Chapter 19: Recognition
The coffee shop on SW Taylor had become Cole's preferred morning spot—not the one on Quimby where Heather worked, not the anonymous place he'd used after the Renard meeting. Somewhere new. Somewhere that hadn't become a pattern yet.
He sat near the window with a double espresso and case notes spread across the table, playing the part of a working professional while his enhanced senses catalogued everyone who entered. The Detection Matrix had become second nature now, a passive awareness that identified Wesen as easily as noting hair color or height.
Three humans at the counter. One Fuchsbau reading a newspaper in the corner. A Eisbiber couple arguing quietly about something domestic near the bathroom.
Normal Portland morning.
Then she walked in.
[HEXENBIEST DETECTED. CLASS B THREAT. CAUTION ADVISED.]
Cole's hand tightened on his coffee cup. He didn't need the system to tell him who she was—he'd recognize that face anywhere. Blonde hair pulled back in a professional twist. Charcoal suit that probably cost more than his monthly rent. The kind of beauty that made people stupid, paired with the intelligence to exploit that stupidity ruthlessly.
Adalind Schade.
Future poisoner of Hank Griffin. Future mother of Nick's stolen child. Future Hexenbiest who would lose her powers, regain them, and play every side against every other until the world burned.
She ordered something complicated—a half-caf oat milk latte with extra foam, because of course she did—and waited by the pickup counter, scrolling through her phone with the practiced disinterest of someone who knew she was being watched and didn't care.
Cole forced himself to look back at his case notes. The words blurred together. His pulse had accelerated, and not just from the espresso.
She's dangerous. She's connected to Renard. She's going to cause catastrophic damage to people I might need.
All true. All logical reasons to avoid her entirely.
But logic had nothing to do with the way his eyes kept drifting back to her profile.
The Blutbad instincts stirred—not with hunger, not with aggression, but with something more primal. Recognition of a fellow predator. Appreciation for the elegance of a perfectly evolved hunting machine.
Stop it. She's not prey, and she's definitely not a potential anything.
Adalind collected her drink and turned toward the door. Their eyes met.
She had green eyes. Cole hadn't expected that. The show's color grading had made them seem grey, but in person they were a clear, sharp green that reminded him of shallow water over rocks.
She smiled politely—the automatic social response of someone acknowledging a stranger's attention—and walked out.
Cole watched her go, noting the way she moved, the briefcase with "Berman & Associates" embossed on the leather, the direction she turned on the sidewalk. Southwest, toward the law offices clustered around Pioneer Courthouse Square.
[TARGET ASSESSMENT: ADALIND SCHADE. NO VALID TARGETING CRITERIA. SPECIES: HEXENBIEST (ACTIVE). POLITICAL AFFILIATION: RENARD FACTION. RECOMMENDATION: OBSERVE ONLY.]
Observe only. Right.
He finished his coffee and gathered his notes. The espresso was excellent—the same roast Adalind had ordered, he realized, which meant nothing except that they both had good taste in coffee.
This is stupid. You know exactly who she is and what she'll become. Getting involved is the worst possible choice.
The logical part of his mind agreed completely.
The part that remembered her smile disagreed.
Cole spent the next three hours researching Adalind Schade through legitimate channels.
His PI license gave him access to databases that would be illegal for civilians—background checks, property records, court filings. He used them all, building a profile of a woman who existed in perfect public respectability.
Adalind Schade, 28. Stanford Law, graduated top 10% of her class. Passed the Oregon bar on her first attempt. Associate at Berman & Associates for three years, specializing in corporate litigation and estate planning. No criminal record. No civil judgments. No visible skeletons of any kind.
Her apartment was in the Pearl District—expensive but not extravagant, the kind of place a successful young attorney would live. Her car was a BMW 3-series, leased through the firm. Her social media presence was minimal and carefully curated, showing exactly the life a rising legal star should show.
She hides well.
But Cole knew what she was hiding. The Hexenbiest heritage passed down through generations. The connection to the Royal families that gave her access to power most humans couldn't imagine. The schemes already in motion to destroy Nick Burkhardt's life before he could threaten the supernatural status quo.
He pulled up court records and found something interesting.
Adalind had represented several clients connected to Crown Properties LLC—the same Royal-connected shell company that had employed Marcus Volk. The same company that had led to his meeting with Renard.
She's not just working for Renard. She's working for the Royals through Renard.
The implications spread like cracks in ice. Adalind was connected to people who would kill Cole without hesitation if they knew what he was. Her presence in his awareness wasn't opportunity—it was danger.
So stay away. Forget you saw her. Focus on targets that matter.
Cole closed the research file and opened a new one.
Victor Marsh. Hundjäger. Verrat-affiliated trafficker.
The system had provided the target information two days ago, but Cole had been distracted by the Renard meeting and its aftermath. Now he had work to do.
Real work. Not whatever this obsession with Adalind is.
He started building a file on Marsh, pushing thoughts of green eyes and complicated coffee orders to the back of his mind.
They didn't stay there.
The gym on Hawthorne catered to serious fighters—MMA practitioners, boxers, the occasional bouncer looking to stay sharp. Cole joined under his real name, paid three months in advance, and started training the same day.
The heavy bag absorbed his frustration with satisfying thuds.
His enhanced strength made every punch potentially destructive, so he focused on technique instead of power. Jab-cross combinations. Body hooks. The fundamentals Decker had drilled into him, refined through repetition until they became reflex.
Keep the rage contained. Use it. Don't let it use you.
The Blutbad instincts appreciated the violence, but they also appreciated the control. A predator who couldn't restrain itself was a liability. A predator who chose when to strike was dangerous in a way that raw aggression could never match.
"Hey."
Cole turned to find a woman watching him—mid-thirties, athletic build, observing his technique with professional interest.
"You've got good form. Military?"
"Law."
Her eyebrows rose. "Lawyer who fights like that? Interesting combination."
"It's a complicated profession."
She laughed and offered her hand. "Mira Chen. I teach the advanced class on Thursdays. You should join."
"Cole Ashford. I might take you up on that."
They chatted briefly—gym small talk, nothing significant—but Cole filed her away as a potential contact. Mira moved like someone who'd been in real fights, and her assessment of his technique had been accurate enough to suggest genuine expertise.
Normal human connections. Remember what those feel like.
He finished his workout and showered, letting hot water wash away the tension that had been building since he'd seen Adalind that morning. The attraction was inconvenient, potentially dangerous, and completely irrelevant to his actual goals.
Focus on Marsh. Focus on the hunt. Everything else is distraction.
He drove home through Portland's evening traffic, windows down despite the November chill, letting the cold air sharpen his thoughts.
Tomorrow he would begin surveillance on the trafficking operation.
Tonight he would review everything he knew about Hexenbiests and remind himself why getting involved with one was the worst idea imaginable.
Neither plan worked as intended.
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