Chapter 19 Tristan
TRISTAN
The storm hit thirty minutes after they barricaded themselves inside.
Tristan could tell it wasn’t natural. It carried intent, like malice wrapped in wind and snow that battered the safe house with supernatural fury.
The doppelg?nger was out there somewhere. Watching. Waiting. Probably laughing at them cowering behind wards that had barely slowed it down earlier.
Maren sat on the floor where he'd left her, back against the wall, arms wrapped tight around herself.
Her shadows moved erratically across the floorboards, agitated in a way he'd never seen before.
They kept reaching toward the door, toward the windows, like they were searching for the thing wearing their mistress's face.
"Let me see your back," she said suddenly, her voice steadier than he'd expected.
"It's fine."
"It's bleeding through your coat. That's not fine." She pushed herself upright on shaking legs. "Sit down before you fall down. Plus, I need something to distract myself."
Tristan wanted to argue but recognized a losing battle when he saw one. He shrugged out of his torn coat and sat in the chair near the fire, letting heat work on muscles that had gone rigid from combat and cold.
Maren moved behind him, her hands cool against his shoulders as she assessed the damage. "Your shirt's shredded. I need to see the wounds properly."
He pulled the thermal shirt over his head, aware of her sharp intake of breath when she saw what the doppelg?nger's shadows had done. He could feel three long gouges diagonal across his shoulder blades, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to be truly dangerous.
"It could've been worse," he said.
"It could've been you dead instead of just bleeding." Her fingers traced the air above the wounds, not quite touching. "I have salve in my bag. Freya gave it to me for exactly this kind of thing, though I don't think she anticipated shadow attacks."
She disappeared into the other room and returned with the canvas bag from the apothecary. Her hands still shook as she opened containers, mixing herbs with practiced efficiency despite the tremor.
"This will sting," she warned.
The salve burned when it hit torn flesh, but Tristan kept his breathing even, refusing to flinch. Maren worked in silence, her touch gentle despite her obvious distress. Her shadows curled around his shoulders, curious about the wounds, almost apologetic.
"They feel guilty," Maren said quietly. "My shadows. They think they should've been able to fight the doppelg?nger."
"It's not their fault. You said yourself that your magic feeds it."
"Doesn't make them feel better about it." She applied the last of the salve and stepped back. "That should help with healing. You'll need to keep it clean and reapply tomorrow."
Tristan pulled his shirt back on, ignoring the way fabric caught on raw skin. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for patching wounds you got protecting me." Her voice carried edges of something he couldn't quite identify. "If you'd been slower, if it had aimed better, you could've been killed."
"But I wasn't."
"This time." She moved to the window, staring out at the storm. "Next time it might not go after me first. It might target you to remove the obstacle."
"Let it try." Tristan joined her at the window, close enough to feel her heat. "I've survived worse threats than a shadow construct with delusions of personhood."
"Have you?" She moved to face him, silver eyes reflecting firelight. "Because that thing out there isn't just strong, Tristan. It's smart. It knows how to manipulate, how to feed on fear. And it's getting stronger every day the town stays terrified of me."
"Then we end it. Tomorrow we search the lake, find the locket and destroy it before the construct can fully stabilize." He kept his voice level, confident, projecting certainty he wasn't entirely sure he felt. "We know what we're fighting now. That's half the battle."
"And the other half?"
"Figuring out who activated it in the first place.
" Tristan turned back to the window, watching snow swirl in patterns that felt almost deliberate.
"Someone found the locket, stole your blood, and bound the doppelg?nger to your signature.
That requires knowledge, planning, and a reason to want you destroyed specifically. "
"Everyone in Hollow Oak wants me destroyed right now."
"Not everyone. And most of them only started wanting you gone after the incidents began.
" Tristan's mind worked through possibilities, discarding and considering.
"Whoever did this started planning before the first accident at the lake.
They knew about your bloodline, knew about the locket's existence, knew where your mother likely hid it.
That's specific knowledge that most people wouldn't have. "
Maren was quiet for a long while, her shoulders tense. "Moira said the records about the Nightwell Locket were in the Book Nook archives. Anyone with access could've read about it."
"Who has access?"
"Lucien controls who sees what, but researchers come through. Council members occasionally. Anyone with legitimate scholarly reason." She rubbed her arms, cold despite the fire. "Tracking down one person from potentially dozens isn't going to happen in two days."
"Then we focus on the locket. Remove the weapon, and the person behind this loses their power."
Wind slammed against the shutters hard enough to rattle the entire structure. The wards flared bright for a moment before settling back to their steady hum. Whatever was out there was testing defenses, looking for weaknesses.
Maren flinched at the impact, her shadows drawing tight. "It's not going to stop. Even if we destroy the locket, whoever activated it will just find another way to come after me."
She was determined to point out every thing that had him worried. But that was his job, not hers.
"We will. Because I'm not letting that thing get another shot at you."
The fear of losing someone again to violence born from fear and hatred.
Maren studied him in the firelight, her silver eyes searching. "You meant what you said outside. About losing me not being an option."
Tristan considered denying it, falling back on professional distance and Council obligations. Instead, he found himself speaking truth.
"I spent three years watching people I cared about die because I wasn't fast enough, wasn't strong enough, didn't see the danger until it was too late." His jaw tightened, old wounds still raw beneath scar tissue. "I'm not doing that again. Not with you."
"I'm not asking you to save me."
"I know." He wanted to say more, but he knew not now. Not until he figured out what it was he wanted himself.
"You should rest," Tristan said finally, stepping back and putting necessary distance between them. "Tomorrow's going to be rough, and you need sleep."
"I don't think I can sleep after seeing that thing wearing my face."
"Try anyway. I'll keep watch." He moved in the direction of the door, checking wards and locks with methodical precision. "Nothing's getting through tonight."
She climbed to the loft, her shadows trailing behind like exhausted children. Tristan listened to her settle, heard the rustle of blankets and the soft sounds of someone trying to convince themselves they were safe enough to sleep.
He added wood to the fire and positioned himself where he could watch both the door and the windows. His back ached where the doppelg?nger had struck, a reminder that shadow could cut flesh as easily as steel.
The storm continued its assault, supernatural fury wrapped in winter weather. Tristan marked time by the rhythm of wind and the flicker of firelight, keeping watch while Maren's breathing slowly evened out into sleep.
His mind wouldn't quiet. It kept replaying the moment he'd seen the construct wearing her face, kept feeling the surge of primal terror when shadows had lashed toward her with killing intent. Kept remembering another time, another person he'd failed to protect from fear turned violent.
His mate had died because people discovered what she was and decided that made her dangerous. Had died while he'd been away, believing the town they'd chosen was safe enough to leave her alone.
He'd been wrong. And she'd paid for that mistake with her life.
Tristan's hands clenched. He wouldn't repeat that failure. Wouldn't let Maren face the same fate because people were too frightened to see past their own paranoia.
Even if she never felt anything beyond gratitude for his protection.
The fire burned low. Tristan added more wood and settled in for a long night, his knife within easy reach, his senses attuned to every creak and whisper that might signal danger.
Maren slept while her shadows kept watch alongside him, like dark guardians who'd decided he was worth protecting too.