9. Sophia

The one word echoing in my head this morning is … stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. I sit at my kitchen table, the chipped mug of tea cradled in my hands more for comfort than warmth. The shadows of last night have long retreated from my apartment, yet my mind is caught in the sublime ecstasy—and pure idiocy—of what happened last night.

No. You can”t keep thinking about last night, Sophia.

Oliver insisted on calling his car to drive me home once Armand Smith had spent fifteen minutes apologizing for not being there to meet us, wringing his hands in distress and generally groveling. Neither of us asked what exactly was happening with the magically-contracting corridor. I”d chalk it up to just another Ravencourt mystery—if it hadn”t all seemed timed to catch us unaware. And if it weren”t happening in the exact location as the biggest charity event of the year.

Oliver and I barely even made eye contact afterward, even though every other part of us just had. Oliver took off on his motorcycle, and I came home, took a shower, and immediately started going through the contents of the folder we found. It’s 9 am, and I”ve been due at the office for over an hour. But no way am I going in.

I go sit on my couch, knees drawn up to my chest, surrounded by scattered papers and open books—all evidence of my late-night dive into Ravencourt”s mysteries. It”s helped to tamp down the memory of Oliver”s closeness, the way his breath hitched when our eyes locked in that dark storage closet. I have light scratches, from both tooth and claw, on my neck and ass that will heal soon enough. Part of me doesn”t want them to.

My heart is a traitor, fluttering at the thought of him, while my mind wages war against the very idea. The two sides clash within me, a storm raging under the cozy quiet of my apartment. I reach for my phone, the screen lighting up with unread messages from Oliver, and then toss it away. Everything about him feels like holding my hand over a flame—fascinating, even thrilling, but stupid, stupid, stupid.

Instead, I flip open my laptop and start sifting through digital archives, pairing them with the manuscripts I have, determined to uncover what secrets lie behind the Gala”s facade. My fingers dance across the keys with purpose, but they tremble slightly. Nerves.

I understand now that the Gala isn”t just a party; it”s a nexus of power plays and hidden agendas. And, if my research is right, the site where an occult event of unprecedented power might take place. Faulkner’s rise to power has been slow but unrelenting, and now they are one of the predominant real estate and resort companies in the country, not just Ravencourt.

The Covenant keeps popping up in all my reading but without explanation. It’s associated with the most arcane rituals and spells—but never any people. Nobody ever talks about it directly. Like it”s some paranormal ”fight club.” Maybe it is?

So cranky old Kray was right? Is this why he planted me inside Faulkner Enterprises so suddenly? He hasn”t contacted me again, so I”m certain that I haven’t stumbled on whatever he really wants. Maybe he needed somebody who might make the Faulkners see a nasty truth?

I’ve learned that Marian Faulkner”s Moonlight Gala is moonlit for a reason. Moonlight is magic, plain and simple. Obviously, the moon does strange things to werewolves. While they may not be forced into the ferocious, uncontrollable bloodlust their ancestors suffered, the moon still has power over them. If it doesn”t shift bodies, it can still shift moods, temperaments, mentalities, and ambitions.

And that”s what all these pages are pointing towards—a years-long plan to bring paranormals together in the name of charity, eventually enabling a power grab the likes of which Ravencourt has never seen.

How am I the only one, perhaps besides Kray, who sees this? And maybe old Lord Faulkner, but obviously, the man is struggling to stay in the moment. Well, there might be someone else. Somebody left this file for us to find. But who? And why?

The pale light of my laptop screen flickers across my face as I pore over the documents once again. They”re cryptic, a mosaic of half-truths and coded messages that suggest a conspiracy far deeper than anything I”ve dared imagine. A thread in the tapestry of Ravencourt”s high society, woven with such subtlety that only those who know where to look can see its pattern. And the Faulkners are part of it.

I squint at a scribbled note in the margin—the words ”under the full moon”s gaze.” I lean in closer. It references the Gala, alright, but what event could be so significant that it requires such secrecy?

What did Oliver say last night? That Rebecca worked for Irene, not him. While I”m devastated about Oliver”s loss of his brother, I can”t help but feel there”s a clue there, too. If it wasn”t Jason who called me, who else had my number? Irene, maybe? But why would she play with my head like that? She”s the one who forced Oliver to hire me.

I sigh in frustration as the facts don”t align as I”d like them to. The air feels saturated with the weight of a thousand alternative explanations. Rebecca”s face flashes in my mind—sharp-witted, determined Rebecca, willing to make a scene to tell Oliver off? Or was there something more there? I heard she left Oliver”s side for Kray”s shadow—the reverse of my status. If anyone knows where the bodies are buried, it could be her.

I rise from the couch, my resolve hardening. If Rebecca has information that could piece this puzzle together, I have to get it. I dial her number with shaking fingers and steel myself for what may come.

”Rebecca,” I begin when she answers, ”This is Sophia Carter.”

She cuts me off with a dry cackle. ”Finally. I wondered when you”d call. Cutting it close.”

I pretend to understand what she means. “Right. There are a lot of loose ends I need to clear up. And I need your advice,” I say bluntly. ”About what”s going on behind closed doors. And just to be clear, I”m working on this alone. Oliver doesn”t know I”m calling you.”

There”s a pause in the line, and then she speaks, low and severe: ”Meet me at the Silver Spoon for coffee. Twenty minutes. Be discreet.”

I hang up with more questions than answers swirling in my head. Whatever is happening at the Gala, whatever game is being played with Ravencourt as its board, I will uncover it all. If my career is over, thanks to things getting out of hand with a certain shifter, then I might as well go out with a bang.

Uh, I kinda sorta did. Stupid!

My phone buzzes on the coffee table, jolting me from my thoughts. It”s a text from Michael. I haven”t told him about last night, but with sibling psychic ability, he seems to know I needed to hear from him. ”Stay sharp, Fee. Remember who you are. Love you, sis.” I smile despite myself.

Then my phone rings, and thinking it”s Michael, I answer without looking

Mistake.

”Where are you?” His tone is curt, almost an accusation.

”Home. Working remotely today.”

There”s a pause before he replies. ”We need to go over security protocols for the Gala. And whatever else you’ve discovered.”

”I”ll send you my notes,” I say, looking at the clock.

”No. In person. You”re not fired, so you need to do your job.” This isn”t a request; it”s Oliver Faulkner being as commanding as ever.

A part of me wants to rebel against his high-handedness. Still, another part—the part that”s driven by curiosity and an undeniable pull he has on me already—knows I need to play my hand carefully.

”How do you know I”m not?” I reply. ”I have to meet someone. Related to the papers we found. I”ll be in after that.”

The Silver Spoon would be better named the Dirty Spoon. It’s the kind of slightly grubby diner that”s seen more clandestine meetings than a roadside motel. I grab a slightly sticky booth at the back. The door chimes, and Rebecca saunters in, her every step deliberate, her eyes scanning the room with practiced indifference.

She joins me without ceremony, sliding into the seat across from me.

”Thanks for meeting me,” I start, but she waves me off.

”I”ve been playing this game longer than you know, Sophia. Over a year. Let”s cut to the chase.” She leans forward, her voice a conspiratorial murmur. ”I was Kray”s eyes and ears long before you came along. Oliver...he never knew.”

The words hang heavy between us. So Rebecca”s affair with Oliver wasn”t a dalliance; it was espionage.

”But I thought you were Irene”s assistant?” I can”t keep the disbelief from my voice, a tangle of repulsion and reluctant admiration. No wonder he was confused by Rebecca”s loud display. He thought he was doing her while she was screwing him. Was Kray actually expecting me to seduce him, too? I suddenly feel like I’m the one getting played.

But let’s face it, I wanted Oliver. That was purely my decision. Now, I need to make sure it was worth it before I file for unemployment.

”Love and war,” she quips with a hollow laugh. ”It was going well, but when I told Kray he’d gotten the rights to the Northern Quarter that he wanted, he decided to send you in as a Gala assistant. Do you even know what you’re looking for? But wait. Isn’t Ollie just too irresistible? Those eyes. Has he made a pass yet? He moves fast, so be ready.” She laughs, but her gaze hardens.

Oh great. Maybe I should just skip the part about saving the day and text my resignation right now.

”It might help to know that Oliver”s the innocent here. Irene is tough, though. And she”s got ambitions that would make a demon blush. She’s pretty single-minded when it comes to the Gala. It’s her baby but dealing with her dad means she’s had to let Oliver take the lead.”

My mind races to piece together her accusations. Irene, the woman who held herself with such composure last night, the woman who is so calm and solicitous of her father”s outbursts and mood shifts. She and Oliver seem so tight. She may be pushing his buttons a bit, like ensuring he hired me. But she’s not grabbing the big seat at the top. Or is she? She sat there and took her father”s anger…like someone playing the long game.

Rebecca leans in closer, dropping her voice to barely a whisper. ”And here”s the real dirt they”ve been hiding. Jason Faulkner is dead. They say he drowned but the body was never found.”

“Oliver told me. It’s sad actually.”

I think again about how lucky my family is that Michael made it home. My heart goes out to Oliver. He puts up such a facade. I saw some of his vulnerability lurking there underneath. He loves his family fiercely…but Irene is the only one left. How sad.

Rebecca snaps her fingers to get my attention. ”Do you want to know what”s going on?”

”Yes. Please.”

”Did he tell you that they requested an inquiry into how he died?” Rebecca continues and doesn’t wait for my answer. ”Irene went to Singapore to personally conduct the investigation, which turned up absolutely nothing. Or so she said. So think about it: Who benefits from muddying the waters? Who keeps their hands clean while pulling all the strings?”

”Kray?”

”No idiot. Guess again. Who has the most to lose and the most to gain from a huge power shift…a corporate ouster?”

The implication is clear—Irene is more than just an elder sister protecting family interests; she”s playing a game with stakes higher than I ever imagined.

As Rebecca spills secrets like coins from a purse, my understanding of the Gala and Ravencourt itself shifts like sand beneath my feet.

”Don”t believe anyone who tells you her father wouldn”t let her take over because she married outside the pack. Although, you should be aware that anyone in the Larken pack is under her thumb. Old Faulkner didn”t hand over the keys because he never believed Irene was his. Marion Faulkner used to love to howl, if you get my drift. She was a beauty. I’m actually starting to think Kray had a thing for her.”

I”m gobsmacked as each revelation paints a portrait where even family ties are weapons to be wielded. That”s probably what got Old Faulkner so worked up at dinner last night and why, as Oliver mentioned, there was no love lost between his parents. I think back to all the news clippings I saw with Marian touting the Gala. She seemed to be the picture of matronly propriety.

”And Oliver? What’s his role in all this?” I ask tentatively, unable to suppress my concern for him amidst this web of lies.

Rebecca looks at me with pity. ”He”s caught in the middle, just like you.” Her words are laced with something akin to regret. ”He”s been in over his head from the day he was born, not that he”d ever let anyone see that. I feel bad about tearing him down in public like that, but I was trying to send everyone in that room a message. I actually kind of like him.”

”Me, too,” I admit.

Rebecca lets out a laugh. ”Well, now you know.”

I lean forward, my coffee untouched. For a spy, Rebecca sure loves to talk. ”What”s going to happen at the Gala?” I ask.

She hesitates, then says, ”I didn’t get that far. That’s on you. I know it”s not just about what will happen, but what has been happening for years. Power shifts slowly in Ravencourt—like tectonic plates. When they finally collide….” She trails off, leaving the image of a disaster hanging between us.

I can already feel the ground shifting beneath me. The Gala isn”t just a party; it”s a fulcrum, and we”re all balanced precariously on its edge. If I don”t act fast, we could all come crashing down.

”You”re saying someone”s planning to use the Gala for... what? A coup?” The words taste like ash in my mouth.

Rebecca gives a curt nod. ”More than a coup. Think about it—the right word in the right ear under a full moon?”

My mind races with the implications. The full moon”s magic could amplify anything—words, emotions, actions. As well as curses, spells and potions. And me here without an effing magic wand.

”Does Kray know all of this? Why doesn”t he do something?”

”Maybe he already is. He’s got a million things going on, the cagey old vamp. That”s above my pay grade, and yours. Clearly, he”s trying to have an oar in the water—or a marshmallow at the campfire. That”s what neither you nor I know…will this end in fire?”

I feel torn between my loyalty to Oliver and the urgency of stopping whatever catastrophe looms over us. ”Oliver needs to know,” I murmur more to myself than to Rebecca.

”And you think he”ll listen to you?” Her skepticism is like a slap. ”After everything you”ve heard? Whatever his father may think of her, Oliver loves Irene. She is his sister.”

She has a point. Trust is as rare as truth in Ravencourt, and right now, I”m not sure which one I”m chasing—or which one I”m losing.

”I have to try,” I say firmly, meeting her challenging stare. ”He deserves that much.”

Rebecca shrugs as if disentangling herself from the mess of it all. ”Then you”d better be convincing because you”re going up against a family built on secrets and lies. They’re all very dedicated to their legacy. Maybe more than they are to each other.”

I push back from the table, resolve hardening within me. ”Thank you,” I say, though gratitude feels like an inadequate response to such a revelation.

”Don”t thank me yet,” Rebecca replies with a wry twist of her lips. ”Just...be careful who you trust.”

“Who exactly do you mean?”

“I mean everyone. Even Irene. Even Oliver. You and I are just pawns in their games. Don’t be collateral damage. Get it?”

I nod once before slipping out of the booth and into the bustle of Ravencourt’s streets. As I make my way back to Faulkner Enterprises, I can”t shake off Rebecca’s words or quell the fear gnawing at my insides.

Could it be possible that Irene, the same woman who stood by Oliver through thick and thin, who played the role of his unwavering ally, harbors ambitions so vast they threaten to topple the empire that sustains their whole family? The thought that she might be involved in such treachery sends a ripple of disbelief through me. How could she, the one who”s been the family”s bedrock, allow her vision for power to cloud her judgment to the point of risking the Faulkner legacy?

Oliver Faulkner is many things—arrogant, frustratingly stubborn and quite possibly a lying dog. But there is some part of me that refuses to believe the man I saw behind the wolf”s mask, is bad. He loves his family fiercely.

To be loved by him that much? I wonder how that feels.