Page 3 of Alpha Charmed

Focus.

I finish the eulogy. The crowd disperses in small clusters, voices low, grief genuine or performed depending on the mourner. I accept condolences with practiced grace—yes, such a loss, yes, she will be missed, yes, the coven endures—while a part of my mind catalogs every interaction, files every detail, searches for anything that doesn’t fit.

Mathilda was afraid of something. Someone.

And now she’s dead.

“Coven Leader Darkwater.”

Cordelia approaches, her expression arranged in lines of gentle concern. Up close, she smells of lilac and old books, the scent of someone who spends most of her time in archives and council chambers.

“Elder Ashworth.”

“A beautiful ceremony. Mathilda would have approved. You’ve been working so hard lately. The council has noticed.”

“I appreciate the council’s concern.”

“We worry, that’s all. A coven leader carries so much weight. It’s important to have support.” Her eyes search my face with what appears to be genuine warmth. “If you ever need to talk—about anything—my door is always open.”

“Thank you, Elder Ashworth. I’ll remember that.”

She smiles and moves away, collecting other mourners with the ease of long practice. I watch her go and feel the familiar prickle of unease I can never quite explain.

Cordelia has been on the council for forty years. She’s outlasted three coven leaders. She knows every secret this town has buried.

And she was one of the last people to see Mathilda alive.

A young woman detaches herself from the departing crowd—Mathilda’s daughter, her eyes red-rimmed, a folded letter clutched in one hand like it might escape her.

“Coven Leader.” Her voice wavers. “My mother wanted you to have this. She made me promise—if anything happened to her, I was to put it in your hands myself. No one else’s.”

I take the letter. The paper is soft with handling, the edges worn, as if Mathilda carried it for days before she died. “Did she say why?”

“Just that you’d know what to do with it.” The daughter’s composure cracks, and for a moment she looks impossibly young. “She was scared, near the end. I didn’t understand why. I still don’t.”

I press her hand between both of mine—a gesture of comfort I rarely offer and mean every time I do. “I’ll find out. I promise you that.”

She nods, swallowing hard, and lets the crowd absorb her again.

The letter feels heavier than paper should.

“Coven Leader.”

A different voice. Lower. Rougher. A voice that vibrates through your chest if you stand too close.

I turn.

Caius Sternwolf stands three feet away. Closer than protocol demands. Closer than comfort allows. This near, I see the exact shade of gray in his eyes—the color of winter storms, of old silver, of smoke rising from dying fires.

“Alpha Sternwolf.” My voice is steady. A minor miracle. “Thank you for attending.”

“Elder Thornwood was respected by the Protection Network. Her loss affects us all.” He pauses. The silence stretches. “You spoke well.”

“Thank you.”

Another pause. In the distance, mourners drift toward the wake. The mist swirls between us, threading around his boots, curling at the hem of my robes. It seems thicker where we stand, as if drawn to the space we occupy.

“You don’t believe it was natural causes.” It’s not a question.