pause. "And Rafe? If you're keeping her safe, that's good. She's under my protection through her grandmother's bargain. But if this goes wrong, if she gets hurt because of your operation—"
"She won't." The promise comes out harder than intended. "I'll make sure of it."
"Good. Because I liked and respected Siobhan. I owe her granddaughter better than letting her die hunting a necromancer."
He hangs up. Leaves me staring at manifests that don't matter and thinking about promises I'm not sure I can keep.
The research arrives at eleven, after the container inspection.
A thick envelope from my Amsterdam contact, delivered by a courier who doesn't ask questions and doesn't stay.
Inside: photocopied pages from grimoires I've never seen.
Accounts of necromantic rituals going back centuries.
And one section, marked with a red tab, that makes my blood run cold.
The Summoning of the Drowned: A ritual requiring multiple deaths by water, each victim bound at the moment of drowning.
The anchor must possess both death magic and sea magic—an impossible combination requiring a bargain with entities that should not be named.
Once complete, the ritual raises all drowned dead within the territory, binding them to the summoner's will.
Multiple deaths. We're already several victims in, counting Marco. More will die before the ritual completes.
And when it does, every person who ever drowned near Stormhaven rises. Hundreds of corpses. Maybe thousands. All under one person's control.
This isn't about framing me or hurting Moira. This is about building an army. Taking control of the island through sheer force of animated dead.
I need to show this to Moira. Need her to see what we're really facing.
But first, the brotherhood arrives.
The alpha wolf leads, his presence commanding immediate attention. Jax follows, scarred face impassive. Then the others file in—Grayson's massive bear form barely contained in human skin, Kian's tiger energy crackling, and Finn, the dragon whose ancient eyes have seen too much.
They gather around the table where I've spread Marco's documented symbols, the ritual markers from previous sites, and the research from Amsterdam.
"Thank you for coming." I meet each gaze in turn. "What I'm about to tell you stays in this room. But you need to know what we're facing."
I gesture to the symbols carved into Marco's shirt, now photographed and documented. "This morning, one of my dock workers died on my loading dock. He'd been forced to watch multiple murders, then used as a messenger. The necromancer wanted us to know the ritual is almost complete."
Declan's jaw tightens. "How many more deaths does she need?"
"Unknown, but we know there will be more to complete the summoning." I slide the Amsterdam research across the table. "And when it's done, every person who ever drowned near Stormhaven rises. Under the summoner's control."
The room goes silent. Then Grayson rumbles, "An army of the drowned. That's what this is about."
"Yes. Not just framing me or targeting Moira. Building enough power to take control of this entire island." I let that sink in. "The anchor has both necromantic and sea witch magic. An impossible combination that required a bargain we don't fully understand."
"Where's Moira?" Jax asks, his face unreadable. "She should be here for this."
"She's preparing defensive wards in my quarters." The challenge in his stare doesn't move me. "The necromancer threatened her specifically, and she stays protected until we end this."
Declan nods slowly. "What did Marco tell you before he died?"
I recite it word for word. The woman in black. The ritual sites. The sister having company soon. And finally: "Love makes beautiful targets. The last death will hurt the most."
The implications hang heavy in the air.
"So the necromancer is targeting people close to you and the sea witch." Kian's voice carries the controlled violence of his tiger. "Making the final deaths personal."
"That's the threat. But it also means she's escalating.
Getting desperate. We believe the ritual has a timeline, and she's running out of time to complete it.
" I tap the research. "We also believe each death has to happen at specific convergence points.
Tidal patterns. Moon phases. If we can identify the remaining locations and stake them out—"
"We might catch her in the act." Declan finishes. "Or we might walk into a trap designed to kill whoever shows up."
"Possible. But we don't have better options." I pull out the map Moira marked earlier. "The sea witch identified these locations as potential sites for the remaining deaths. We need eyes on all of them. Anyone who shows up gets stopped before they can complete the ritual."
The brotherhood studies the map. Grayson traces the pattern with one thick finger. "This symbol. I've seen something like it before. In my grandfather's journals about the old magic."
"What did they say?"
"That it's a binding circle. Meant to trap something that exists between life and death." His expression darkens. "And that breaking it once it's complete requires a sacrifice equal to what was used to create it."
Silence falls heavy. "Meaning?"
"Meaning if the ritual completes, stopping it might require someone dying." Grayson's eyes meet mine. "Someone with power equal to what's being summoned."
Moira. The sea witch with enough power to potentially counter a necromancer raising the drowned.
"Then we stop it before it completes." My tone leaves no room for argument. "We stake out these locations. We find the necromancer. And we end her before the final death happens."
Declan nods. "I'll coordinate the watches. Each location gets two shifters minimum. If anyone shows up with hostile intent, we take them down hard."
"And Moira?" Jax asks. "She researches while we do the work?"
"She's preparing defensive magic. Researching the ritual for weaknesses." My tone sharpens. "Anyone have a problem with that?"
The challenge hangs in the air. No one takes it.
"Good. Then we start tonight. Santos will provide you with communication equipment. You report anything suspicious immediately. And if you identify the necromancer—"
"We end her." Kian's smile shows too many teeth. "Permanently."
The meeting breaks up, each shifter taking their assigned location. Declan stays behind, studying me.
"You care about her."
No point denying what he's already figured out. "Yes."
"That makes you vulnerable. Compromised."
"It makes me motivated. There's a difference." Hold his gaze without flinching. "And right now, motivation is what we need. Someone willing to hunt this necromancer to the ends of the earth and not stop until she's dead."
"Just make sure your motivation doesn't get her killed." He moves toward the door. "My father honored Siobhan's bargain. I inherited that obligation. Don't make me choose between protecting her granddaughter and pack safety."
"You won't have to. We end this before anyone else dies."