Chapter 13
MOIRA
The call comes just after sunset.
Rafe's phone buzzes against the kitchen counter. His hand stays pressed against my lower back while he answers.
"Vega." His voice goes hard. "Where?" He listens, his posture tensing. "Another body. North dock, near the ruins of the old cannery." His eyes find mine. Apologetic. "I'll be back within the hour."
"I'm coming with you."
"Moira—"
"Another victim. Another piece of the pattern." I meet his eyes. "If I see the site, I might understand how she's choosing locations."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Stay close. Don't touch anything. And if I say we leave, we leave immediately."
"Agreed."
The ruins of the old cannery crouch at the harbor's edge, abandoned for decades. Rusted equipment juts from crumbling concrete. Brine and decay hang thick in the air, mixing with something else. Something that makes my magic recoil before we even leave the car.
Tainted death magic. Stronger than before.
Declan waits near shipping containers, his wolf barely contained. Jax stands beside him, tension radiating from both.
"Vega. Moira." Declan's greeting comes clipped. "Warning you now. It's bad."
"Show me."
The body lies sprawled near a tidal pool. A woman, maybe forty, arms spread wide. Her skin carries the same gray tinge as Marco's, the symbols carved into her chest glowing faintly. Active magic. Still working.
My stomach lurches. "Brigid."
Declan's jaw tightens. We all know her. The artist who sells landscape paintings at the summer market. Who always has paint under her fingernails and a smile for everyone.
"Disappeared three days ago from her studio," Jax says quietly.
Three days. The necromancer kept her alive for three days before killing her here.
"The symbols are different." Rafe crouches beside the body, careful not to touch. "More complex than Marco's."
He's right. The pattern carved into her flesh forms an intricate web, each line connecting to the next in a design that makes my eyes ache. Dark magic pulses through the markings, visible only to those with the sight.
"It's a binding circle. Gran's grimoire had warnings." I force myself to focus. "She's not just dead. She's being prepared. Held in stasis between life and death until the ritual completes."
If Brigid is being held in this state now, then Elspeth might have been trapped like this. Aware. Suffering. Waiting.
"Moira." Rafe's voice cuts through the spiral.
I force myself to focus. To think like a sea witch instead of a guilty sister. "This is what happened to Elspeth. What's happening to all of them. Multiple victims bound and waiting for the ritual to complete so they can all rise together."
Multiple victims. Families destroyed. All for some necromancer's twisted ambition to raise an army of the drowned.
"We need to move her." Declan's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Get her somewhere secure before the binding activates fully."
"Don't. Gran's grimoire warned about disrupting binding spells. We could make it worse." I force the words steady. "We need to leave her exactly where she is. Mark the location. But don't touch the body or the symbols."
Declan's jaw tightens, but he nods. "I'll post guards. Make sure no one disturbs the site."
We leave Brigid's body in the shadow of the ruins. Leave her waiting for a resurrection she never asked for. The wrongness of it burns in my chest.
The drive back happens in silence. Rafe's hands grip the steering wheel too tight. The muscle in his jaw jumps. That calculating look means he's already planning our next move.
The ritual is almost complete. The necromancer is running out of time, which means she'll strike soon. Someone I care about. Someone Rafe cares about. That's what she promised through Marco's dying words.
"We'll stop her." Rafe's voice breaks through the spiral. "Tonight. Before she can take anyone else."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll die trying."
That should comfort me. It doesn't. Dying trying means failing. Means another victim dies anyway. Means Elspeth and the others rise as weapons for a necromancer's army.
Back in Rafe's quarters, the protective wards I built earlier shimmer faintly, responding to my agitation. Salt circles. Purification barriers. Defenses that might buy us minutes if the necromancer attacks directly.
Not enough.
"There has to be a way to identify her." I pace the room. "Some magic that can trace the necromantic signature back to its source."
Rafe looks up from the Amsterdam research. "Like what?"
"Water-scrying. Dangerous, but it's the only way." My grandmother's warnings echo in my mind. "The victims died in water. Their deaths created a link. If I tap into that through tidal magic, I might be able to see who's controlling them."
"Might?" His eyes narrow. "What's the risk?"
"The vision could be corrupted. The necromantic energy might overwhelm me." I meet his gaze. "Or the scrying could pull me too deep. Drown me in the same magic that killed the victims."
"No." He's on his feet, crossing to me. "Absolutely not. We find another way."
"There isn't another way. Not one that gives us answers before she kills the next victim." My hands find his chest. "This is what sea witches do. We read the water. We follow the currents. This is just taking it deeper."
"Too deep. You said it yourself. The ritual could kill you."
"It could. But not trying guarantees someone else dies." Neither of us speaks for a moment. "Every hour we wait is another hour she prepares to kill again. Another hour for her to choose her target. I need to know who she is. Where she is. What she's planning."
His hands cup my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. "If something happens to you. If this ritual goes wrong—"
"Then you stop the necromancer any way you can. You honor your promise. You protect this island." I cover his hands with mine. "But I don't plan to die. I plan to see who she is and come back with information that ends this."
The war plays out across his features. Protection versus logic. Finally, his shoulders drop. "What do you need?"
"Salt water from the convergence point where Brigid died. Candles. My grandmother's scrying bowl." I pull away before I lose my nerve. "And you need to be ready to pull me out if it goes wrong. If I start drowning, if the magic overwhelms me, you break my concentration. Physically if necessary."
"How will I know?"
"If blood comes from my nose or eyes. If I stop breathing. If my magic starts consuming me instead of channeling outward." The list of warning signs comes from half-remembered lessons. "Any of those signs, you end it. Understood?"
He nods, jaw tight.
Salt water from the convergence point where Brigid died. Black candles arranged in a circle. My grandmother's scrying bowl, ancient silver worn smooth by generations, filled with the tainted water. I ring myself with a circle of salt for protection.
Rafe watches from outside the circle, every line of his body tense.
"Last chance to change your mind."
"I'm not changing my mind." I settle cross-legged before the bowl. "Remember. If it goes wrong, break the circle. It will break my concentration. Don't hesitate."
"I won't."
The ritual begins with breathing. Deep inhales that sync my heartbeat to the tidal patterns. The ocean's rhythm flows through Stormhaven's magic, through every drop of water connected to the sea. The tainted water in the bowl carries that rhythm, twisted and wrong, but still connected.
My power unfurls. Reaches for the water. Sinks beneath the surface and follows the thread of magic back through the deaths, through the binding circles, through the necromantic signature staining every victim.
The vision hits like drowning.
Cold water closes over my head. Water filling my lungs. The harbor surrounds me, dark and endless. Bodies float in the depths. Marco. Brigid. Others I don't recognize, their terror hitting me like physical blows.
Chains. Twisted magic binding them together, linking them to something deeper.
I follow the chains down. Pressure builds. My lungs scream. Darkness thickens until only glowing symbols remain visible.
Then light.
Pale and cold. A woman stands in the depths, salt-white hair floating around her. Her skin carries a gray-blue tinge, but she's moving. Alive. Not alive. Something between.
The wrongness radiating from her sends my magic skittering back.
Behind her, several figures hang suspended in chains of dark water. Most glow with binding symbols. One stands slightly apart, her face familiar even through death's changes.
Elspeth.
My sister stares at me with empty eyes. The woman has dressed her in the clothes she died in, styled her hair the way she wore it. Made her beautiful again despite everything. A mockery.
The woman in white turns. Her eyes find mine through the vision, through the layers of magic and water separating us.
She smiles.
"So you finally decided to look deeper." Her voice carries without sound, directly into my mind. "Brave. Or stupid. Rafael always did have a type."
I try to speak. Water fills my mouth.
"Shh. No need for words. You came to see. So see." She gestures to the bound spirits. "Nearly complete. Soon. And then your precious island learns what real power looks like."
The chains pulse with dark energy. Each one connected to the others. Each one feeding power into a central point where she stands.
"The next death will be special." She drifts closer, studying me with dead eyes. "Someone whose death will break you both. Make you understand loss the way I understand it."
Both. She means Rafe and me.
"He thinks he's safe." Her smile widens, showing too many teeth. "Thinks his brotherhood can protect what matters. But I've been patient. I've been careful. And when I complete the ritual, he'll know exactly what he tried to steal from me."
The water pressure increases. My lungs burn. The vision starts to fracture.