They’d pulled Dante in that morning, along with Bea and Estelle. The kitsune mayor had listened to Marina’s story with narrowed eyes and then pulled out archives Alessandro hadn’t known existed: records of demon activity in Sweetwater Cove dating back centuries.
Malachar’s name appeared again and again. Always on the periphery. Always offering “assistance” to families facing magical misfortune.
And those families always ended up worse than before.
“Here.” Estelle pulled a particular document from the stack, a faded family tree with annotations in multiple handwritings. “The Dravens before the curse. Prosperous shipbuilders. Three generations of stable wealth. And then…” She pointed to a name circled in red. “Edmund Draven, 1824. Broke his oath to protect a witch’s descendants. The dying witch cursed the bloodline. And Malachar’s name first appears that same year.”
“As a ‘trusted advisor,’” Dante said, tracing the timeline. “Right there in the family ledger, helping Edmund manage his new misfortune. Same handwriting on every recommendation for the next forty years.”
“Helped manage it straight into the ground,” Alessandro muttered. He remembered his grandfather’s stories: the slow decline, the desperate measures, the constant feeling that salvation was always just out of reach. He’d thought it was the curse doing that. Now he understood it was the curse plus Malachar, working in tandem to ensure the Dravens never recovered.
His grandfather had died broke and broken, still searching for answers. His father was following the same path. And Alessandro had been so determined to be different, so convinced he could fix it alone, that he’d walked right into the same trap.
“He’s a parasitic demon,” Estelle said, spreading documents across Marina’s kitchen table. “Rare, but not unheard of. They attach themselves to cursed bloodlines and feed on the suffering. The longer the curse lasts, the more power they accumulate.”
“And breaking the curse would break his food source,” Dante added.
“More than that. Two hundred years of accumulated power, gone in an instant. He’d be left weakened. Vulnerable.” Estelle’s smile was sharp. “That’s why he’s been so careful to sabotage every cure attempt. That’s why he killed Marina’s grandmother before she could use the recipe.”
Alessandro felt Marina flinch beside him. He reached for her hand under the table.
She let him take it, but her grip was limp. Distant.
She was there, but not the open, warm presence he’d grown accustomed to. Muted. Guarded. Holding back.
He’d hurt her. He’d dismissed her concerns when she’d needed him most.
“We need the book back,” Bea said. “Without the recipe, we can’t break the curse. Without breaking the curse, we can’t weaken Malachar enough to destroy him.”
“Then we get the book back,” Alessandro said.
“How? He’s not going to hand it over because we ask nicely.”
“No. But he might hand it over if the alternative is worse.” Alessandro looked around the table. “Malachar’s power comes from secrecy. He’s been playing the helpful advisor for centuries because no one knew what he really was. If we expose him, publicly, undeniably, he loses everything. The town would uniteagainst him. Every supernatural with a grievance would come hunting.”
“You want to threaten him with exposure?”
“I want to give him a choice. Return the book and leave, or stay and face the consequences.”
Estelle considered this. “It might work. He’s accumulated too much power here to walk away easily, but if the choice is walking away or being destroyed…”
“It’s worth trying.” Marina’s voice was steady, careful. “And if he refuses, at least we’ll know where we stand.”
She still wasn’t looking at him.
Alessandro felt the distance between them.
They confronted Malachar that afternoon.
Not at his hotel; too many witnesses, too many escape routes. They found him walking along the harbor, enjoying the sea air like a man without enemies in the world.
“Alessandro.” Malachar’s smile was warm, welcoming. “Miss Pearl. What a pleasant?—”
“We know what you are.”
The words came out flat. Final.
Malachar’s smile wavered, just for an instant. “I’m sure I don’t…”
