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Pike wrote it down. He’d been writing since the dock crate. The notebook that had started a week ago as a summary of Althea’s incident log was now, apparently, a full intelligence operation spanning the ward data, the pattern of creature attacks, the warehouse breakdown, and whatever he’d written about Althea on the dock.
Drayce looked at the notebook. “Can I see what you wrote? About the dock crate?”
Pike considered this like a man being asked to share his research before peer review. He turned the notebook.
The entry read: Virelli — live fire, directed, withdrawn on completion. No surge. No collateral. Pack response: coordinated and effective. Assessment: field ready. Drayce has not said anything to her about last night yet.
“Pike.”
“It’s a comprehensive log.”
“Delete the last line.”
“It’s ink.”
Drayce looked at the notebook. Pike looked at Drayce. The standoff's outcome was obvious, and they both knew it.
“She did good work tonight.”
“She did.” Pike capped the pen with a satisfied click. His documentation was complete. “So did you. For the record.” He tucked the notebook under his arm. “Both things can be true.”
Althea strolled close to the front of the group as they arrived at the edge of the warehouse district, walking easily alongside Selke — the comfort she had built with pack members familiar with her magic in the field, most of whom were now. Selke started a conversation, and Althea listened, giving her full attention to those she truly valued. Drayce had noticed that while this wasn’t always the case, when she did focus like this, her sincerity was clear.
She caught his eye as they reached the street. Her face asked a question without asking it.
He gave her a nod.
Her mouth curved, small and contained — the dignified, buttoned-down cousin of being pleased about a thing. It lasted approximately half a second. Then she turned back to Selke.
She’d chosen to stand facing the threat. His wolf had understood this
THIRTEEN
ALTHEA
Bexley had arranged two centuries of historical records across a single round table at the back of the Cauldron and Cup, and the result was the most impressive thing Althea had seen in weeks.
It wasn’t beautiful. It was better than beautiful — it was functional. Blue tabs for ward incidents, red for creature breaches, yellow for awakening events, a thin white strip along the yellow for anything unconfirmed. Green markers flagged the odd blips in the ward readings that had shown up before each major incident. Three centuries of ledgers, sorted by category and cross-referenced with a second round of color-coded flags Bexley had decided she needed partway through and gone to buy at eleven that morning, telling no one.
“You bought new tabs,” Fiora said, looking at them.
“The existing ones weren’t adequate.”
“For the archival investigation you started on your own at midnight.”
“Yes.” Bexley uncapped a pen. “Does anyone want coffee?”
The espresso machine behind the counter let out a low, pressurized sigh, like it agreed with something. Nobody looked up. It had been doing that for weeks.
Althea settled at the table and took in Bexley’s work. Three awakening waves, arranged earliest to most recent, each one paired with its ward-incident documentation in a neat row below. Three waves, three degradation events, three periods of creature breach escalation — each one telling its own story.
The pattern was clean. It was extremely clean. She did not like how clean it was.
She turned to Bexley. “Walk me through it.”
Bexley gently guided her through the process. It took about twenty-two minutes because Bexley made sure to include everything she thought was important, and she considered everything relevant until proven otherwise. Fiora kindly refilled everyone’s coffee halfway through, making sure no one was left waiting. Garnet listened patiently, as if she had heard the summary before and was simply waiting for the part Bexley found most meaningful. Meanwhile, Valene watched Althea’s face with quiet curiosity.
The first wave occurred two hundred years ago: eight women, each spending six weeks alone and frightened, with no one to explain what was happening. The wards took three months to recover, leaving the town to endure the worst creature activity anyone had ever seen. As Althea looked at the tally, her mind lingered on the number below it: Eight women. Eight women who had no idea what was happening to them.
