Chapter 151

Elijah

“So we agree on the champagne and gold color scheme for the tables?” the wedding planner asked, making a note in her planner. She was meticulous, writing down every detail as if her life depended on it. I liked that about her.

I nodded, glancing at the sample table setting she’d laid out. The gold fabric gleamed under the soft lighting of her office, reflecting the champagne-colored napkins folded into perfect swans.

“Agnes will love it,” I said. “It matches the dress she’s making.”

The planner smiled, clearly pleased. “And the flowers? White roses with gold-dipped tips, baby’s breath, and eucalyptus?”

“Perfect.”

“Excellent.” She tapped her pen against her notepad. “And the timeline—you’re still certain about the date? It’s coming up rather quickly.”

I leaned back in my chair, picturing Agnes in the champagne gown she was designing, walking toward me down an aisle scattered with rose petals. The image made my chest warm. “The date stays. I’ve waited long enough to make her my wife—my true wife, not just on paper.”

The wedding planner nodded, making another note. “And your daughter will be the flower girl, I assume?”

“Yes. Agnes is making her a matching dress.”

We spent the next hour finalizing details—the cake (vanilla with raspberry filling, Agnes’s favorite), the music (a string quartet for the ceremony, a band for the reception), and the guest list. By the time we finished, I was bleary-eyed from staring at notes.

But this had to be perfect. Agnes deserved nothing less.

There was just one thing left to handle before the date.

The drive across town to the witch’s shop took longer than expected. Traffic had accumulated around an accident on the main street, forcing me to take a detour through the older part of town. By the time I pulled up in front of the shop, the afternoon was fading into evening, shadows stretching across the cobblestone street.

The shop looked the same as it had days ago—dark windows, a “SHOP CLOSED” sign hanging crooked on the door. My frown deepened.

Where was she? I’d been trying to reach the witch for days now, ever since those rogues had jumped me outside her shop. I needed that spellbook translated, needed to know if there was a way to break the mate bond with Olivia without killing her.

I tried the door, expecting it to be locked, but it swung open with a creak. A chill ran down my spine for reasons that I didn’t quite understand.

“Hello?” I called, stepping inside. The shop was silent, dust motes dancing in the fading light that filtered through the grimy windows. “It’s me, Elijah. Are you home?”

No answer.

I moved deeper into the shop, past shelves of herbs and crystals, past bookshelves and bottles of strange-colored liquids. Something was wrong. I could feel it in the air.

Suddenly, a glint on the floor caught my eye—something dark and flaky against the worn wooden boards. I knelt down, leaning close to inspect the substance. Something coppery wafted through my nostrils.

Blood. Dried blood, days old by the look of it. My stomach tightened.

Rising slowly, I noticed more drops leading toward the back of the shop, where a narrow staircase climbed to what had to be the witch’s private apartment above. I followed the trail, too curious now to stop.

The blood drops became more frequent as I climbed the stairs, a clear trail now, but I pushed down the growing dread in my gut. Surely she had just cut her foot or something… right?

At the top of the stairs, a narrow hallway stretched out with three doors branching off. The blood trail led to the door at the far end.

Suddenly, a smell hit me—putrid, sickly sweet, the unmistakable scent of death. I covered my nose and mouth with my hand, trying to filter the worst of it. My instincts screamed at me to turn back, but I pressed forward. I had to know.

The door at the end of the hall was partially open. As I approached, I could see it was a bathroom. And there, extending from behind the shower curtain, was a pale hand, limp and lifeless.

My heart pounded against my ribs as I reached for the curtain. With a quick motion, I pulled it back, then immediately stepped away, gagging.

The witch lay in the bathtub, her skin gray and bloated, her wrists slashed open. The tub was filled with darkened blood, her body partially submerged in what must have once been water but now looked like a congealed nightmare. She had to have been dead for days, maybe since right after I’d last visited.

I backed out of the bathroom, pulling my phone from my pocket with shaking hands. James answered on the first ring.

“I need you at the witch’s shop,” I said without a greeting. “Now. And call the authorities. There’s been… she’s dead.”

James didn’t waste time with questions. “On my way. Ten minutes.”

I ended the call, my mind racing. This wasn’t right. If the witch had killed herself, why was there blood splattered on the floor downstairs? Why the trail leading upstairs? Someone who slits their wrists in a bathtub doesn’t wander around bleeding first.

And then it hit me—the rogues. The night I’d been jumped outside her shop. I’d thought they were after me, maybe assumed I had cash on me given my status, but what if they weren’t? What if they were after the witch?

I thought back to that night. There had been three of them, unfamiliar wolves, definitely not from our pack. They’d attacked without warning, without demands. Just pure aggression. I’d fought them off, but not before taking a few hits, including the black eye.

Had they gone after the witch next? Or had they already dealt with her and were leaving when they spotted me?

James arrived with the local police eight minutes later. I explained what I’d found, guiding them upstairs to the bathroom. They all gagged at the smell. James even retched into a nearby potted plant. I pretended not to notice.

“You said you were attacked outside this shop a few days ago?” the lead detective asked, scribbling in his notepad.

I nodded. “Three rogues. Didn’t recognize any of them.”

“And you think they might have something to do with this?”

“The timing fits,” I said. “And this doesn’t look like a simple suicide to me. The blood trail downstairs, leading up here, doesn’t seem consistent with someone who decided to end it all in a bathtub.”

The detective frowned but nodded. “We’ll look into it. For now, I need you to wait downstairs while we process the scene.”

I agreed, descending the stairs with James at my side. Once we were out of earshot of the officers, he turned to me.

“What were you doing here?” he asked quietly.

I hesitated. I hadn’t told anyone about the spellbook, about my plan to break the mate bond with Olivia. Not even James. But I needed him on my side now.

“I gave the witch a spellbook to translate,” I admitted. “It might contain a way to break a mate bond without killing the marked wolf.”

James’s eyes widened. “You’re trying to unmark Olivia.”

It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway. “For Agnes. So I can marry her properly.”

Understanding dawned on his face. “The gala. It’s not just a gala, is it?”

“No,” I said. “It’s our wedding. But Agnes doesn’t know yet. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

James shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “Bold move.”

While the police worked upstairs, I paced the shop floor, my mind churning. If the witch had been translating the spellbook when she was killed, where was it now? Had she finished? Had she found a way to break the mate bond?

Curious, I wandered through the first floor of the shop. I pushed the beaded curtain aside to reveal the small room where the witch had once performed that ritual to try and awaken Agnes’s wolf. It was untouched.

Or so it seemed at first glance.

But the scent…

Someone else had been here. The rogues. They’d come into this room, and their scent lingered.

I moved to the desk, scanning the papers quickly. Most were notes on various spells and potions, client requests, inventory lists. But then I spotted a leather-bound journal, open to a recent entry. The handwriting was cramped but legible:

“The spellbook Elijah brought me is fascinating. Ancient magic, powerful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Most of it is beyond my understanding, but there are sections I can translate. I think I’ve almost cracked it… There might be a way to lift a mate bond after all…”

My heart raced as I flipped through the remaining pages, searching for more information, but the rest of the journal was blank. This was her last entry.

I looked around the desk more carefully now, searching for the spellbook itself. It wasn’t there. Not on the desk, not on the surrounding shelves. I checked drawers, looked under papers, even felt around the edges of the desk for hidden compartments.

Nothing.

Cold realization washed over me. The rogues hadn’t just killed the witch. They’d taken the spellbook.