Page 5 of Alpha Charmed

The handwriting is worse than I expected—rushed, uneven, the pen pressing hard enough to tear the paper in places. Whatever Mathilda was thinking when she wrote this, she was afraid. The words sprawl across the page with none of the precision I remember from her usual correspondence.

Anouk—

I remember things I shouldn’t be able to remember. Dreams that feel like memories. Memories that feel like another life. I need to tell you before it’s too late.

There are those who don’t want the truth known. I feel them watching me. I know I sound mad. Perhaps I am. But the dreams are too real, too consistent. I’ve started writing them down. There are journals—hidden, safe, I hope.

Trust Peach. Trust the wolf. And when the time comes—trust yourself.

—Mathilda

I read it twice. Three times. The words don’t change. The fear in them doesn’t fade.

Trust the wolf.

Grandmother Peach used the same phrase, word for word. Two women who, as far as I know, had no reason to coordinate their cryptic warnings.

Unless they weren’t coordinating at all. Unless they were both pointing to the same truth.

I set the letter down and pull out my records of the council’s recent activities. The ledgers are meticulously organized—I maintain them myself, trusting no one else with the details of coven governance. Mathilda’s name appears regularly. Requests for archive access. Questions about old protocols. An unusual interest in materials dating back centuries, to the earliest days of the coven’s founding.

She was researching the past. Digging for answers to questions no one else was asking.

And then she died.

The brass bell at the front door chimes.

I’m on my feet before I can think, magic crackling at my fingertips—too strong, too fast, control slipping in my surprise. The shop’s wards pulse in response, recognizing my power and preparing to defend, and I force them to settle with an effort that makes my temples throb.

It’s nearly midnight. Later than “after closing” should have meant—but I did say tonight, and apparently the wolf takes me at my word.

I descend the stairs, each step measured, controlled, my composure reassembling itself like muscle memory. My wards haven’t triggered an intrusion alarm—whoever is at my door isn’t forcing their way in. They’re waiting. Requesting entrance.

Only one person in Mistvale would knock on my door at this hour and expect to be admitted.

I open the door.

Caius Sternwolf stands on my threshold.

He’s changed out of his funeral attire into clothes more practical—dark jacket, boots made for walking, an outfit that wouldn’t impede a shift if necessary. His posture is relaxed, controlled, the stance of someone comfortable in any situation. In any territory.

In mine.

“You said after closing.”

His voice is low, calm, the same measured tone he uses in council meetings. But there’s an edge underneath. A tension carefully contained that I’ve never heard from him.

“It’s later than I meant.” Understatement of the year.

“I’m aware of the time.” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push past me. Just waits with the focused patience of a predator who has chosen his moment and will not be moved from it. “Mathilda Thornwood requested a meeting with me. The night before she died.”

My breath catches. A fraction of a second. Barely noticeable.

He notices.

“She never made it.” He holds my gaze. Those gray depths are sharp, assessing. “Neither did you, I suspect.”

For a long moment, the silence stretches between us. The mist drifts through the doorway, curling around the frame, threading past my wards as if it has a right to be here. The ward-bells on the nearby shops chime softly in a breeze that doesn’t quite exist.