Artisem clears his throat as he backs toward the doorway. “I’ll give you two a moment.”
We stand there for a long time, until her tears slow and her breathing steadies. When she pulls back, her eyes are red but determined.
“We do this the right way,” she says firmly. “We ask questions. We investigate. No forbidden magic.”
“As you wish,” I say, pushing strands of her hair away from her face. “Whatever you want.”
Her eyes fill again, and she rests her head against my chest, her hands gripping my upper arms as she tries to compose herself. I give her the time she needs.
We spend the rest of the morning talking to the neighbors. Daciana knows most of them. But no one remembers seeing anything unusual the night her family disappeared.
“I’m sorry, dear,” says Mrs. Petrova, a gray-haired woman who lives two houses down. “I wish I could help, but I just don’t remember anything from that night.”
“Nothing at all?” Daciana presses.
“It’s the strangest thing. The whole night is just…blank.”
I exchange a glance with Daciana. This is the third neighbor to say something similar.
Next, we try the house directly across the street. The woman who answers is middle-aged, her face drawn with worry.
“About ten days ago?” She frowns, thinking. “The night they went missing…That whole night is a blur, actually. I can’t remember anything, and when I try”—she presses her fingers to her temples—“I get this strange headache.”
My instincts sharpen. “A headache when you try to remember?”
“Yes. It’s very odd.”
“Thank you,” Daciana says. “You’ve been helpful.”
We visit four more houses. The pattern repeats itself each time. Blank memories, strange headaches when they try to recall that specific night.
Back at Daciana’s family home, I pace the main room while she watches me.
“What is it?” she asks. “You look grim.”
“The neighbors’ memories were tampered with. Strong magic, expertly done.” I run my hand through my hair, frustrated. “But necromancers can’t practice proper magic. They can raise the dead, manipulate death energy, but this? This is different.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Shifters can learn necromancy,” I explain, “but proper magic, the kind witches use, the kind my people use—you have to be born with it. It’s in the blood.” I meet her eyes. “Which means our necromancer might be like me. Or they might be a witch.”
Her face pales. “A witch working with necromancy?”
“It’s rare, but not impossible.” I hate what I have to say next, but she needs to hear it. “Daciana, if you’d let me try the spell again, just once more, I could discover the killer’s identity. I’ll be more careful this time. I’ll…”
“No.” Her voice is steel. “Absolutely not.”
“Daciana—”
“I said no, Kieran.” She crosses to me and takes my hands in hers. “I won’t risk losing you. Do you understand? I won’t.”
The steadfastness in her eyes steals my breath.
“Promise me,” she demands. “Promise you won’t do anything that will put you in harm’s way.”
I’m touched by the fierceness in her voice, the way she holds my hands like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“I promise,” I say. “No forbidden magic. No life-draining spells. You have my word.”
