Embedded Files
The water remembers what people forget. In the silence of the Louisiana bayou, secrets surface, bonds are tested, and Nellie discovers that some truths can drown just as easily as they can save.
Word Count: 16k
TW: canon-typical violence. near drowning. mild use of language.
- - - - - -
The Louisiana highway stretches out in a ribbon of gray, disappearing into a haze of swamp mist. The Impala’s low rumble fills the silence, broken only by the occasional hiss of tires hitting damp patches on the road. Sam glances sideways at Nellie, who has her knees tucked up on the seat, forehead pressed against the cool window. Her eyes track the trees whipping by, but he can tell her thoughts are somewhere else.
“We’re almost there,” he says, breaking the quiet. “We’re meeting with an old contact of mine. Marcus Hale. Used to be a hunter back in the seventies and eighties. Retired before things caught up to him. These days, he mostly deals in research, folklore, witchcraft lore, that kind of thing.”
She tilts her head toward him, curiosity flickering in her eyes. “So he’s like… your witch guy?”
He smirks. “Pretty much. If anyone’s going to know something about the coven we’re chasing, it’s him.”
She nods, chewing her lip. “Good. I mean… I want answers, Sam. After everything we found, after everything we burned, I need to know who these people are. What they want. I want to stop them before they find me again.” Her voice wavers at the end, just enough to betray the nerves beneath her determination. She pulls her knees in tighter, wrapping her arms around them. “But it scares me too. Every lead we follow feels like we’re walking deeper into the dark, and I don’t know what’s waiting.”
Sam’s hands tighten on the wheel, but his tone stays steady, calm. “That’s the job. It’s dangerous, yeah, but we’re not going in blind. And you’re not going in alone. Marcus may be gruff, but he’s good people. He’ll point us in the right direction.”
For the first time in miles, Nellie smiles faintly. “I’ve got to admit, the idea of sitting down with someone who’s basically a walking witch encyclopedia… It’s kind of exciting.”
He chuckles. “That’s the hunter in you talking.”
Her smile softens, but she presses her forehead back to the window, eyes distant.
He glances at her before speaking. “There’s something you should keep in mind. Marcus knows me, but he doesn’t know you. For now, it’d be best if you go by Nellie Branscomb.”
She turns to look at him, curious but not defensive. “So… keep the Winchester part quiet.”
“Yeah. Dean… he made enemies. A lot of hunters respected him, but just as many didn’t. Using his name might get doors slammed in your face before you even get a chance. Branscomb won’t paint a target on you.”
“Makes sense. Safer that way.”
He hesitates, then adds, “And one more thing. Keep your abilities to yourself. Most hunters… don’t like psychics. Don’t trust ‘em. Some think they’re just one bad day away from becoming monsters.” His voice has a rough edge, shaped by memory. “I’ve seen it firsthand.”
“I get it,” she replies gently. She sits back in her seat, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. “You’re keeping me safe. I can live with that.”
He lets out a quiet breath, the corner of his mouth twitching in a faint smile. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”
The Impala rolls on, the air growing heavier with the promise of the south and whatever waits for them in Louisiana.
• • •
The gravel drive winds them deep into the trees, the car crunching to a stop in front of a weather-beaten house. Its shutters sag, the porch tilts a little with age, and books are stacked haphazardly on the swing, their pages curling from humidity.
Nellie hugs herself as she climbs out. Her nerves buzz sharper than usual, though she tries not to show it. This isn’t just a stranger they are about to meet. This is another hunter, someone who knew Sam from before she came into the picture. She’d only ever dealt with Sam and Eileen. Meeting someone else from this world… she isn’t sure what to expect.
Sam shuts the driver’s side door with a decisive thunk and glances at her. “Relax,” he says quietly, as though reading her mind. “I called ahead. He knows we’re coming.”
She gives him a tight nod, but her eyes linger on the windows. Dim light glows from inside, casting long shadows across the porch. Sam knocks, firm and familiar.
The door opens almost immediately, and Marcus Hale stands there, wiry, sharp-eyed, his beard more gray than black now. However, his presence still carries the quiet weight of someone who has seen far too much. Ink stains mark his fingers, and a pair of glasses dangle from a cord around his neck.
“Well, hell,” Marcus says, his voice carrying both surprise and a hint of amusement. “Sam Winchester. Thought I’d seen the last of you when you went all corporate with that Men of Letters business.”
Sam smirks faintly. “Guess I’m hard to shake.”
Marcus steps back and waves them in. “Door’s open. Bring your mess with you.”
Inside, the house is more study than home. Every wall is lined with shelves sagging under the weight of books and jars of dried herbs. Maps with yellowing corners hang under thumbtacks, each marked with notes and pins. The air smells of sage and dust, like a library left too long in the swamp air.
Sam gestures towards Nellie as they cross the threshold. “This is Nellie Branscomb. She’s my partner on the road.”
The hunter’s sharp gaze flicks to her, lingering in a way that makes her skin prickle. He gives her a once-over, cautious, weighing. “Partner, huh? That’s new. Sam always did try to do too much alone.”
She straightens, forcing a polite smile despite the knot in her stomach. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hale.”
He makes a dismissive noise. “Don’t ‘mister’ me. Makes me feel like a schoolteacher again. Marcus’ll do.” His eyes narrow slightly, not unkind but scrutinizing, the way someone might look at a blade they aren’t sure is sharp enough. “So, Branscomb. Don’t recognize the name.”
She shifts under his stare, her pulse quickening. “That’s because I’m new. Not exactly out there in the hunter grapevine.”
For a beat, Marcus doesn’t reply. Sam cuts in smoothly, his voice steady. “She’s good. Quick study. I wouldn’t bring her here otherwise.”
That seems to settle something in the older hunter, even if only partially. He gives a grunt, pushing past them toward a cluttered desk stacked with papers. “Well, if you say so. Just wasn’t expecting you to show up with company. Hunters don’t usually travel in pairs unless they’ve been at it a long while.”
Nellie’s cheeks warm, though she keeps her expression even. She feels the weight of Marcus’s words like a test she hasn’t studied for and instinctively glances at her uncle. He catches her look and gives the smallest nod; the kind of subtle reassurance he’s been giving her since the day they met.
The hunter gestures toward two chairs across from the desk. “Sit. You didn’t come all the way down here for my sweet tea.”
Sam settles in, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who’s been in plenty of rooms like this. Nellie follows his lead, trying to look calm while her mind spins.
Marcus shuffles toward the kitchen, reappearing a minute later with two sweating glasses of amber tea. He sets one in front of Sam, then places the other before Nellie. His hand lingers just a beat too long on the rim of her glass as he slides it across, his sharp eyes fixed on her like he is sizing her up.
“So,” he says, finally settling back into his seat with his own glass. “Branscomb. You said you’re new.”
“Yes, sir,” Nellie answers, her voice careful. “Not long on the road.”
He snorts softly. “Not ‘sir,’ I told you. That’s strike one.” He takes a long sip of his tea, then sets it down with a thunk. “What’s your background? Where’d you cut your teeth?”
Her throat tightens. She’s rehearsed a hundred versions of this answer in her head. Keep it vague, keep it clean. “Small town in Texas. Bad stuff started happening when I was a teenager. I learned early that monsters were real. Sam… helped me figure out the rest.”
Marcus tilts his head, unimpressed but listening. “And before that? What’d you do before you decided you wanted to tangle with the dark corners of the world?”
She shifts, her fingers brushing the condensation on her glass. “Waitressed at a diner. Paid bills. Tried to stay out of trouble.”
That gets the faintest quirk of an eyebrow from him, as if he isn’t expecting honesty that plain. “Huh. Most folks who try this life are running from something bigger than diner shifts.”
Sam cuts in, his tone steady but firm. “She’s not ‘most folks.’ She’s proven herself.”
Marcus leans back, unbothered by Sam’s edge. He swirls the ice in his glass, eyes still on Nellie. “I’m just asking questions, Sam. Girl’s got a good poker face — I’ll give her that.” He takes another long sip, then adds, “Hope she’s got more than that when things go sideways.”
She forces herself not to flinch. “I can handle myself,” she says, quiet but steady.
He studies her for another long second before finally nodding, as if filing the answer away. “We’ll see.” He sets his glass down, reaching across the table, and taps the worn surface with one finger. “All right. Enough small talk. Show me what you’ve got that brought you to my door.”
Sam reaches into his jacket, pulls out the folded paper with the symbol, and lays it flat on the desk between them. Marcus’s gaze sharpens instantly. His fingers brush the inked lines with surprising delicacy. The room seems to grow quieter, heavier, as if the air itself has leaned in to listen. His thumb taps idly against the edge of the paper as he leans back. His eyes flick between Sam and Nellie, sharp as a knife.
“Well, well. This isn’t the kind of thing folks just stumble across,” he says, voice measured. “So why don’t you tell me what kind of case you’re working that dragged you all the way down here? And how exactly did you find this?” He taps the symbol again, its dark lines stark against the wood of the desk.
Sam folds his arms. “We’ve been chasing threads tied to a coven. They’ve been circling Nellie—”
Marcus cuts in, his gaze sliding to her. “Circling you, huh? And you’re still breathing. That tells me either they’re sloppy… or you’re luckier than you look.”
Nellie’s shoulders stiffen, but she lifts her chin. “Or maybe I know how to keep my head down.”
A thin smirk tugs at his mouth. “Maybe. But covens don’t usually leave pretty little drawings lying around. They’re too careful. So what happened? You dig this out of a trunk? A book? Carved into somebody’s skin?”
Sam glances at his niece, giving her the choice to answer. She hesitates, then answers, “We found it in a crawlspace. Hidden. Looked like it had been there a long time.”
Marcus hums, rolling that answer around in his head. He takes a slow sip of tea before asking, “And what do you make of it, Branscomb?”
She blinks, caught off guard. “Me?”
“You’re sitting at my table, aren’t you?” His stare pins her in place. “You’ve looked at it. What’s it say to you?”
She stares down at the paper. The half-closed eye surrounded by thorns looked back up at her, stark and strange. Her mouth went dry, but she forced herself to speak. “It feels… old. Purposeful. Not something someone doodled for fun. It’s not protective, I can tell you that much. It looks like it was meant to mark someone as belonging.”
For the first time, Marcus’s expression shifts, a flicker of respect, quickly hidden. “Not bad,” he mutters, leaning forward again. He drags the symbol closer, as if it is suddenly his to guard. “This mark isn’t some scribble. It’s a coat of arms.” His gaze shifts to her, pinning her in place. “Every serious coven had one. Like a flag, a family crest, a way of saying who they were and what they claimed. Hunters who’ve lived long enough know that.” He picks up his glass of tea, swirling it. “Most green hunters would’ve just called it witchy doodling.”
Sam leans forward. “So whose crest is it?”
Marcus taps the paper once, sharp as a gavel. “I believe this belongs to the Nightshade Coven. Whispers, mostly. Hunters used to argue whether they ever really existed. But those who believed…” He lets the words hang, the weight of them settling. “They said Nightshade was the kind you didn’t cross. Not unless you were ready to put your body in the ground.” He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled as though he is weighing just how much to share.
“They weren’t just some backwoods coven hexing cattle or selling love charms at country fairs. They were exclusive. Small. Elitist, even. You didn’t join Nightshade — you were chosen.”
Sam frowns. “Chosen for what?”
His mouth twists into something that catches between a sneer and a grimace. “For their taste in the obscure. Most witches keep to their lanes. They might borrow from old grimoires, maybe spice it up with a little folk magic. But Nightshade? They liked to experiment. Stitch together fragments from Europe’s darkest corners, from the colonies, from here.” He gestures vaguely, as though the whole of Louisiana’s swamp-fed mysticism hangs heavy in the air. “Hoodoo, blood rites, forgotten chants whispered in languages most scholars can’t even place anymore. They weren’t afraid to poke around in things nobody else dared touch. And when you do that, you get noticed.”
Nellie swallows. “Noticed by… who?”
Marcus’s eyes cut to her. “By things you don’t want noticing you, girl. Spirits. Entities. Whatever’s waiting in the dark corners, listening for the idiots reckless enough to knock. And Nightshade? They kept knocking.”
The silence stretches. She shifts in her seat, arms crossing tightly as though she could ward off the chill his words left behind.
“They vanished in the late 19th century,” he continues. “Poof. Gone. Official line was they turned on each other — and that tracks. Covens collapse all the time. Power, paranoia, betrayal. But every once in a while, you’d find something nasty — a ritual, a symbol carved in bone, some poor soul mangled in a way no garden-variety hex could manage. And the whispers would start. ‘That’s Nightshade’s work.’” He leans forward now, the lamplight catching in the lines of his face. “Problem is, you never knew if it was true. That’s what made ’em dangerous. They weren’t just a coven. They were a legend. And legends? Legends are hard to kill.”
Sam nods, jaw tight. “So if someone’s using their coat of arms now…”
The hunter cuts him off with a sharp look. “Then you’ve got more than just a witch problem. You’ve got someone bold enough to resurrect a name buried for over a century. That means they’re strong. Strong enough to want the world to know who they are. And that should scare the hell out of you.”
Nellie’s throat feels dry, but she forces the question out. “So… what do we do?”
For a long moment, he just studies her. This time, his gaze isn’t so much skeptical as… measuring. Like he is trying to decide if she is someone who could handle the weight of the answer. Finally, he gives a slight nod. “You learn,” he says simply. “Everything you can. And fast.”
“That’s actually why we came this way,” Sam butts in. “Baton Rouge has an outpost, Men of Letters. Abandoned, but still intact, as far as I know. If any place kept records on covens like this, it’d be there.”
Marcus rubs his jaw, thoughtful. “Smart move. The Men of Letters had a knack for collecting what nobody else dared touch. If anyone had intel on Nightshade coven activity — or worse, proof they’re still moving around — it’d be buried in one of their vaults.”
Nellie frowns, leaning forward. “So you think it’s a good idea? To go in there?”
He gives a humorless chuckle. “Good? No. Necessary? Yes. Those bunkers weren’t built to be welcoming. They’re… relics. You’ll want to watch your step, and not just for the rot.” His gaze flicks from Sam to Nellie, measuring. “If you’re lucky, the worst you’ll find are dust and dead files. If you’re not…” He lets the sentence trail off, leaving the implication hanging.
Her fingers twist in her lap, but Sam answers without hesitation. “We’ve handled worse.”
Marcus nods once, a flicker of respect passing through his expression. “Then you’d better get moving. Baton Rouge isn’t a place you want to be poking around in after dark. And if the rumors are true about that outpost, you’ll need all the daylight you can get.” He stands, gathering their glasses and setting them aside.
Her voice is quiet but steady. “And if we do find something?”
He looks at her, and for the first time since they arrived, his tone softens, not kind, but grave. “Then you’ll be in deeper than you realize. Shadows like these? They don’t just bite. They swallow.”
Sam gives a simple nod. “Thanks, Marcus. We’ll take it from here.”
The older hunter gives him a long look, then, finally, a small, approving nod. “Watch yourselves. Both of you.”
As Sam and Nellie rise from their chairs, Marcus gathers the empty glasses, setting them on a worn counter. “One more thing,” he says, glancing back at them. “I’ve got a contact down in New Orleans. Used to dabble in the craft herself, before she got smart and stepped away. These days, she plays medium for tourists, but beneath the theatrics, she knows more than she lets on. Name’s Camille. If Baton Rouge gives you scraps, Camille might help you piece them together.”
“We’ll take any lead we can get,” Sam says. “Thanks, Marcus.”
He snorts. “Don’t thank me yet. You’re heading into water most hunters don’t swim in. Best to know who else is holding a lantern before you dive deeper. And keep this in mind: the Nightshade Coven plays long games. They thrived on people mistaking their traps for treasures. Don’t give them that satisfaction.”
Sam’s jaw sets. “We won’t.”
Marcus gives them both one last, long look; sharp but not unfriendly. “Then get going. Baton Rouge won’t wait for you, and neither will the dark.”
• • •
The motel looks like every other one they’d passed on the road, except worse. The neon sign buzzes above them like it is on its last breath, half the letters burnt out, so it reads “MO—E.” The siding is sun-bleached, the paint curling like paper. Inside isn’t much better. The carpet is the color of mud, and the wallpaper is a sickly shade of green, patterned with lopsided diamonds.
Nellie drops her duffel onto the nearest bed and takes one look at the mustard-yellow curtains. “You know,” she says, “I’ve seen cleaner bathrooms in gas stations.”
Sam sets his bag down with a grunt, almost amused. “You’re getting the authentic road experience.”
“Authentic mildew, maybe,” she mutters. Still, there is a spark of humor in her eyes as she tugs at the corner of one pillow before deciding she doesn’t want to know what’s underneath.
He shakes his head, already pulling his laptop and a stack of folded maps from his bag. He claims the small square table by the window, ignoring the cigarette burn etched into its surface. “We’ve got work to do before you start redecorating.”
She follows him over without complaint, brushing dust off the chair before sitting across from him. She leans forward, eyes bright despite the long day. “So this is where we track down our haunted treasure chest of lore?”
He cracks open the laptop, the blue glow casting shadows across his face. He spreads the maps between them. “If that Baton Rouge bunker exists, we’re going to have to pin it down before we waste time tomorrow.”
She pulls one map closer, already scanning landmarks and back roads. The weight of Marcus’s warnings still pressed on her chest, but here, digging into the hunt with Sam, she feels steadier.
For a moment, the gaudy wallpaper and rattling AC unit fade into the background, replaced by the quiet rhythm of research, the thing she’s grown used to at her uncle’s side.
Sam adjusts the laptop so they can both see, the screen split between digitized Men of Letters records and half-faded scans of city property deeds. He taps the edge of one document with his finger. “The thing about Men of Letters bunkers, they weren’t just hidden. They were camouflaged. But the real outposts? They weren’t going to sit right on the city’s edge. Too easy to stumble on. They’d go further out. Into the swamp, where nobody in their right mind would look.”
Nellie leans in, her finger tracing the gridlines of an old survey map. “So, they built it under something ordinary, but isolated. If you had to go out into the swamp, you’d already be looking for trouble.”
“Exactly,” he says, nodding. “Problem is, records like these—” he motions to a yellowed property deed on the screen “—aren’t always complete. Fires, clerical mistakes, cover-ups. Half of it’s guesswork.”
She gives a little shrug, a spark of confidence in her voice. “Guesswork I can handle. Archives are like puzzles; you just need the right piece to unlock the rest.”
He smiles faintly at that, reminded of how quickly she has picked up the rhythms of research, how easily she has stepped into the role of partner instead of a tagalong. “Then help me narrow the field. See here?” He slides a notepad toward her. “These three parcels all changed hands in the early forties, no clear explanation why. That’s Men of Letters timing.”
She scribbles quickly, her handwriting slanted and sharp. “And this one—” she points to a smudge of ink on the survey map “—was listed as a ‘pump house.’ But look at the notes. The property was condemned almost immediately after. And it’s at least a mile deeper into the swamp than the others. If you didn’t know it was there, you’d never find it.”
His eyes light with approval. “Good catch. That isolation? Classic Men of Letters tactic.”
For the next hour, the motel room fills with the steady sound of pages turning, the hum of the laptop, and the scratch of pens on paper. They sift through maps like layers of history, Nellie surprising Sam more than once with sharp observations: a floodplain here, a road that doesn’t exist anymore there.
Finally, he leans back, stretching his shoulders. “We’ve got three strong possibilities. Two are likely decoys, but…” He taps the map where Nellie’s pump house sits, marked with a circle. “This one feels right.”
Nellie traces the circle lightly with her fingertip, almost as if committing it to memory. “Tomorrow, then. We go swamp diving for a ghost bunker.”
He chuckles under his breath. “You make it sound like fun.”
She gives him a slight grin, tired but steady. “After my house, I’ll take fun.”
The room goes quiet, the only sound the buzz of the neon sign bleeding through the thin walls and the steady tick of the clock above the door. Sam leans back in the chair, rubbing a hand over his jaw, and glancing at his niece. Her head now droops into the crook of her arm, her breathing evened out, exhaustion finally catching up with her. A small, quiet smile tugs at his mouth. She looks younger like this, softened by sleep, though he knows better than anyone just how much she’s carried these past weeks. Pride wells in his chest, heavy and steady. She is becoming a hunter in her own right, piece by piece.
He reaches out and gently tugs her notebook out from under her arm, setting it aside so she won’t wake with ink smudged across her cheek. For a moment longer, he lets his gaze rest on her, the flicker of the motel’s neon light painting her face in alternating glow and shadow. Then he turns back to his laptop, jaw setting with renewed focus. If they are walking into swamp territory tomorrow, he needs to be ready.
• • •
The smell of burnt coffee and fried eggs drifts into the room as the sun cuts a hazy line through the heavy curtains. Sam balances two paper cups and a greasy brown bag in his hands as he nudges the door open with his shoulder.
Nellie is already awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed with her hair pulled back, flipping through her notes from the night before. She looks up, relief plain in her eyes at the sight of caffeine. “If that’s not coffee, I’m walking back to Kansas.”
He hands her one of the cups with a smirk. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”
She cradles it in both hands, sipping carefully. The heat makes her nose wrinkle, but she lets out a sigh all the same. “Not bad. Still think you owe me pancakes though.”
He chuckles as he sets the food down on the table. “Maybe after we don’t drown in a swamp.”
She raises a brow, leaning back against the headboard. “Right, because gators are totally on my bucket list. ‘Hunter found wrestling alligator, film at eleven.’”
He gives her a look over his coffee cup, the same one he used to throw at Dean when he’d said something stupid but funny. “You’re not wrestling anything today. Promise me that.”
She grins, though it is small, the nerves underneath still there. “Scout’s honor.”
They eat quietly for a while before Sam spreads the map out again, tapping the circled patch of swamp they’d identified.
“Here’s where we’ll start,” he says. “Looks like old property lines, maybe a foundation buried under all that growth. If the outpost is anywhere, it’s there.”
Nellie sets her empty cup aside and tugs on her flannel, her duffel already half-packed at the foot of the bed. “Alright then. Boots, salt rounds, anti-gator strategy — we’re covered.”
He shakes his head, but he is smiling as he zips his own bag. “Anti-gator strategy? That’s not in the hunter’s handbook.”
“Guess we’ll have to improvise,” she shoots back, eyes bright despite the unease in her shoulders.
• • •
The Impala crunches to a stop at the edge of the gravel pull-off, where the pavement gives way to mud and tangled brush. Beyond it stretches the swamp, cypress trees rising like gray-green pillars, roots and water blending into shadow, the air thick with the scent of damp earth. Sam kills the engine, scanning the tree line before popping the trunk. “This is as close as we’re driving. After this, it’s boots and mud.”
Nellie climbs out, stretching her legs and tightening her ponytail. Her eyes sweep the horizon, neither nervous nor timid, but sharp. She shoulders her duffel with practiced ease, her fingers brushing the handle of her hunting knife like it is second nature now.
“Swamp hike. Just what I always wanted,” she says lightly, but her gaze lingers a beat longer on the trees.
He catches it. “What?”
She shakes her head, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “It’s nothing. Just… since Texas, I can’t help checking over my shoulder. Feels like we’re not just chasing answers anymore. Like something’s keeping tabs on us, too.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He only hands her a flashlight and the salt rounds, his steady presence grounding hers. “Good. Stay wary.”
That earns him a small, quick smile. Nellie adjusts the strap of her bag, eyes flicking toward the swamp path ahead. “Alright then. Lead the way, Sammy.”
He grabs his own pack and gives the Impala one last look before locking up. They step off the gravel and into the soft give of swamp earth, the world swallowing them in birdsong, buzzing insects, and the slow ripple of unseen water.
The path isn’t much of a path at all, more of a game trail swallowed by roots and damp undergrowth. Some steps sink with a soft squelch, boots pulling free with reluctant suction. The air hangs heavy, thick with the smell of moss and stagnant water, every sound muffled as if the swamp itself swallows noise. Dragonflies buzzed past their ears, and somewhere out in the murk, something splashes, too far away to see, but close enough to make her grip her knife a little tighter.
“This place feels like it wants us gone,” Nellie murmurs.
Sam glances back, his expression unreadable. “Swamps don’t exactly roll out the welcome mat. Keep your eyes sharp.”
The cypress trees loom higher the deeper they go, draped with veils of Spanish moss that sway though no wind stirs. The further they go, the more the swamp seems to close in. The trees leaning, the roots twisting like barriers, the water black and still on either side of their narrow trail.
Nellie’s unease grows, but it isn’t fear. It is watchfulness. She can’t shake the sense of eyes on them, the same prickle she felt at her house just two days ago. She pauses, sweeping her gaze across the patches of stagnant water. Nothing. Just ripples fading.
Sam notices her hesitation but doesn’t call her out. He only adjusts his pack and nods ahead. “We’re getting close. Just keep moving.”
So, she does, the eerie quiet of the swamp wrapping tighter around them with every step.
The trail narrows until it is little more than a strip of mud winding between pools of black water. Moss brushes at her shoulders, cold and damp, like ghostly fingers trailing over her jacket. She catches the gleam of something pale in the muck.
“Sam,” she says softly.
He turns, following her gaze to a heap of bones half-hidden under a tangle of reeds. They are small — deer, maybe — but the gnawed edges glistened, clean and wet, as if whatever had left them hadn’t been gone long.
She crouches, brow furrowing. “These don’t look old.”
He leans over her shoulder, lips pressed thin. Then he shakes his head. “Predator sign. Gators, maybe wild dogs. Swamps are full of stuff that’ll chew through a carcass fast.”
The explanation makes sense. But still, Nellie’s gaze lingers on the water beside the bones, the way it lays black and still, swallowing sunrays whole. It feels less like a pond and more like an open mouth, waiting.
They push on, the path forcing them closer to the water. Twice she swears she hears a ripple, though when she looks, the surface is smooth again. A few minutes later, they come across another pile of remains. This one is larger. A set of ribs half-submerged in the mud, pale as driftwood. The stench hits them before the sight does, sour and thick in the back of their throats.
Nellie wrinkles her nose, pulling her flannel collar up. “That’s… not a gator.”
Sam studies the scene. “Could’ve been one. Or a boar. Swamps have their own food chain, and it’s not pretty.”
He says it steadily, but she catches the tightness in his jaw. He isn’t entirely convinced. She doesn’t press. She can’t shake the feeling that the bones aren’t leftovers. They are warnings.
The swamp grows quieter as they go. Too quiet. No insects. No frogs. Only the sucking sound of mud under their boots and the faint splash of water in the distance, like something pacing them just out of sight. It thins out just enough to show patches of open water broken by moss-draped trees. Sam slows, checking the compass in his hand, while Nellie’s gaze keeps sweeping the shadows. She’d been tense since they left the Impala, wary of branches shifting like watchers in the distance.
Then movement catches her eye. She stops short. “Sam.”
Not ten yards ahead, a horse stands ankle-deep in the murky water, its hide a damp, mossy brown that blends almost too well with the swamp. Its mane hangs heavy, tangled with reeds, but its dark eyes are fixed right on them.
“What the hell is a horse doing out here?” she questions, brows furrowed.
“Got loose from a farm maybe?” Sam replies, though his voice is uncertain. He glances around for fencing, for hoofprints, for anything to make sense of it. Nothing. “Let’s keep moving,” he continues, voice low. “If it belongs to someone, we’ll see signs soon enough.”
Nellie gives the horse one last look before they start forward again. They don’t get more than a few yards when something shoves against the back of her shoulder. Hard. She stumbles forward, catching herself with a sharp gasp.
“Okay—” She throws a look back over her shoulder, finding the horse now directly behind her. “Guess somebody’s friendly.”
Sam slows, eyes narrowing. “Probably don’t let it get too close.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine.” She brushes her jacket where the wet nose had smudged it.
They barely go two more steps before a sharp yank wrenches her backward. Nellie cries out, her hand flying to her head as the animal clamps its teeth on her ponytail and jerks hard.
“Son of a—!” She twists, furious now, yanking her hair free. She swings her arm at the animal, trying to shoo it off. “Back off! Go on, get!”
But the horse doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. It stands still as a statue, dark eyes fixed on her, its breath rasping in the heavy air. The way it watches her makes something deep in her gut turn cold.
Sam’s hand hovers near his weapon. His voice drops low, firm. “Nellie. Step back. Now.”
The weight of his tone sinks in. Her irritation flickers into unease as she obeys, moving to stand closer to him. Together, they edge backward a few paces, the swamp water sucking at their boots.
Then silence.
The horse is gone.
She spins in place, searching the reeds, the trees, the water. Nothing. No splash of retreating hooves, no distant snort. The swamp is suddenly too quiet. No frogs. No insects. Just the drip of water off the moss and the shallow rasp of their own breathing. They keep glancing over their shoulders, half-expecting the horse to come trotting back into view. Nothing. The emptiness makes Nellie’s skin crawl worse than its presence had.
Her chest tightens. “Sam… What the hell was that?”
Sam’s gaze swept the trees, sharp and restless. “Not sure yet. But horses don’t just vanish like that.”
She rubs the back of her neck where her hair still burns from the yank. “Do we even have anything to kill it with? I mean—whatever it is?”
He adjusts the shotgun slung on his shoulder, voice calm but tight. “We’ve got iron, salt rounds, silver. Enough to cover the bases.” He glances at her. “But don’t think about the kill shot yet. Think about staying sharp.”
She swallows, nodding, though her heart is pounding too fast for sharp to feel like an option. Her eyes keep darting to the water, the reeds, the shadows beneath the drooping trees. Shapes seem to shift at the edge of her vision, movement that disappears the second she turns her head.
A ripple spreads across the black water to their left.
“I see it,” he says, an acknowledgement that he sees it too. He slows his pace, shifting his weight as he brings the shotgun down.
Another ripple. This time to their right.
Her chest tightens. It isn’t gone. It is circling.
They press on, step by step, the weight of the swamp around them thick and oppressive. The path towards the coordinates is narrowing, swallowed by knee-high water and reeds.
Her voice is tight when she whispers, “It’s hunting us, isn’t it?”
Sam’s jaw works, grim. “Yeah.” He shifts his duffel higher on his shoulder, scanning the cypress shadows. “Eyes up. Don’t let it get behind you.”
A sharp splash breaks the silence, something darting through the black water just ahead. Nellie jerks back, her hand going to the knife on her belt.
“Sam.”
He holds a hand out, steady, though his jaw tightened. “Stay put. That wasn’t it. Just… testing us.”
Heart hammering, Nellie whispers, “Do we even have the right tools for… whatever the hell this is?”
His lips press tight, not giving her the comfort of certainty. “We’ll make do.”
For a few minutes, nothing moves. No splashes, no ripples. The swamp seems to exhale, heavy and still, cicadas buzzing back into the late morning as if whatever had been there is gone.
Nellie’s shoulders loosen. She lets out a shaky laugh. “Maybe it decided we weren’t worth the trouble.”
Sam doesn’t answer right away, scanning the water, the trees, the heavy curtain of moss. His voice is low when he finally speaks. “Or maybe it’s waiting for us to think that.” But even he lets his stance relax a fraction, and together they start forward again, sloshing carefully through the mud.
That’s when it hits.
A crushing weight slams into Nellie’s side, knocking the breath out of her as she is dragged off her feet and into the black water. She screams, the sound cutting short as her head goes under, bubbles exploding to the surface.
“Nellie!” Sam lunges, boots pounding through the muck.
He catches a flash beneath the surface, a dark shape, all teeth and slick muscle, dragging her deeper. Her arms flail once, her fingers breaking the surface before she is yanked down hard.
Sam braces at the edge, chest heaving, pistol clutched tight. The swamp swallows the sound around him, thick air pressing against his ears as he spins toward the thrashing water just a few feet away. Bubbles erupt, then still.
His gut clenches. For a terrible second, he thinks she is gone, dragged down into the murky depths for good.
Then it rises.
The creature bursts upward in a spray of muck and fetid water, its body grotesquely shifting between horse and human. Moss and weeds cling to its slick mane; its eyes are bottomless voids, swallowing the light. Between its teeth is Nellie. Her ponytail jerked taut in its bite, her body limp, though her arms twitch weakly against the water, a sluggish, desperate fight.
“Son of a bitch,” Sam growls.
He fires, the muzzle flashes snapping against the gloom. Bullets punch into the water around the beast, one grazing its shoulder. It rears back with a shriek like a horse’s scream twisted through a drowning man’s gurgle. The sound rattles through his chest, making his hands tremble.
“Yeah. You see me now,” he mutters, shifting his grip.
It lunges, faster than a creature that size should move. He dives sideways, his boots slipping in the muck, as swamp water splashes up his jeans. He hits hard, rolls, and comes up with the silver blade in his hand. It wheels on him, Nellie still clamped in its bite, her hair tearing at the roots as her head lolls weakly.
Sam doesn’t think; he moves. He swings the blade up as it attempts to escape with its catch, stabbing the creature in the chest. The silver sinks deep, hissing as if he’s plunged it into boiling oil. It shrieks, thrashing wildly. Its claws — half hoof, half bone — rake across Sam’s arm, shredding cloth and burning fire through his skin. He shoves harder, driving the blade deeper even as the beast’s weight crushes him into the mud. The stench of rot and stagnant water fills his nose, choking him. Black sludge pours from its wound, splattering across his shirt, stinging hot against his skin. He twists the blade, gritting his teeth.
The monster convulses, flickering between horse-shape and the bloated silhouette of a drowned man. Its shrieks tear through the swamp until finally, it collapses inward. With a wet, gut-wrenching noise, it drops Nellie from its jaws. It dissolves into the swamp, its body unraveling like it has never existed at all, while she sinks without a ripple.
Sam’s eyes widen, breath catching. The blade slips from his hand into the mud as he lunges for the water, the stillness suddenly deafening. He doesn’t hesitate. He hits the water hard, the swamp trying to swallow him whole, mud sucking at his boots as the cold closes around him. Visibility is nothing, just black water and the stench of rot filling his lungs. He claws through reeds and silt, chest burning, panic thrumming in his ears louder than his own heartbeat. His hand snags fabric. He yanks and finds her, limp, her hair swirling like drowned weeds, her face pale in the dark water. His chest clenches so tight it hurts. He hooks his arm under hers, hauling her against him, Nellie dead weight in his arms.
“Come on, kiddo,” he rasps, pulling her toward the bank, every step through the muck like dragging stone. He collapses onto the mud, rolling her onto her back, his own chest heaving.
She doesn’t move.
“No, no, no…” His hands shake as he tilts her head back, pressing his palms against her sternum. He starts compressions, counting under his breath, voice cracking on the numbers.
“One, two, three, four…”
Still nothing.
“Damn it, Nell, breathe!”
As if by command, water sputters at her lips, then again until finally she convulses, choking, water gushing out as she gasps violently for breath. She doubles over, coughing more, each breath raw like her lungs are on fire. Sam crouches beside her, one hand braced between her shoulder blades, the other steadying her wrist. He watches her like he isn’t convinced she’ll stay upright if he lets go.
“Easy,” he says low, his own voice shredded from shouting. “Just breathe. That’s it.”
When her coughing finally slows, he gently pushes her damp hair back from her face. His stomach sinks. There is blood matting against the top of her head, where a chunk of hair had been torn free and red trickles down the side of her face. His jaw tightens.
“You’re bleeding.”
Nellie winces as his fingers brushed lightly near the wound. “Guess… it didn’t like my ponytail,” she rasps, trying for humor, though her voice shakes.
Sam gives her a look. “Not funny.”
She exhales shakily, then glances toward the black water that had nearly swallowed her. “What… what the hell was that thing?”
His eyes stay on her wound a moment longer before flicking back to the swamp, scanning the surface as though the creature might reappear. His expression is grim.
“I think it was a kelpie,” he replies.
She frowns, her brows knitting. “Like the Scottish fairy-tale kelpie?”
“Yeah,” he nods, still catching his breath. “Water horse. Lures people in, drags ’em under. Usually you hear about them in Scotland, but…” He gestures to the swamp around them. “Creatures don’t exactly respect borders. Every now and then, you get… variants. This one—a swamp kelpie, maybe.”
Nellie presses her hand to her temple, wincing. Her voice is still rough, but steadying. “So… I almost got drowned by a fairy-tale horse?”
Sam gives her a tight, humorless smile. “Yeah. And you’re lucky that’s all.”
She looks at him then, still pale, but her lips quirk with the faintest edge of defiance. “Guess I should’ve stuck with worrying about alligators.”
He huffs out a breath, half a laugh and half a growl, shaking his head. Relief softens his face even as his hand lingers on her shoulder, grounding them both.
“C’mon,” he says gently. “Let’s get you out of this swamp before anything else decides you’re on the menu.”
By the time they push past the worst of the bog and come to firmer ground, Nellie’s jeans cling heavily with muck, and her hair still drips, plastering to her shoulders. She is pale and tired, but her jaw is set, and she refuses to let Sam hover too close.
“Still good?” he asks, keeping his voice even as his eyes search her face for cracks.
She nods, wiping at her temple with the sleeve of her flannel. “I’m not letting some swamp horse keep me from this bunker.”
He almost smiles at that. Instead, he adjusts the strap of the duffel over his shoulder and scans the clearing.
According to the coordinates, this is it: the place the outpost is supposed to be hidden. But all they see at first is overgrowth. Thick cypress trees lean in close, their roots knuckled like fists. Kudzu chokes the ground, climbing over half-collapsed stone that might once have been a shack or storage shed decades back. Moss droops in sheets, disguising the crumbling walls.
“This is it?” Nellie asks, skeptical. “Doesn’t look like much of a secret bunker. More like raccoon housing.”
“Trust me,” Sam mutters, stepping forward, pulling out a small flashlight. “The Men of Letters never made it easy. They’d rather let something rot into the landscape than risk someone finding their door.”
He brushes aside a curtain of moss and kneels by the stone wall. His fingers trace faint carvings worn almost to nothing. Runes. Warding sigils.
She crouches beside him, tilting her head to one side. “Looks like the same kind of wardings from our bunker.”
He nods. “Different purpose, same idea. Protection. Disguise.” His hand poises over a sigil, a pondering look spreading on his face. “This one here is an activation sigil. I wonder…” He turns back towards his niece. “How about you try powering this up. It should help us find the entrance.
She nods, placing her hand over the sigil and closing her eyes. A moment later, a warm glow shines faintly through her fingers. A low grind echoes beneath their feet, deep and mechanical, startling in a place so reclaimed by nature.
She tenses, drawing her hand back. “Tell me that wasn’t the kelpie’s big brother.”
He shakes his head, lips quirking. “No. That’s a door.”
The ground at their feet shifts, an old metal hatch hidden by overgrowth and stone groaning open just enough to reveal blackness below, damp air rushing up with a smell of iron and dust.
Sam aims his flashlight down into the dark, jaw tight but eyes alight with focus. “Baton Rouge outpost,” he murmurs. “Guess it’s been waiting for us.”
Nellie swallows, peering over his shoulder. “Yeah… but what’s waiting in there?”
He looks at her, then down again. “Only one way to find out.”
He starts down the narrow ladder, his boots clanging against the rungs. She lingers for a beat at the edge, drawing in a shaky breath before following him into the dark. It groans as she climbs down, the metal rungs slick with damp. Her boots hit the concrete floor, and a musty, papery smell rushing over her, the scent of old ink, mildew, and dust sealed away for decades.
Sam’s flashlight beam cuts through the dark hallway, highlighting a nearby doorway. It opens into some sort of archive library, rows of shelves that loomed like skeletal ribs. Leather-bound books sag under years of humidity, some their spines warped and curling. File drawers stretch along the far wall; labels faded to smudges. A table sits in the middle of the room, its surface scattered with loose pages left behind as if their owner had simply stepped out and never returned.
Nellie shivers. “It feels… wrong. Like it’s been waiting for us.”
He brushes his hand along the nearest shelf, frowning at the thick coat of dust. “It’s not haunted. Just abandoned. But these places, they keep echoes. You’ll feel it.”
Her eyes track the rows of shelves, the yellowed pages peeking out like brittle teeth. It doesn’t feel like a library anymore. It feels like a tomb of forgotten knowledge. The silence presses heavy, broken only by the slow drip of water in the distance.
Sam tugs open a drawer, the wood groaning in protest, and pulls out a folder swollen with moisture. The ink inside bleeds at the edges but is still legible. Sketches, ritual circles, notations in the neat hand of a long-gone Man of Letters.
“Any good?” Nellie asks, stepping closer, careful not to disturb the precarious stacks.
“Maybe.” He flips a page, lips tightening as he scans. “If this place really was focused on witchcraft lore, there’s bound to be something useful. We just have to dig.”
She glances into the dark stretches of shelving again, swallowing down unease. “Then I guess it’s time to start grave-robbing the library of the dead.”
Their boots echo softly against the stone floor as they move deeper into the archive. Dust drifts in the thin beams of their flashlights, making the place feel less like a library and more like a mausoleum.
“Men of Letters bunkers weren’t just bases,” he explains quietly, almost out of reverence. “Some were archives, whole lifetimes of research locked away. We’re lucky this one wasn’t picked clean.”
She nods, but her focus isn’t on his words. Something about the air here hums against her skin. Her gaze keeps snagging on certain shelves and rows, as if her instincts are urging her to look closer. She slows near one aisle, fingertips brushing the edges of the leather bindings. The pull in her chest sharpens, and she stops at a shelf half-swallowed by shadows. Without thinking, she tugs a cracked book free and flips it open.
Sam leans over her shoulder. “French.” He squints at the faded script, then gives a short nod. “Looks like Creole reports on possible witch activity.”
They set it aside on a table, and again, Nellie feels it, a tug, stronger this time. She turns and walks down another row, stopping in front of a drawer cabinet. He raises a brow as she yanks it open, sending up a puff of dust. Inside, wrapped in brittle paper, are clippings of newspapers, faded but legible.
“Coven activity,” he mutters, scanning one of them. “Scattered mentions of disappearances, rituals, old folk hysteria. Some of these date back to the 1800s.”
One more time, the pull returns, almost insistent now. Her hand drifts across another shelf, stopping at a black-bound journal with no title. She hesitates, then slides it out. After flipping through some pages, she finds a sketch: a half-closed eye, circled by jagged lines.
His face hardens; flashlight beam steady. “That’s it. That’s their mark.”
Her hand trembles slightly as she sets it beside the others. “It’s like something in me wants me to find things. Is that normal psychic shit?”
He meets her eyes, chuckling. “Sometimes instincts like yours will get you where research can’t. That’s hunting.”
He digs deeper into one of the old filing cabinets, the metal drawer screeching in protest. Most of the files are dull, property records, coded ledgers, and dry reports. But halfway through the second drawer, his hand stills. A thin folder, nearly falling apart, is marked only with a faded “NIGHTSHADE - PENNSYLVANIA.” He pulls it out and opens it carefully. Inside are brittle notes typed on Men of Letters letterhead. His brow furrows as he scans the pages.
“Nellie,” he calls, his voice low.
She looks up from the book she’d been flipping through. “What?”
He sets the file on the table, tapping the page. “Here. Correspondence between two field agents. They mention a woman named Solene. Not much detail. Just that she was one of the suspected leaders of a coven dabbling in blood rituals. But it’s there.”
Nellie leans over, eyes catching on the elegant scrawl written in the margins: Solene. Dangerous. Elusive. She swallows, whispering the name like it already carries weight. Meanwhile, she reaches for another volume, this one more of a ledger than a book, its spine cracked with age. The entries list locations of Men of Letters outposts, most crossed out in tidy red ink. She skims until one catches her eye.
“Sam… look.” She turns the book toward him. “Savannah, Georgia. Outpost 49. Notes say it housed records specifically on occult organizations.” She traces the underlined entry with her finger. “If this has fragments, Savannah might have the bigger picture.”
He leans back, exhaling slowly. “So now we’ve got a new lead: Savannah. Good find.”
The silence that follows is heavy with implication. The pieces weren’t falling into place yet, but the picture was definitely getting clearer—and darker.
Nellie lays the ledger on the table, continuing her stroll through the library. She crouches by a low shelf, her hand brushing against the cracked leather spines of books, scanning their labels. Her hand finally lands on a smaller journal wedged between the bulkier volumes. She tugs it free, blowing dust off its cover before flipping it open. Her brows furrow as she skims the pages. Lines of careful script describe “psychic manifestations.” Catalogued powers, classifications, even control methods. Some entries treat psychics like rare assets, to be studied and deployed. Others marked them as “unpredictable threats” to be neutralized. A diagram sketched in sharp ink showed restraints, sigils inked across skin like brands. Her stomach knots. The words blur, too close to what she fears people already see in her: something to fear, something to use.
Sam’s voice broke the silence. “Find something?”
She doesn’t answer at first, just keeps staring at the page. Her grip on the journal tightens, the paper crinkling faintly.
He approaches, crouching down beside her. His eyes flick to the notes, then back to her face. He sees the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her jaw clenches.
“Hey.” His voice is low, steady. “That’s not you.”
Nellie shakes her head slightly, still staring at the words. “It’s what they thought. People like me… either a weapon or a danger. Nothing in between.”
He rests a hand lightly on the edge of the journal, tilting it shut. “That’s their view. Not mine. Not Eileen’s. Not yours.” He holds her gaze until she finally looks at him. “You’re not a tool, Nellie. You’re not a threat. You’re you. And that’s enough.”
For a moment, her throat feels too tight to speak. The echoes of her mother’s cruelty, the weight of what the coven wants, all of it pressing in. But his calm steadiness gives her something to hold onto.
She exhales slowly and closes the journal fully, sliding it back onto the shelf with a soft thud. “Guess some people just see what they want to see.”
“Then we prove them wrong,” he says simply.
The words linger in the damp air, a quiet anchor as they rise to continue their search.
But as Nellie trails a step behind him, her chest still aches. His reassurance steadies her, warming something deep down that had always been starved. However, it doesn’t erase the truth of what she has read. She’d grown up invisible, treated like dead weight, a mistake, a waste of space in her own home. Now she finally has family, a place, a chance. And yet the world around her has already written her role before she even had a say: danger, weapon, burden.
Her hand brushes unconsciously against the amulet at her throat. She tightens her grip for a heartbeat, as if grounding herself in its weight. Sam believes in her. So do Eileen and Dean. That matters. But the fear remains, lodged like glass under her skin. She swallows hard and presses forward, refusing to let it slow her steps.
The hours slip by easily in the underground bunker. The stack of books on the table grows, the silence occasionally broken by casual comments and pages rustling. Sam finally snaps the ledger shut, the sound echoing in the cavernous archive. He gathers the scattered pages, sliding them back onto a shelf with care.
“We’ve got enough for today,” he says finally. His voice carries that practical edge Nellie recognizes, the tone he uses when it is time to call it. “Let’s pack this up and get back to the motel.”
She glances at him. “You don’t think we should keep looking?”
He shakes his head. “It’s too easy to get lost in here. We’ve already got more than we came for. That’s plenty to work with.” He slips a few of the file folders into his duffel and gestures to the books and notes she had gathered. “Take the ones that might still have useful scraps. The rest, we leave.”
She carefully closes the journal she’d found, tucking it under her arm. As they make their way toward the ladder, the oppressive stillness presses in on them again. Each drip of water seems louder now, as though the walls themselves don’t like giving up their secrets. Outside, the humid swamp air feels almost like a relief. Now was the long trek back to the Impala, in hopes no more kelpies would decide to become their travel partner.
• • •
The motel welcomes them like an old friend. They set their duffels on the small table, silent relief to be over for the day. Nellie heads straight for the bathroom, ready to rid herself of the muck from the swamp. The shower starts a minute later, the thin pipes rattling through the walls. Sam busies himself pulling their bunker finds onto the table, arranging the dusty files into some kind of order. When she finally emerges, her hair is damp, pulled loosely over one shoulder. There is still a rawness at her scalp where the kelpie had yanked too hard, but she catches him looking and gives him a small, lopsided smile.
“Still breathing,” she says, trying for lightness.
“Barely,” he mutters, but his voice carries more relief than reprimand.
They order greasy takeout from the only open diner, eating out of white paper bags with the bunker notes shoved to one side of the table.
Sam clears his throat once the worst of their hunger is behind them. “So. Next move—New Orleans or Savannah?”
Nellie leans back in her chair, absently poking at a fry. She knows that Sam wants to gauge her logic on what to do next, what her hunter instincts tell her to do next. “Savannah’s a sure thing if the Men of Letters left anything behind. But Camille…” She hesitates, then nods. “We need all the help we can get. If she knows her stuff, she might make sense of Marcus’s lore and whatever we found today.”
He studies her, then nods slowly. “Yeah. Camille first. We’ll see what she has to say before we start chasing down another outpost.”
For a moment, the room goes quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner. She glances down at her food, voice quieter now. “What do you think Dean would’ve said?”
He smirks faintly, the ghost of a memory tugging at him. “Dean? He’d have voted New Orleans. No hesitation. Said the food alone was worth it.”
Her smile comes small but real, her shoulders loosening a little. “Figures.” She lets out a soft huff of laughter. “Guess we’re doing what he wouldn’t.”
He chuckles under his breath, a flash of fondness crossing his face. “Yeah. But he’d be proud you’re making the call.”
The decision settles between them, steadier than the flickering neon outside. Later, as Nellie drifts toward her bed, exhaustion finally pulling her down, Sam stays up a while longer with the files. His eyes keep flicking toward her sleeping form, that fatherly worry still stirring in his chest. He could have lost her today, but she is here, resting peacefully despite the events of the day. And for the first time since the swamp, the room feels calm again.
• • •
The streets of New Orleans pulsed with morning life. Jazz spilling faintly from open doorways, the smell of chicory coffee and fried dough drifting on the humid air. Sam guides the Impala down a narrower road just off the historic downtown, the towering live oaks draped in Spanish moss making the whole block feel older than the city around it.
Nellie presses her hands together in her lap, eyes flicking between the buildings. The colorful houses with wrought-iron balconies and chipped shutters reminded her of postcards she’d seen in gas stations. Now she is here, pulling up in front of one. The sign over the narrow front porch read “Madame Camille – Readings & Palmistry.” Painted in curling gold letters, it leans into every stereotype of a French Quarter fortune teller. But there are subtle details that make her chest tighten with nerves; protective sigils etched into the wrought-iron railing, charms hidden among the wind chimes. The kind of things only someone who knows what to look for would notice.
Sam parks and kills the engine. “This is it.”
She smooths her palms down her jeans, a knot of nerves in her stomach churning. She is eager to learn more about the coven, but stepping into the home of a woman who had once practiced the same craft that hunts her is another thing entirely.
He notices her hesitation but doesn’t push. He just nods toward the porch. “Ready?”
She nods quickly, even though her heart skips a beat. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
They climb the steps, and Sam knocks on the dark green door. A moment later, the door swings open to reveal a woman in her fifties, with sharp cheekbones, silver-streaked curls piled on her head, and eyes that seem to miss nothing. She wears a simple linen dress, beads at her throat, and her presence fills the doorway like she’s been expecting them all along.
“Samuel Winchester,” she says, her voice warm but edged with dry amusement. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Sam gives a faint smile. “Camille. Thanks for seeing us.”
Her gaze shifts to Nellie, assessing in one long look that made Nellie’s spine stiffen. The weight of it feels different than Marcus’s probing. More like Camille is peeling back layers, not just testing her story but her soul.
“And you’ve brought a partner,” Camille says. The word hangs deliberately in the air.
Nellie swallows, managing a slight nod. “Nellie Branscomb.”
The woman’s lips twitch, not quite a smile, but her voice softens a shade. “Come in, both of you. The city doesn’t wait, but stories do.”
She steps aside, and the scent of sage and old paper spilling out of the dim interior, where shelves of books and charms crowd the walls. Sam holds the door for Nellie. She hesitates just long enough to feel her pulse jump, then steps through.
Camille leads them through the shop’s front parlor, where shelves of crystals, painted decks of cards, and brass bells cater to tourists. The air smells faintly of incense. She pushes open a door and ushers them into a private study that feels like another world entirely, cooler, quieter, lined with overstuffed bookcases. Jars of dried herbs and powders crowd the shelves, candles half-burned on every surface. A desk lamp throws a golden pool of light across a table draped in a dark cloth.
“Please,” the woman says, voice soft but carrying authority, “make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee?”
Sam shakes his head politely. “We’re fine, thank you.”
Nellie murmurs something similar, though her hands fidget in her lap as she sits. She can’t help scanning the room, at the strange little charms nailed above the doorway, the faded photographs tucked into frames, the careful, deliberate way everything is arranged. This isn’t just for show. She also can’t ignore the energy that thrums around her like a hummingbird’s wings. It isn’t as menacing as she expected, but there is a weight to it.
Camille settles into the seat opposite them. Her gaze shifts between the two hunters, weighing, measuring. “It’s been some time since I’ve had hunters here,” she says conversationally. “Most of my clients come for the card readings. They don’t realize how much of this is… more than a parlor trick.” There is an almost teasing curl to her lips.
Nellie finds herself half-smiling despite the nerves twisting in her gut.
Sam leans forward slightly. “We appreciate you meeting with us. Marcus Hale said you were someone we could trust with… sensitive matters.”
The woman inclines her head, clearly pleased at the name. “Marcus is a stubborn man, but he’s survived longer than most. If he sent you to me, you must be circling something serious.” Her eyes flick toward the girl, lingering just a moment too long.
Nellie tries not to squirm under the attention.
“And you,” Camille says suddenly, voice sharpening like a needle sliding into fabric. “You’re psychic.”
The words land like a stone dropping in still water. Her breath hitches, her spine stiffening.
Sam’s shoulders tense beside her, but the woman lifts a hand, placating. “Relax. I don’t mean it as a threat.” She studies her openly now, eyes narrowing with quiet curiosity. “You carry the weight differently. And strong.”
Nellie opens her mouth, then closes it again. Heat crawls up her neck. She has never liked the word — psychic — even when Sam used it gently. Hearing it laid bare by a stranger makes her feel exposed, like someone had yanked a curtain back.
Camille softens her tone, leaning back in her chair. “I don’t see many like you sitting at a table with hunters. Usually, they hide… or they burn out. But you—” she tilts her head, studying the girl’s silence with care, “—you’ve still got a lot of fight in you. That counts for something.”
Sam clears his throat, redirecting. He slides the folder they’d brought onto the table, steady and deliberate. “We’re not here about her. Not directly. We’re here because of this. What do you know about the Nightshade?”
The woman’s gaze drops to the drawing of the half-closed eye, circled in a crown of briars. Her expression stills. “What does a psychic have to do with a coven?” she asks finally, voice quiet but pointed. Finally, she exhales, long and low, like she’s been holding it for years. She pushed the paper back toward them with two fingers. “Nightshade.” The word itself seems to chill the room. “I haven’t heard that name spoken out loud in… decades.”
He leans in, his voice even. “So, you have heard of them.”
Her dark eyes flick to him, then to Nellie, before she nods. “More than just heard. When I was young, before I walked away from the craft, their stories were used to frighten us. Even witches fear other witches, you understand. And Nightshade… they were something else entirely.” She folds her hands together tightly, knuckles pale. “They dabbled in the obscure. Dark magic others wouldn’t touch. Branches of witchcraft most covens swore off, too dangerous or too twisted. And they wore it like a crown. To them, nothing was off-limits. So long as it pushed the boundary of what was possible.”
Nellie feels the fine hairs rise along her arms.
Camille’s gaze shifts to her, softer now, though no less unsettling. “And if their mark is showing up again, it means they’ve found something worth coming back for.”
She swallows, throat tight. Sam’s jaw ticks, but he keeps his tone controlled. “Marcus told us they were thought to have ended in the late 19th century.”
“That was the rumor,” the woman agrees. “There were fires, hangings, families ruined in their wake. Some said it broke them. Others whispered they simply learned to burrow deeper. I wanted to believe the first version, that the nightmares were over. I built a life outside of it on that belief.” Her voice falters for a moment, then steadies. “But if you’re here, with this…” She taps the symbol, careful not to touch it too long. “…then I was a fool. They don’t burn out. They hibernate.”
The weight of the words settles heavily in the study. Nellie’s pulse is loud in her ears, but she forces herself to ask, “What did they… want?”
Camille regards her for a long beat, something unreadable in her gaze. “Power. Always power. But not the scraps most covens claw after. Nightshade wanted permanence. Influence. They craved ways to bring forces into this plane and keep them here.” Her voice lowers, almost to a whisper. “There were rumors… whispers that they experimented with making conduits for dark forces. Vessels crafted to hold things that don’t belong here. The kind of things that tear through the veil.” She shakes her head slowly. “But nothing was ever proven. Maybe their experiments failed, or maybe the vessels just weren’t strong enough. Either way, the result was the same: bodies broken, lives shattered, silence in their wake.”
Her words linger like smoke, thick and hard to breathe through. Nellie shifts in her chair, trying to shake off the cold prickle running down her arms, but it clings stubbornly, as if her skin itself knows it isn’t done with her.
Sam clears his throat softly, steady as ever. He doesn’t push at her silence, just turns his focus back to Camille with the same patient intensity he always uses when hunting for answers.
“In Baton Rouge,” he begins, sliding another folder across the table, “we found fragments. Files, journals. Some scraps connected to the Nightshade name, others to a woman called Solene. Does that mean anything to you?”
Camille hesitates, her fingers brushing the edge of the folder but not opening it just yet. “Solene…” She speaks the name like tasting something half-forgotten. Her brow furrows. “It’s not one I’ve heard, not in connection to Nightshade at least. But that doesn’t mean much. They liked to change names. Faces. It made them harder to pin down. If she was tied to them, she may have been one of the few bold enough to leave a mark behind.”
He nods slightly, as if he’d expected as much. “There was also a reference to another Men of Letters outpost in Savannah. Seemed like whoever kept the records thought it was a hub for their occult-related files.”
At that, her eyes sharpen. “Savannah’s always been a nexus for that kind of power. Old blood, old secrets. If Nightshade ever left traces anywhere, you might find them there. But…” She leans forward now, serious. “Don’t go blind. Savannah’s ghosts aren’t just stories, and you’ll find more than Nightshade lurking in those records.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “That’s a risk we’ll take.”
Nellie finally finds her voice, though it comes out quieter than she intends. “That bunker could hold more than just their history. It could hold proof of what they did.”
The woman’s gaze softens just a fraction, studying her. “Maybe. Or maybe it holds their blueprint for what comes next.” She leans back in her chair, eyes narrowing. Her voice softens, almost absentminded. “Your aura’s never quiet, is it? It’s like a room where the walls don’t hold sound.”
She freezes. She doesn’t like the way Camille says it, not cruel, but as if someone is identifying a dangerous truth.
Before she can respond, the former witch leans forward and extends both hands across the table. “Let me see,” she says gently.
Nellie glances at Sam. He gives the faintest nod, not exactly approving, but letting her decide. With a hesitant breath, she places her hands into Camille’s.
The change is instant. The woman’s expression flickers. Awe, then something close to alarm. Her eyes flutter shut as if she’s touched a live current. Nellie feels warmth pulse through her palms, but beneath it a pull, like someone tugging at the edges of a thread she hadn’t meant to unravel.
Camille releases her suddenly, almost too quickly. She lets out a long, steadying breath and shakes her head. “Good Lord. I’ve known my share of psychics, but you—” She breaks off, staring at the girl like she isn’t sure whether to be impressed or unsettled. “I don’t think you have any idea what you’re carrying inside you.”
Nellie pulls her hands back into her lap, tensing as if she’s been caught out.
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she says quietly.
“No one does.” Her voice has softened again, but the weight of it is heavier now. “But there’s a reason that coven has their eye on you. Power like that doesn’t go unnoticed. And the kind of power you hold?” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “It’s rare enough to make you a prize. Or a target.”
Sam leans forward slightly, his protective edge showing in the tension of his shoulders. “What exactly do you mean by that?”
She looks at him, then back at Nellie. “I mean, you need to be careful. You don’t have to know why they want you to know that they do. That’s enough. And until you learn how to shield that power, until you learn control… you’ll shine like a beacon to anyone who knows what to look for.”
His expression shifts. The practiced hunter’s mask, the calm, tactical exterior, slipping just enough for something else to show through. He leans back in his chair, broad shoulders tense, and for a moment it isn’t the veteran hunter in him speaking, but something more raw, more human.
“She’s not a weapon,” he says, his tone low, steady, but with a quiet steel that carries the weight of more than hunting. “And she’s not theirs to take.” His hand curls into a fist against the table before easing again, like he is forcing himself to stay measured, to keep the father in him from breaking cover.
Nellie blinks at him, surprised by the intensity in his voice. It isn’t the calm lecture tone she’s come to expect from him, nor the practical warnings about what they are up against. It is protective, visceral. She feels the words settle into her chest, heavier than she wants to admit.
Camille catches it, too. Her sharp gaze darts between them, lingering on Sam a beat longer than is comfortable. “That didn’t sound like a hunter talking about a partner,” she says softly, not cruelly, but with the intuition of someone who has spent a lifetime reading more than just words.
His jaw works. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His silence, his posture, the way his eyes flick toward Nellie like he is keeping her tethered in place. It all betrays him.
Her mouth curves, not quite a smile, not unkind. “You care too much for her to just be another hunter on the road with you. There’s more to this story than you’re telling me.”
Nellie freezes, her hands tightening around her knees. Sam doesn’t move, though she can feel his whole body go still beside her.
Camille’s gaze flicks between them, then settles on Nellie. “You’ve been hunted already. I can see it in the way you carry yourself. In the way he —” she tips her chin at Sam —“watches you like a hawk every second. You don’t get that kind of bond on a handful of hunts. That’s years, or something deeper.”
Her stomach twists. She darts a glance at her uncle, but his jaw has locked, his silence heavy.
“Sam,” she whispers, voice so small it nearly cracks. “Should we tell her?”
That breaks something in him. His eyes lift to hers, soft but pained, and for a moment she sees the war inside him plain as day. The hunter in him wants to stay shut tight, to keep their secrets buried where no one could use them against her. But the other part — the man who had stayed up with her through nightmares, who taught her how to hold a shotgun, who’d put himself between her and every shadow that moved — looks like it wants to give her anything she asks.
He finally speaks, low and controlled. “It’s not that simple.”
Camille didn’t push, not exactly. But her voice was quiet steel. “The Nightshade Coven doesn’t circle a psychic without reason. If you’re holding back, you might be holding the very thing that explains why they’re coming for you. Secrets can get people killed.”
Nellie swallows hard, her chest tight. Images she doesn’t want come rushing back anyway: her mother’s shrill voice in the kitchen, the knife in her hand, the blood that wouldn’t stop. Roger’s body burning in the motel room, and the smell of smoke in her hair. Waking up in hallways she didn’t remember walking, only to realize later her body had been warning her about something watching, something creeping close.
She forces her eyes up from the floor. “Sam…” Her voice breaks before she steadies it. “What if she can actually help us? What if she understands?”
His hand flexes on his knee, restrained, knuckles white. He turns away, exhaling sharply through his nose, the battle plain on his face.
Camille lets the silence stretch before she leans forward, her tone softer but no less cutting. “You came here for truth. But you can’t demand it from me if you’re unwilling to share your own. The Nightshade doesn’t play games. If they want this girl—” her gaze sharpens on Nellie—“then it’s because of who she is, not who she pretends to be.”
The words hung heavy in the room, the silence stretching until Nellie thinks she might choke on it. Then Sam’s shoulders drop, just slightly, like he’s come to some hard decision.
“All right,” he says finally, his voice low, steady. “But this doesn’t go beyond this room.”
The woman gives a single nod. “Understood.”
He leans forward, bracing his forearms on his knees. “Her mother, Eleanor, wasn’t much of a witch. Dabbled enough to get attention, enough to hurt people. When I first came across the case, it was because Eleanor was holding Nellie hostage in that house, tied up in her own mess of spells. Nellie fought back.” His voice softens, glancing at her. “Killed her mother in self-defense.”
Nellie’s throat tightens, shame and memory flashing sharp in her chest. But he doesn’t let the pause linger.
“After that, things escalated. There was a ritualistic fire that killed Eleanor’s ex-husband. Eleanor’s body went missing before I could salt and burn it. We’ve had incidents since then: sleepwalking that turned out to be warnings of someone watching her, a break-in that nearly got Nellie killed. And in her house, I found hex bags stashed everywhere.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out the one he’d kept back. He places it on the table between them. “Most of them were sloppy, clearly the work of an amateur. But there were two in Nellie’s bedroom that were different. We burned them, but I kept this one for research.”
Camille leans forward, her fingers brushing the edges without touching the core of the bag. Her eyes narrow as she studies the sigils, turning the hex bag over in her hands; the fabric is worn, but the inked sigils remain sharp against the weave. Her thumb traces one symbol, then another, her face tightening the longer she stares at it.
“This isn’t the work of a low-level witch,” she says at last, her voice low, decisive. “Not even close. That woman may have fancied herself a witch, but her bags sound sloppy. Petty bindings, cheap manipulations meant to keep someone docile.” She lifts the bag slightly, her gaze flicking to the girl. “But this? Whoever made this knew what they were doing.”
Sam leans forward in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Then what’s it for?”
She tilts her head, the lamplight catching the silver strands in her hair. “Suppression. First and foremost. You see the way this line crosses back in on itself? That’s a chokehold. Meant to smother psychic energy. Keep it muffled. Contained.”
Nellie’s stomach turns, a chill crawling up her spine. “You mean… it was meant to shut me down?”
“Not just that.” Camille’s thumb presses against another sigil, one that seems to shimmer faintly in the light. “There’s a second layer. More dangerous.” She looks up, eyes grave. “It’s a tether. Whoever crafted this left themselves a window. A way to feel for you. To know when your energy spiked, or when you pushed back. They could have tracked you, maybe not with a pin on a map, but enough to know when you were stirring.”
Sam’s jaw tightens, a flicker of restrained fury in his eyes. “So, Eleanor wasn’t just keeping her under her thumb. Someone else was monitoring her.”
She nods. “Exactly. Eleanor’s bags, those were emotional shackles. Child’s play. But this?” She sets the hex bag down on the table like it burns. “This was careful. Clean. It wasn’t about keeping you in line. It was about watching. About making sure you didn’t wake up too early.”
Nellie’s hands fisted in her lap. Her throat feels dry, her voice cracking when she forces it out. “So I wasn’t just trapped in that house because of her. They—” She swallows hard. “They were making sure I stayed small.”
Camille’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t look away. “Yes. And the fact that you’ve broken past it now? That you’re not muffled anymore?” Her tone drops, weighted with certainty. “That means they know. They’ve known for a while. And it’s why they’re coming.”
Sam sits back, eyes fixed on the table, but his hand is flexing like he needs something to hit. His fatherly restraint wares with the hunter’s anger boiling beneath the surface. Finally, he exhales, steady but sharp. “Then we burn every last tether they try to put on her.”
Her lips twitch at the corner, almost with a hint of sadness. “You’d better. Because someone went to a lot of trouble to keep her quiet. Now that she’s not, I don’t think they’ll stop until they have her.”
Nellie’s heart pounds, her pulse echoing in her ears. She thinks back to the hall closet, the bloodstain on the kitchen floor, the fire. The way she always feels like she is carrying chains, even before she understood why. And now she knows. It hadn’t just been her mother. It had been them. Watching. Waiting.
She shifts in her chair, thumb worrying the edge of her amulet chain as she stares at the hex bag on the table. Her voice is quiet, but steady. “If the Nightshade were really that exclusive, if they dabbled in magic most witches wouldn’t touch, then why bother with someone like my mother? Eleanor was… mediocre at best. Half the time, she couldn’t even make a hex bag work right.”
Camille’s gaze flicked toward her, sharp with curiosity. She took her time answering, tapping her fingers once against the arm of her chair. “That’s the question, isn’t it? The Nightshade didn’t waste time on dabblers. They weren’t recruiters. They didn’t train novices. If they circled your mother, it wasn’t because of her skill.”
Sam leans forward, brow furrowing. “Then what?”
Her expression softens slightly, though the weight in her tone remains unchanged. “Maybe she wanted in, and they turned her away. It would explain the bitterness, the desperation. But more likely…” She gestured faintly to the bag. “…they saw use in her anyway. A witch who wasn’t good enough to be trusted inside the coven, but desperate enough to run their errands? Keep an eye on someone? Plant a seed where they couldn’t go themselves?”
Nellie’s stomach twists. “Use her.”
She inclines her head. “Exactly. They weren’t above exploiting outsiders when it served their goals. If Eleanor wasn’t strong enough to join them, she may have been angry about it—but she still did their bidding.” Her gaze pins the girl with a quiet weight. “And if you were the focus of that bidding…”
Sam’s jaw tightens, protective anger flickering through the calm mask he wears. “Then she wasn’t just desperate. She was their tool.”
She sits back, her voice low, almost grim. “The truth is, we may never know why they humored her. But one thing’s clear: Eleanor was a rung on their ladder. And whatever they were climbing toward… you’re still at the top.”
Nellie sits very still, her nails pressing half-moons into her palms. The idea settles over her like a damp cloth, heavy and suffocating. “It is me. I was the reason she begged, schemed, burned her bridges. All of it came back to me.” She doesn’t look up, afraid that if she does, she’ll see confirmation in Sam’s eyes. Confirmation that her mother’s choices, Eleanor’s failures, weren’t just her own. They had been tethered to Nellie since birth.
He sees the storm in her silence but doesn’t press. Instead, he rises, thanking Camille for her time, but she lifts a hand, stopping them before they can reach the door. “One more thing.” Her tone has shifted, no longer the conversational weight of folklore, but the cool edge of instruction. “You’ve heard of scrying stones?” she asks.
His brows draw together. “Old tools. Rare, even in the Men of Letters’ circles. Most hunters think they’re just witch trinkets.”
The former witch gives a faint, humorless smile. “That’s because most hunters have never held one. They’re more than trinkets. Crafted by fusing a naturally reflective surface—obsidian, quartz, polished jet—with enchantments. A good one can map ley lines, uncover what’s been hidden, even magnify magical signatures that would otherwise stay invisible.”
Nellie leans forward slightly, curiosity sparking through the unease still sitting heavy in her chest. “So… it could help us find the coven?”
“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly. “If the Nightshade are still weaving their work across ley lines, and I’d bet my life they are, then a scrying stone could be the thread you follow back to their loom. And with someone like you holding it…” Her gaze locks onto the girl, sharp, probing. “…your abilities would make it sing.”
Sam stiffens beside her. “What’s the catch?”
She sighs. “Amplification goes both ways. A scrying stone would sharpen your reach, Nellie. But it would also sharpen theirs. Think of it like turning up the volume on a radio. You’ll hear clearer, yes, but anyone tuned to your frequency will hear you, too. And the Nightshade? They’d come running.”
The room falls quiet. Nellie’s stomach twists as she thinks of the faceless feeling of being seen back at the Branscomb house. The idea of drawing that on purpose chills her.
“So, if we find one…” he says slowly, “…we’d be walking a razor’s edge.”
Camille nods. “Exactly. Use it, and you may bring them to you before you’re ready. Don’t use it, and you may never find them at all. That’s the trade.”
Nellie looks to her uncle, then back at the woman. Her voice is soft, but steady. “So what you’re saying is, it could be a map… or a beacon.”
She gives her a look that is almost approving but underscored by warning. “And sometimes, child, there’s no difference.”
Silence surrounds them once again. The energy still buzzes around Nellie, this time foreboding.
Sam guides his niece towards the exit. “Thank you for your help.”
She gives a polite nod and a small smile. “It was a pleasure finally meeting a Winchester.”
The door of the townhouse clicks shut behind them, and the two of them descend the steps in silence. The New Orleans sun feels too bright after the heaviness of Camille’s study. Nellie slides into the passenger seat of the Impala, the leather warm beneath her palms. Sam shuts his door, starts the engine, but doesn’t shift into gear. The car idles, the rumble of it filling the silence between them.
“She made it sound like we’d be playing with dynamite,” she says finally, voice tight. “That stone, if it even exists, we could end up leading the coven straight to us.”
His hands stay on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead, though they haven’t moved. “She’s not wrong. A scrying stone’s a double-edged blade. The Men of Letters had a few… and even they were wary of using them.” He shakes his head. “For a coven like this? They’d smell blood in the water the second you touched it.”
She exhales, pressing her palms against her thighs to ground herself. “But if it works, if it helps us find them… then maybe it’s worth the risk.” She bites her lip, then adds quietly, “I’m tired of waiting for them to come to me.”
He turns to her then, his expression sharp with concern. “That’s exactly what they want, to push you into a corner where you think the only way out is walking right into their arms. Don’t let them frame this as your choice, Nell. We’ll do this smart. Careful. Not reckless.”
She met his gaze, searching it. “But you’re not ruling it out.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. “No. Because I can’t. If it’s the only way…” His voice softens, the steel giving way to something gentler. “But not until we’ve exhausted every other option. Not until I know you’re ready.”
Nellie leans back against the seat, staring out the window at the bustle of the city beyond. She doesn’t argue, but her hands are still trembling in her lap. The words Camille left her with — map or beacon — echo like a tolling bell in the back of her mind.
Sam finally shifts the Impala into drive, pulling them away from the curb. “One step at a time,” he says, more to himself than to her.
• • •
The diner feels worlds different than Camille’s study. Red vinyl booths patched with duct tape, a counter lined with coffee-stained mugs, the scent of frying bacon and burnt toast thick in the air. Sam slides into a booth, Nellie across from him, and a waitress who looks like she’d been there since the ‘60s pours them both steaming coffees before disappearing again.
He pulls out a map, spreading it across the table between them. “We could push straight through and hit Savannah by late tonight, or we could take it low and slow. One way or another, we’ll get there.”
She tears at the corner of her napkin absentmindedly. “And if something is lurking in those swamps, too?” she asks, arching a brow.
He smirks. “Then we deal with it. Preferably before it tries to drown you.”
She makes a face, then grins. “Yeah, well, this time I’ll be ready. Hell, maybe this time we’ll see a unicorn.”
He just chuckles, the sound low and warm.
For a moment, the weight of everything lifts, and it feels like a regular lunch stop on a road trip. But as Nellie wraps her hands around the coffee mug, her smile dims. The laughter fades into something quieter, unsettled.
“Sam,” she says after a long pause, “do you think the scrying stone’s even worth it?”
He leans back, considering. “If we find one, it could help us track them, maybe even cut through some of their wards. But…” His gaze flicks up to hers, steady. “Our first priority is Savannah. We need more information before we gamble with something that dangerous.”
She nods slowly, eyes on the map, though she isn’t really seeing it. Camille’s words pressing in on her again, heavy and cold: “Your aura’s never quiet, is it? It’s like a room where the walls don’t hold sound.”
She sips her coffee, letting the bitterness settle on her tongue, and tries to ignore the ache in her chest, the fear that maybe the coven is right. Maybe she really is just a beacon waiting to be lit.
Sam folds the map, sliding it aside so it doesn’t serve as a barrier between them anymore. His elbows rest on the table, hands cradling his coffee mug, but his eyes stay on her.
“How are you holding up? Really,” he asks, his voice low, almost careful. “After the house, Marcus, the bunker, and now Camille… that’s a lot to take in.”
Nellie’s fingers trace the rim of her mug, her nails catching on a chip in the ceramic. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed on the tabletop like the woodgrain holds something worth studying.
“I don’t know,” she admits finally, her voice quiet. “It’s like… every time we learn something new, I feel like I should be relieved. Like, we’re closer to figuring out what this coven wants. But instead it just…” She exhales hard, shaking her head. “It makes me feel like I’m standing on thinner and thinner ice.”
He nods slowly, letting the silence stretch before speaking. “That’s not unusual. Hunting always feels like you’re piecing together a puzzle while the floor’s giving out under you. But this…” He leans in a little closer. “This isn’t just the coven. It’s personal for you.”
Her throat tightens. She forces herself to look up and meet his eyes. “Camille said they want me because of what I can do. And yeah, she didn’t know exactly why, but… I can’t stop thinking about it. What if she’s right? What if I’m just… exactly what they’ve been waiting for? What if I screw up?” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she covers it with a sip of coffee, pretending it is just the heat that burned her throat.
He doesn’t push, doesn’t tell her she is wrong outright. He just lets out a steady breath, his gaze firm. “Then we make sure they never get the chance.”
Nellie swallows, trying to anchor herself to the steadiness in his tone. She wants to believe it is that simple, that straightforward. But under the table, her hands are still trembling.
Her words had cut deep for Sam. His hand stays steady on the table, palm open like an anchor for her to grab onto if she needs it. His voice is low, even, carrying more weight than volume. “You listen to me, Nellie. You are not your mother. You’re not a weapon waiting to go off, and you’re sure as hell not alone in this. You’re my partner. That means every step of this — every risk, every fight — we face it together.”
Her throat works, but she doesn’t speak.
He leans in a little closer, his eyes locked on hers. “I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. This coven’s dangerous. What they want from you? It scares the hell out of me. But that doesn’t make you the threat; it makes them the threat. And I’ll be damned before I let them twist who you are into something you’re not.”
For a beat, the clatter of the diner seems far away, drowned out by the quiet conviction in his voice.
“You asked what happens if you screw up?” His mouth pulls into the faintest, grim smile. “Then I’ll be right there to back you up. Same way your dad always was for me. That’s how this works. We don’t let each other fall.”
She blinks hard, tears threatening, but stubbornly holds them back.
He sits back a little, softer now, but just as firm. “And as for me, one day having to stop you?” He shakes his head once, final. “Not gonna happen. Because you’re stronger than you think, and because I won’t let you go through this without someone in your corner. You’ve got me, Nell. Always.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her eyes drop to the table, to the chipped laminate where Sam’s hand still rests open between them. Slowly, she nods, the motion small but deliberate.
“Okay,” she whispers, her voice steady but quiet, as though louder words might break the fragile ground beneath her.
He studies her. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like acceptance. But he can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers still twist the edge of her napkin. He knows the doubt is still there, coiled tight inside her. She wants to believe him, needs to. But belief takes time. So, he doesn’t push. He just gives a single nod back, letting the silence stretch, as if to promise that when she is ready to believe in herself fully, he’ll still be right there.
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