14. Torin
FOURTEEN
TORIN
Idon’t remember the walk home.
One moment, I’m locking her studio door behind me, making sure it holds. The next I’m at my own, key already in hand, the taste of her still on my mouth.
I want her here. Want her chaos and her crystals and her arguments about organizational systems. Want to wake up to her weather patterns and fall asleep to her breathing.
Want is a dangerous word for someone who’s spent years being what others need rather than asking for what he wants.
But she kissed me. Pressed against me like I was the only solid thing in a spinning world. Ran her fingers through my hair and gasped when I—
Focus.
Sleep, when it finally comes, is easy. For once.
The Den is quieter than usual—mid-afternoon lull before the evening crowd arrives. Bruno nods from behind the bar, already pouring my usual before I reach the counter.
“The others are in the back. Been there an hour already.” He slides the drink across. “Fair warning—they’re in moods.”
“What kind of moods?”
“The kind that involves questions about your romantic life.”
The Stone Circle is occupied when I push through the door.
Elio is smiling.
That’s never good.
“The bear arrives.” Elio’s tone is amused. “Looking rested. Relaxed. Almost… satisfied.”
“I’m here for the meeting.”
“Of course, you are.” He gestures to my seat. “We were just discussing the remarkable weather patterns over the Hollow last night. Very unusual. Very calm.”
“The mist does strange things sometimes.”
“The mist reflects magical activity. Specifically, the emotional states of powerful witches.” Elio’s smile widens.
“A witch who has been creating increasingly dramatic weather for weeks suddenly produces hours of perfect calm? That’s not the mist being strange.
That’s the mist being very, very informative. ”
I take my seat. Say nothing. Hope my expression reveals nothing.
Aslan laughs. “You kissed her.”
“That’s not—“
“Your face is doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you try to look neutral.”
“We were running through the Overgrowth.”
“Running doesn’t cause swollen lips.”
“How would you know what causes—“
“I’m mated.” Aslan’s grin turns knowing. “I know exactly what causes swollen lips. And that expression. And the way you keep touching your mouth like you’re reliving a memory.”
I drop my hand from my face. I hadn’t realized I was doing that.
“Can we focus on the actual investigation?”
“We can multitask.” Elio slides a drink across the table toward me. “So. The witch. You finally stopped pining and actually made a move.”
“I didn’t—“
“You absolutely did. The evidence is overwhelming. The calm weather. The disheveled appearance. The fact that you’re currently blushing, which I didn’t think bears could do.”
“Bears don’t blush.”
“You’re blushing right now.” Rhodes doesn’t look up. “It’s a very dignified blush. Almost invisible. But definitely present. I’m documenting it for the record.”
“There’s no record.”
“There’s always a record. I started a file on your romantic situation three weeks ago. It’s grown considerably.” He finally looks up, expression completely neutral. “The chapter on ‘denial’ alone is seventeen pages.”
“You’re joking.”
“I don’t joke about documentation.”
Aslan snorts. “He’s not joking. He read excerpts at last week’s meeting. Very thorough. Very detailed observations about your ‘protective hovering’ and ‘aggressive coffee delivery schedule.’”
“This is harassment.”
“This is concern.” Aslan’s voice gentles slightly. “We’ve watched you pine for weeks. Write embarrassingly earnest poetry. Take coffee to a woman’s studio every morning like clockwork. If you finally made a move, we want to know.”
The silence stretches. Three pairs of eyes watching. Waiting.
“I kissed her.” The words come out rough. “She kissed me back. Several times. Can we please talk about the Preserver agent who’s trying to destroy the town?”
“We can talk about both.” Aslan produces a folder. “Elio’s been digging into Valesh’s background. And you’re going to want to hear what he found.”
The information is damning.
Twenty years on the Elder Council—but before that, gaps. Years unaccounted for. Travel to locations where other incidents occurred. A pattern of presence wherever witch-shifter pairings were prevented or disrupted.
“She was in Thornwood when the claiming between the witch Mariana and the wolf alpha was interrupted.” Elio spreads photographs across the table. “In Silverhollow, when the siphon network was first discovered. In Blackreach when—”
“The massacre.” My voice comes out flat. “Twelve familiars died in Blackreach.”
“And three witch-shifter pairs were separated before they could complete their claiming.” Elio’s expression hardens.
“Valesh was there. Visiting family, according to the records. Family who don’t exist. I checked.
Three times. Using multiple networks. The family she claimed is fictional—names pulled from graveyards, addresses that lead to empty lots. ”
“She fabricated an entire cover story.”
“She fabricated multiple cover stories. For decades.” He produces another folder.
“Her travel records are meticulous—she reported every trip to the council, very transparent, very thorough. But when you cross-reference with actual events…” He shakes his head.
“She was present at seventeen incidents involving witch-shifter pairings. Seventeen. Over twenty-three years.”
Rhodes leans forward, interest sharpening his usually skeptical expression. “That’s a statistically impossible coincidence.”
“There’s more.” Elio’s voice drops. “I have contacts in the southern territories. Old intelligence networks that remember things most people have forgotten. According to them, there was a Preserver cell operating in Mistvale before Valesh arrived. Small. Quiet. They went dormant about twenty years ago.”
“Right when Valesh joined the council.”
“Right when she would have been positioned to take over.” Elio gathers the photographs. “She didn’t start the cell. She inherited it. Built on what was already here.”
“There could be others. Other members of the original cell. Other Preservers she’s recruited over the years.”
“Almost certainly. But finding them requires finding her first.” Elio meets my gaze. “An archive search will help. But we need to move carefully. If she has allies on the council—”
“Then warning them tips off everyone.” I finish the thought. “We need to present overwhelming evidence. Leave no room for doubt or political maneuvering.”
“That’s the plan.” Elio slides the folder toward me. “Everything I have is here. Use it. Find more. And, Torin?”
“What?”
“The witch is good for you.” His smile loses its edge, becomes almost genuine. “You’ve been alone too long. Eating dinner in your cabin with only your bear for company. It’s nice to see you… not alone.”
“I haven’t been alone. I have the sleuth.”
“You have people who depend on you. That’s not the same as having people who see you.” Elio stands. “She sees you. That’s rare. Don’t waste it.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. So I nod once and leave.
Behind me, I hear Aslan’s voice: “Twenty gold says they’re claiming before the full moon.”
Rhodes: “That’s optimistic. The full moon is in eight days.”
Elio: “I’ll take that bet. Fifty says it’s sooner. Bears don’t wait once they’ve decided.”
I don’t look back. But I’m smiling as I walk out.
I have the folder with all of Elio’s findings. The evidence needs to be organized and cross-referenced with data from Mistvale’s records. If the records show Valesh was in town, then every piece in the folder becomes suspect.
The coven archives exist beneath Thornveil Apothecary—climate-controlled chambers filled with centuries of records. Dusty shelves. Faded documents. Magical preservation spells keeping ancient papers intact.
Sakura is there when I arrive, seated at a long table with stacks of coven requisition logs arranged around her. Her hair is pulled back in a messy arrangement, and there’s ink smudged on her cheek.
She looks up when I enter. Smiles.
My chest does complicated things.
“Elio’s folder.” I set it on the table before I take my seat. “Everything he’s found—the travel records, the cell she inherited, all of it. I’ll walk you through the specifics later. Short version: it’s worse than we thought, and it’s been going on longer.”
Sakura opens the folder anyway, scanning the photographs, the dates. Her expression goes grim and steady—the face of someone who’s already made peace with the scale of what they’re dealing with.
“Twenty-three years.” She sets it down. “Then we make sure our evidence is overwhelming too. No room for loopholes or technicalities that could ruin the whole thing.”
“Exactly.” I reach for the nearest stack of requisition logs. “Shall we?”
Hours pass.
We work through stacks of requisition logs, cross-referencing dates with incident reports. The archive is quiet except for the rustle of paper, the scratch of Sakura’s pen as she takes notes, the occasional triumphant noise when one of us finds a relevant document.
It’s tedious work. Intimate work. The kind of work that reveals character—patience, attention to detail, the ability to sit in comfortable silence without needing to fill it with words.
Sakura attacks the documents with methodical precision, creating organized piles, flagging pages with colored tabs she apparently carries everywhere.
I should be focused on the investigation. Instead, I keep stealing glances at her. Noticing the way the lamplight catches the silver streak in her hair. The way she tucks stray strands behind her ear with an impatient gesture. The way her magic hums quietly beneath her skin, present but controlled.
“I found three requisition anomalies and documented two instances of materials disappearing after Valesh approved their use.” I set down my stack. “I’m capable of multitasking.”
“Multitasking between investigation work and memorizing my face?”
“The memorization happened weeks ago. Now I’m just... appreciating.”