Chapter 13
ELIZA
The bullet graze on my arm throbs as I lean over the laptop, reviewing security footage for the third time.
Dawn light filters through Wolfstone’s windows, painting everything in shades of grey and gold.
I started at midnight, unable to sleep, and now six hours later I'm still chasing digital breadcrumbs, doing what I do best—investigating.
Declan's asleep on the couch across the room, finally convinced by Moira's healing magic and sheer exhaustion to rest. The attack on Flynn's Inn was two days ago. Two days of heightened patrols, increased security, everyone looking over their shoulders for Santos's next move.
But Santos isn't our only problem.
Three murders in six months. Three deaths at ritual sites, each victim tied to the old bloodlines that run through this island's history.
My aunt murdered—found at the base of the cliffs—and whoever killed her is still out there.
Four more deaths needed, if the pattern holds.
Seven seals. Seven bloodlines. Seven murders to release the Fomori.
Unless we stop it first.
"You're going to burn a hole through that screen.
" Jax sets a mug of coffee beside my laptop, his grey eyes shadowed with concern.
He hasn't been sleeping much either. The hunt vindicated his initial paranoia about me, but now that vigilance has shifted—he's hypervigilant about external threats, about anyone who might hurt the pack. Might hurt me.
"Thanks." I take the coffee gratefully. "I'm missing something. The connections aren't lining up."
"Show me."
I open my timeline—a digital map of the Isle of Skara with markers for each murder, each ritual location mentioned in my aunt's journals, each significant event. Red pins for the three murders. Blue for the seven convergence points. Yellow for last known sightings.
"Here." I point to the first murder six months ago. "Emma MacLeod, sixteen years old. Found at the tidal pools by Selkie's Cove. Then three months later, old Duncan Ross—the fisherman—swept overboard, they said. Then most recently, my aunt, found at the foot of the cliff."
"All places where the veil between worlds is thin," Jax says.
"Right. Three murders so far. But look at this.
" I pull up my notes from my aunt's research—months of genealogy, folklore, and island history that she'd meticulously documented.
"All three victims had ties to the old bloodlines.
Not shifter bloodlines—older. The magic that existed here before shifters, before even the Fae. "
Jax leans closer. "What kind of bloodlines?"
"Emma MacLeod—her grandmother was descended from the seal-folk.
Pure selkie blood, diluted over generations but still present.
Duncan Ross—his family traces back to the sea kings who ruled these waters centuries ago.
And my aunt..." I pull up a genealogy chart she'd been working on before she died.
"She'd been researching our family history.
The Gordons have held Clifftop House for eight generations. Look at this notation she made."
I point to a highlighted section in her neat handwriting:
Stone Warden bloodline—Gordons connected to the standing stones, the ancient circles, the bones of the island itself. Always called to guard the convergence points. Mother spoke of hearing the stones sing. We are the keepers, not the storm-touched. Different bloodlines, different duties.
"Stone Warden," Jax says quietly. "Like the druids who raised the circles?"
"Older than that, maybe. She was still researching it, but.
.." I swallow hard. "Three victims. Three different old bloodlines.
Each one killed at a location that matches their bloodline's power.
Selkie blood at the cove. Sea king blood in the waters.
Stone Warden blood at the base of the cliff near the ancient markers. "
"They're not random targets," Jax says. "They're specific. Planned."
"Seven major convergence points on the island. Seven old bloodlines tied to those places." I meet his eyes. "Three murders down. Four more to go."
"And you're Maureen's niece," Jax says carefully. "But the Stone Warden bloodline is already used. Whoever is responsible killed her for that seal."
"Right. So I should be safe from that angle." Even as I say it, something nags at me. "Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"I'm not just Maureen's niece anymore." The realization forms slowly, ice spreading through my veins. "When I transformed, when I became Declan's mate... I didn't just become a shifter. I became part of his pack. Part of his bloodline."
Jax goes very still. "Storm Alpha. Declan's storm blood."
"The mate bond." My hands shake. "It didn't just connect us emotionally. It connected us magically. His blood became my blood. His storm became my storm." I look up at Jax, seeing my fear reflected back at me. "I have storm blood now. Through the transformation. Through the mate bond."
"Then you're not just Declan's mate," Jax says, his voice flat. "You're also a bloodline target."
"I need to see the harbor footage again," I say, pulling up the security files. "The killer has to be getting supplies, materials for rituals. Stormhaven is isolated—everything comes through the harbor or the airstrip."
I start with footage from six months ago, fast-forwarding through hours of boats arriving and departing, tourists disembarking, supplies being unloaded. Nothing unusual. I move to three months ago. Still nothing that stands out.
Then I reach last month, the week before the third murder, and something catches my eye.
A figure on the dock. The body language is different—not furtive, but confident. Almost casual. I pause the video, zoom in.
The hood is down. The face is clear.
I don't recognize him immediately, but something about him seems familiar.
Tall, dark-haired, moving with the easy grace of a shifter.
He's meeting someone in the shadows between two storage buildings.
The other person stays out of frame, but I can see him accepting something—a package, maybe a book based on the size and shape.
He tucks it inside his jacket and walks away.
"Jax." I replay the footage. "Do you know who this is?"
He leans over, watches. His expression goes carefully blank.
"That's Connor," he says quietly. "Connor Eastmoor."
The world narrows to a hard truth. "The Brotherhood Connor? One of Declan's allies?"
"The same." Jax's voice is tight. "He has connections across the supernatural community. Resources. He's helped the pack more times than I can count."
It could be innocent. Could be anything.
Something about the exchange makes my investigative instincts scream.
I check the timestamp: 7:47 PM. Then I cross-reference it with the dates of the murders. The timing matches—within two days of one of the deaths.
"Jax," I say, my voice tight. "Look at this."
He watches the footage. Watches the man on the dock. His expression doesn't change, but I feel tension radiating from him.
"That doesn't prove anything," he says carefully.
"No. But this might." I search through more footage, faster now, knowing what I'm looking for. There—at the harbor multiple times over the past six months. And there at the tidal pools near Selkie's Cove the week Emma MacLeod died. His vehicle spotted on the coastal road at odd hours.
He's tall. Male. Moves like someone who's been around shifters his entire life.
Because he is one.
"It's Connor," I whisper.
Jax goes very still beside me. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure enough to bring this to Declan." I stand, my legs shaky. "We need to...”
"Need to what?" Declan's voice cuts through our conversation. He's sitting up on the couch now, eyes alert despite just waking. The mate bond must have stirred him when my emotions spiked.
I turn the laptop toward him. "Connor. It's Connor."
Declan doesn't speak. He just watches the footage, his expression going from confusion to disbelief to something cold and lethal.
"He was at every location," I continue, showing him the timeline. "Every murder, every ritual site. He's been hiding in plain sight because who would suspect Brotherhood? Who would suspect one of your allies?"
"Show me everything."
I do. Every piece of footage, every timestamp, every cross-reference. The evidence builds like a prosecution case, damning and irrefutable. By the time I finish, the sun has fully risen, and Tessa, Rafe, Grayson, and Kian have all gathered in Wolfstone’s common room.
"We set a trap," Declan says finally. "If he's the summoner, he'll be looking for the last ritual site."
"Clifftop House," I say. "Where I'm staying. Where my aunt lived. It's the most powerful location on the island."
"Then that's where we'll wait." His eyes meet mine. "You'll be the bait. And I'll be the trap."
The trap takes two days to arrange.
We spread word through carefully chosen channels that I'm researching at Clifftop House, that I've found something significant in my aunt's journals, that I'm alone and unguarded while Declan deals with cartel threats.
It's all lies. But Connor doesn't know that.
The house perches on the cliff's edge, waves crashing against rocks far below. My aunt chose it for the power that hums in the stones beneath its foundation. Now that power feels ominous, dangerous.
I sit in the study with my aunt's journals spread before me, my laptop open, playing the part of absorbed researcher.
Outside, rain lashes the windows. Inside, the pack waits in hiding—Declan in the room above, Jax and Tessa in the basement, Rafe and Kian positioned outside with sight lines on all approaches.
Grayson guards the only road leading to the house.
Finn stays at Wolfstone, maintaining the illusion that nothing unusual is happening.
I don't have to wait long.
The sound of breaking glass comes from the kitchen—not the front door, but the back window. Smart. Less visible from the road.