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Tor put his hands flat on the desk and stared at the wall. He was fifty-one years old and had run security at Spelltide Cove for sixteen of them. He’d handled ward breaches, creature containment failures, a Rift boundary collapse that took six weeks to reseal, and one time-warping kitchen appliance he’d never fully documented because the paperwork implications were untenable. He did not get caught off guard.

At this moment, he was extremely caught off guard.

“If this becomes another emotional magic crisis,” he said to nobody in particular, “I’m moving to the ocean.”

“The ocean’s cold,” Pike said. “Also, you’d still be within ward range. You’d still get the alerts.”

“I know that.”

“So, you’d be cold and alerting. Underwater.”

“Thank you, Pike. Helpful.”

“I’m trying to support you through this.”

“You’re trying to see what I do next.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Pike said pleasantly, then went back to his coffee. Tor had known Pike for over a decade, long enough to learn that a quiet Pike had already reached his conclusions and was waiting to see what Tor did with them.

He ran the file. Mirelle Ainsley, forty-six, family-line descendant, no prior awakenings on record. Divorced. Empty nester as of yesterday. The wards around her address had been quietly elevated for eight months. He’d flagged it twice as low-level noise and moved on, because it never crossed an alert threshold. He stared at the flags. Eight months, and he’d been asking the wrong question. The right one had been waiting in a kitchen on the other side of town.

“You’ve already pulled her file,” Pike said, without lifting his head.

“Assessment requires complete information.”

“You pulled it before you said anything about the ocean.” Tor did not answer. “Right.” Pike stood. “I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t need to —”

“I insist.” Pike picked up his jacket and managed to keep his expression mostly professional. “Supportively. As your deputy.”

The second problem was in the comparison records. Tor set three prior family-line awakenings beside what had happened in Mirelle Ainsley’s kitchen. One summons on first activation, sometimes two — that was the pattern, every time. Her kitchen had produced four, and her distress didn’t account for it. The output ran steady, not random. Something outside was weighing on her, like a thumb on a scale. He couldn’t pin down the source yet, but it read as deliberate enough to flag as priority one.

Somebody has been feeding her loneliness.

The cold anger that moved through him at that thought didn’t belong to the wolf. Tor was sure of that. He was not going to examine whether that was true. Not right now; he had work to do.

Drayce waited outside the café, which meant he’d seen the alert and added the café to his ward review itinerary without being asked. That was Drayce’s way of saying, I have thoughts about this, and I’m staying.

“Founding line,” Drayce began, falling into step. “The Ainsley family.”

“Yes.”

“Her grandmother was Petra Ainsley. Strong line.” Drayce studied the road ahead for a moment. “I knew her grandmother.”

“I’m aware.”

Drayce glanced at Tor. The glance lasted one second and said several things, and Tor ignored all of them. He kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Assessment.”

“Absolutely,” Drayce said, in the tone he used when he agreed with the stated reason and declined to address the real one.

Pike held the door. The café smelled of cinnamon, coffee, and warm amber magic — not temperature, but presence. The creatures held court: three small, glowing ones along the windowsill and the raccoon-form on the espresso machine. The coven clustered around the round table. Bexley sat with a notebook open, on what had to be her seventh pen.

And then there was Mirelle.

The file photo had not prepared him. Something in him had already decided in the security office and was now waiting for the rest of him to catch up.

“Can we keep it?” Pike said, eyeing the raccoon on the espresso machine.