My name is Nilsa.
I am the Shadow of the Moon.
A lunar witch.
A divine assassin.
And they will tell you that I am a traitor.
Framed for the murder of my own high priestess and with nowhere else to go, I’m forced to seek refuge amongst pirates. This mismatched crew of immortal males thinks I’m a solar witch; a harmless, goody-two-shoes, celibate priestess of life.
But it’s hard to keep up the charade with a cursed fae, two broken shifters and an overprotective vampire tempting me at every turn.
It’s even harder when I have to constantly restrain the urge to murder their asshole captain.
All I need to do is live long enough to exact vengeance and reclaim my place in my coven. There’s no place for men in my life. Not even the siren haunting my dreams who claims I’m his mate.
Freezing, salty sea air slices through me as I perch on the edge of a rooftop garden, overlooking my mark’s study. It’s a posh room, better than most in Coveton, with a huge window that makes this job all too easy. The whole townhouse glows with the light of crystal-powered lamps, making it obvious why someone put a price on his head.
Who isn’t jealous of that kind of wealth?
Most families have one crystal per house—if that—and this human has five in a single room. The mage-tech is ridiculously expensive, even more so in Coveton—where so few mages live.
Glenna mentioned the mark was supposedly some minor noble when she gave me the order to take his life. He’s not important enough for his own title, but still one of only three people trusted by the Queen to oversee the city’s crystal mine.
Not that I care.
The Goddess accepted the contract, so here I am.
The door to his study opens, revealing my mark in all his balding, middle-aged glory. My hand goes to my pouch, ready to get this over with, but the sight of a tiny blonde head in the doorway stops me.
The mark’s kid doesn’t need to see this.
I settle in to wait a little longer.
“You’re too soft,” Opal scoffs, twining her fluffy tail around my crouched body.
“No child should have to watch their parent’s murder,” I whisper back.
My familiar doesn’t answer, but her blue eyes meet mine for a brief second. It’s been a dozen years since she chose my scrawny, awkward thirteen-year-old self as her witch and I’ve still not figured out if she likes me or just tolerates me.
At times like this, I’m certain it’s the latter.
My mark bends, kisses his kid’s forehead, then ushers him out of the study. I wait until I’m certain the child is gone before withdrawing the poppet from my pouch. My sewing skills aren’t brilliant, but the doll is a close enough approximation of the mark. Besides, it’s the lock of his hair hidden inside that matters most.
“Goddess of the Last Sleep, lend your power to my work,” I whisper, feeling the Moon’s answering throb as I lift the poppet into Her light.
Her magic cocoons me, feeling my intention, and flowing straight into the doll where it’s needed. Power swells and I don’t have to wait long for it to tether the man in the study to the doll in my hand.
Getting the hair was the hard part.
Killing him is as easy as clenching my hand around the doll.
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