The docks came into view as clouds moved in overhead, the sky turning that peculiar purple-gray that belonged to neither day nor night. The smell hit first. Rotting fish, brine, the acrid sting of hot tar that stuck in your lungs, something chemical and sharp that made my eyes water. Lanterns bobbed on ships anchored in the harbor, their lights reflecting off water so black it looked like polished obsidian.
Wickett pulled a rolled parchment from his jacket, a shipping manifest covered in official stamps and signatures. He made a show of studying it, his voice carrying just enough to be overheard by anyone who might be listening from the shadows.
“The Serpent’s Breath was scheduled three days ago. Never arrived.” He traced a line with his finger. “And the Dahlia Pointe left port, but there’s no record of it reaching its destination, nor of its loss. Often a sign of smuggling.”
I played along, leaning in to examine the manifest. “Leads or deliberate misdirection?”
“Could be either.” His hand found the small of my back, steering me subtly away from the water’s edge. Widow’s Bay had claimed plenty of lives. The touch was brief, barely there, but deliberate. Keeping me from getting too close to whatever lurked beneath that black surface.
The docks stretched out before us. Warehouses and processing buildings in various states of decay, some lit fromwithin by lantern light, others dark and abandoned to the rats and weather. Crates stacked haphazardly leaked spoiled grain and straw. Fishing nets hung from rusted hooks, still crusted with dried scales and salt.
The skeleton of a dry-docked ship in for repairs loomed above us, its ribs exposed to the sky like some enormous beast picked clean by scavengers.
Everything smelled of salt and rot. With industry ground to a halt, goods spoiled on the docks. It still must have been low tide to produce a smell this strong, though.
Silas moved to my side, his presence pressing against my awareness with warning.
Careful.
A warehouse loomed ahead, larger than the others, with lamplight leaking through cracks in the weathered wood. The doors were closed but not locked, I noticed. Not barred. Just... waiting.
Wickett headed straight for it without hesitation, and I followed because questioning him now would break the performance we were giving. He pushed the door open with confidence, like he had every right to be here.
A man inside clearly disagreed.
He emerged from behind a stack of crates with a shout. The shifter was massive, easily matching Wickett’s height, but broader across the shoulders, built like someone who’d spent a lifetime moving heavy things and breaking heavier people. His long hair was pulled back from a face that was all sharp angles and old scars. A thick beard, braided with what looked like small bones, covered most of the man’s face. Tattoos covered his arms in intricate patterns. He wore simple clothes but moved with the easy grace of a predator comfortable in his own skin.
He squinted against the late afternoon sun streaming in behind us. Without being able to see our faces clearly, withoutrecognition to temper his response, suspicion changed to open aggression. Surely he had no clue the Ripper had just opened his door.
The shift was smooth, practiced, beautiful in the way that deadly things often were. Human form rippling and reshaping into something else. A tiger, massive and golden, with stripes like shadows and fangs that could punch through steel. He landed on all fours with enough force to crack the floorboards.
A growl rumbled through the warehouse, low and promising violence.
Instinct alone had me drawing on power, reaching for the endless sea just outside the door. Wickett didn’t draw his blade. Didn’t move at all except to place himself slightly in front of me.
“Stand down, Jorn. It’s me.”
The tiger paused. Amber eyes focused on Wickett’s face, recognition flickering through his animalistic fury.
He shifted back, orange fur changing into flesh. “Veyne?” His voice was rough, but I couldn’t quite place his accent, making his words roll and growl. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
I took a step back.
Wait.
They knew each other. Not just casually. Not just in passing. Wickett had called him by name before the shift completed. Had known exactly what to say to make him stop.
“We had a schedule!” Jorn continued, “You were supposed to send word before coming. That’s how this works. That’s how we keep everyone alive.”
Wickett’s mask slipped for just a heartbeat, worry showing in the knot of his brows before he smoothed his features. “Things changed. The schedule had to change with it.”
“No shit, things changed.” Jorn grabbed a clipboard from a crate, sliding his finger down the paper. “This is the third shipment this month with complications. Your father’s huntersare circling closer every day.” He stepped forward. “We can’t keep doing this. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out what’s happening here, and then we’re all dead. All of us.”
Oh.
Oh.
Wickett wasn’t just defying his father. He was actively dismantling what Tiberius had built. A willing participanthelpingsmuggle witches from under the Magistrate’s nose. Risking his life, his position, everything he’d ever had or been.
