Page 8 of Alpha Charmed

“An elder was murdered. The Protection Network has resources⁠—”

She shakes her head.

“Anouk.” Her first name. Deliberate. Not “Coven Leader Darkwater.” Not the formal title she hides behind. “Let me help.”

Her chin lifts. “The last time you helped me⁠—”

“You almost died.” The memory surfaces, sharp-edged even after three years. A rogue magic incident. A spell gone wrong. Her, unconscious and bleeding while I carried her to the healers. “And then you refused to speak to me for three months.”

Guilt flickers in her expression. Or fear. “It’s not that simple.”

“It’s exactly that simple. You needed help. I provided it. You treated it like a transaction instead of—” I stop. Take a breath. “We can discuss our personal issues after we find out who killed Mathilda. Will you accept my help?”

The silence stretches.

“Fine.” The word sounds extracted under duress.

We spend the next hour building a timeline. Mathilda’s recent movements. Her research requests. The gaps in her schedule that might indicate secret meetings or hidden activities.

Anouk is thorough. Methodical. Her records are impeccable—she’s been tracking council activities with a precision that borders on obsessive. Every meeting logged. Every request documented. Every interaction noted.

“She was researching the archives.” Anouk spreads papers across the workstation. “Old materials. Very old. Pre-dating the coven’s formal records.”

“What was she looking for?”

“I don’t know. The requests were vague. ‘Historical research.’ ‘Preservation studies.’ Nothing specific enough to flag.” She taps a finger against the edge of a document. “But she spent more time in the archives in the past three months than in the previous three years combined.”

I study the pattern of dates. The increasing frequency of visits. The archive records show Mathilda’s interest deepening over months, each visit drawing her farther into material that predated living memory.

“Her letter mentioned dreams.” I pick up Anouk’s copy. “Dreams that feel like memories. What if she wasn’t researching history? What if she was trying to understand what she was experiencing?”

Anouk considers this. “Witches don’t have prophetic dreams. That’s not how our magic works.”

“Pack elders sometimes dream of things from before their time. Memories that passed down through the generations. Shifter heritage runs deep.” I set the letter down. “What if witch heritage does too?”

Her brows draw tight. “You’re suggesting Mathilda was remembering events that happened before she was born.”

“I’m suggesting that whatever the Preservers want hidden might be old enough that remembering it is the only way to know it.” I meet her gaze. “They’ve been removing information from records for centuries. But they can’t remove what’s embedded in blood and bone.”

Her expression shifts. Not agreement—she’s too cautious for that—but consideration. The first crack in her skepticism.

“We need to find her journals.” Her voice is quiet. “She mentioned hiding them. If we can find what she wrote⁠—”

“We find out what got her killed.”

A nod. Slight but definite. We’re on the same page now.

Focus settles over me. This is what I’ve been waiting for—not just proximity, but partnership. A reason to be in her orbit. A purpose beyond wanting.

Anouk glances at the brass clock on the wall.

“I’ll have my people look into Cordelia. Financial records, travel history, anything unusual. We should meet tomorrow to compare findings.”

“During normal business hours.”

She walks me to the door. The shop is quiet around us—herbs sleeping in their jars, potions simmering in their cauldrons, the mist outside curling against the windows with unusual interest.

I pause at the threshold. Turn back.