Page 52 of Wolf of the Storm
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.
Footsteps, quiet on the hardwood floor. I don't turn around, don't acknowledge the presence. Just keep my eyes on the journal, my hand steady despite my racing heart.
"Eliza." His voice is warm, friendly. "Declan said you were working late. Thought you might want company."
"That's kind of you, Connor." I still don't turn. "I'm just finishing up some notes."
He moves closer. I can smell rain on his coat, and underneath, something else. Salt water. Old magic.
"Find anything interesting?" He's right behind me now.
"Maybe." I close the journal carefully. "My aunt was meticulous. She documented everything."
"She did." His hand rests on the back of my chair. "Smart woman. Knew more about this island's secrets than anyone."
His use of the past tense is what it should be—she's gone, after all. But something in his voice isn't right.
I turn to face him. "What happened to my aunt, Connor?"
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "She served a greater purpose than hiding on this island, pretending the old ways are dead."
The past tense. The casual dismissal.
"You killed her."
"I freed her." He pulls out a chair and sits, completely at ease. "Her bloodline, spilled at the right location, weakened one of the seven seals. That's how this works, Eliza. Old blood, old power, old magic."
My heart hammers. "Three murders."
"Three sacrifices," he corrects. "Emma MacLeod's selkie blood at the tidal pools by Selkie’s Cove. Duncan Ross's sea king blood in the waters where his ancestors ruled. Your aunt's Stone Warden blood at the foot of the cliff near the ancient markers. Each death weakened a seal. Each bloodline spilled at its place of power created a crack in the barriers our ancestors built."
"You're trying to release the Fomori."
"I'm trying to free us." His voice takes on an edge. "Do you know what it's like, living in hiding? Pretending to be less than you are? Watching humans make laws that govern creatures who could tear them apart?"
"The Fomori will tear everyone apart," I say. "Shifter and human alike."
