Chapter 3 Grace
GRACE
New Orleans never really sleeps. The city just changes its rhythm by morning.
The French Quarter hums with life again, delivery trucks rumble down the streets, and the air smells like strong coffee, old whiskey, and wet stone.
Then there was the sweet smell of fresh beignets coming from one corner, while on the other the remnants of stale beer and urine.
My shop, Midnight Wytch, sits right in the middle of it all.
The scent of sage and incense still hangs in the air, trying to cover the sour burn of spilled bourbon from the night before.
The first rays of morning light creep through the windows, sliding across the wreckage inside.
Broken glass glitters on the floor, herbs are scattered like dust, and a cracked potion bottle leaks a faint trail of oil that smells like rosemary and smoke.
I took a deep breath as I stood there with a broom in my hand, staring at the mess.
This place was more than just a shop. It was mine.
Every shelf, every charm, every rune carved into the counter.
And now it was trashed. But I was a Desdemone, and we didn’t cry over chaos.
You lit a white candle to purify the room, cleaned up the mess, and prepared to start over.
Just don’t let the demons defeat you, as my Dad would say.
I stared, wide-eyed at the door, the wooden sign of the Midnight Wytch was off one hinge and it swung slowly back and forth, creaking with every movement.
I placed my hand on it, stopping it. Owning a witch shop in New Orleans should be enough to keep anyone busy, but I hit the genetic jackpot.
Being the daughter of an exorcist and an empathic tattoo artist with a psychic streak meant my life was always teetering somewhere between magic and madness.
Add in being a Royal Bastards MC princess…
yeah, I’m biker royalty, and things never stayed simple for long.
Last night proved that better than anything.
I took a steadying breath and pushed the door open.
The smell hit me first—oil, herbs, smoke, and destruction.
Glass and dried sage crunched under my boots as I stepped inside, the damage spread out before me nearly made me cry.
Shattered windows let in thin streams of light that glinted off the wreckage.
Broken potion bottles painted the floor in shades of amber, violet, and red, their scents mixing into something sharp and sickly sweet.
Herbs, candles, and bits of spell parchment littered the counters and floor, all soaked in oil and dust.
I swore under my breath, grabbing the broom and pushing through the mess, each scrape of bristles over glass sounding like an insult. This place, my sanctuary, my creation, had been destroyed. The Bloody Scorpions had done a number on it, and the sight made my blood boil.
I’d built this shop from the ground up. Every shelf, every rune-etched window frame, every spell jar on those counters had my mark on it.
I could’ve taken the easy route, a job in some stuffy classroom, lecturing a bunch of wannabe occultists and demon fanatics on the foundations of demonology and philosophy, all while collecting a steady paycheck as I preached theories about things I’d actually lived through.
My parents would’ve loved that. But I’d spent my entire life surrounded by real magic and real darkness.
I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I wanted to use it.
So I opened Midnight Wytch, a place for people who didn’t just want answers. Folks who’d lost something, seen something, or just felt too damn broken to deal with life any other way. I helped them find balance, protection, and sometimes… even vengeance.
Now, standing in the middle of the wreckage, I could feel that balance tipping again.
The city hummed outside, restless as always. But here, everything felt very still and I had a bad feeling it wasn’t over.
When I first found this place, it was half-buried under Katrina’s wreckage, forgotten on some backstreet near the French Quarter.
The roof was leaking, the walls were scratched up, and half the floorboards were warped beyond repair.
But it had a vibe that I liked, something deep and familiar that called to me.
With time, and a lot of patching and praying, it became my place.
My haven. Now it looked like I’d have to replace those damn floorboards again, thanks to that massive scorpion, some asshole tagged onto them.
I grit my teeth in anger. Those sons of bitches were going to pay for this, no question. Carving a scorpion right into the heart of my shop? They were just asking for a curse.
I picked up the broom again, angrily sweeping away the grime and dust. I’d fought too hard to let anyone, especially some Bloody Scorpions, try to tear it all down.
They can come, bring their petty threats and stupid carvings, but I’m not scared.
they’d be in for a rude awakening if they thought I’d scare so easily.
Hell, they didn’t know who they were messing with.
I should have figured something was going to happen, especially since I’d seen them hanging around the property, pretty much scoping the place.
I’d had a few taunts being thrown out at me, witch slurs under breaths and eventually, one of them had smashed a window last week.
I’d kept it quiet, making sure the Royal Bastards members hadn’t seen it.
If not, all hell would break loose and I didn’t need that.
They’d meant to frighten me. But they didn’t know my family and most likely didn’t have a clue as to who I was, because if they had, they would have thought twice before coming after me.
This was Royal Bastards territory. Then again, club drama was always hovering over all of us, so this might have been a planned attack for another reason entirely.
Maybe looking for leverage to start a fight.
At this point I had no other choice, I had to make the call.
The broom hit the closet with a thunk, and I walked to the counter, feeling the glass crunch under my boots.
My hands found my cell phone buried beneath the broken shelves and spilt potion bottles.
Pressing the speaker button, I slid the button on my dad’s name.
The phone barely rang twice before he picked up, his gravelly voice still half asleep.
“Grace,” he answered.
“Hi, Dad,” I said, my voice tight.
“It’s nearly six o’clock in the morning, honey. Everything okay?”
I paused for a second as I looked around me and tried not to sound as whiny as I felt. “The Scorpions hit the Midnight Wytch, Dad. They completely destroyed it, the place looks like ground zero. There’s broken windows, potion bottles smashed, shelves overturned, glass everywhere!”
“Whoa, just breathe honey. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
“Yeah, I guess I’m okay.”
“Good,” he let out a breath before continuing. “You sure it was the Bloody Scorpions.”
I looked down at the red scorpion that stood out against the dark floorboards. “Positive. Their name is all over it. They fucked up my shop and made sure I knewexactly who did it. It’s personal, Dad.”
“Shit,” he muttered. “Have you called Jameson?”
“Not yet. Honestly, it’s probably his fault this whole thing happened. I knew I shouldn't have listened to you. My shop was not meant to be a front for bikers.”
“Okay, okay,” he let out a sigh. “Listen, sit tight, I’ll call Jameson. I’ll have him send someone over to keep an eye on the place while we sort this out.”
“I don’t need anyone. I just want the protection he promised when I put the shop up as a front.”
“You have it. You always have. I just need to call…”
“Who, Dad? Who are you calling for, exactly?” I asked, suspicion heavy in my tone.
My father was silent again, but I could practically hear him thinking of what his next words to me were going to be. “I’m afraid you know who needs to be there,” he finally responded. His tone was low and gentle, as if he were trying to tame a Tiger. Unfortunately for him, I knew better.
“Dad, please. Don’t you dare request him. I do not want him here,” I growled, already feeling the start of a stress headache coming on.
“He’ll know what to do, and he’s the one I trust around you, Grace.”
“I don’t care! I don’t trust him! Isn’t that enough.”
“He’s always been there for you, for the family. I don’t know why you hate him so much, if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be talking to your dad on the phone right now.”
“Oh sure, dangle my family’s existentialism over my head right now.”
“Just let him do his job,” he said, exasperation filling his tone.
I knew exactly who my father wanted to send out, calling Jameson was just a matter of respect to the President, but if he could, he would have called him first. Just the thought of Peter Hellsing stomping around my shop, acting like he owned the place, was enough to make me want to lock the doors and throw the keys into the river.
“Grace, you know he’ll get to the bottom of this. He knows New Orleans inside and out, and more importantly, he’s got experience with the Scorpions. Besides, you’re practically family to him.”
“Family!” I nearly yelled at the phone. Hellsing and I had barely tolerated each other since I could remember. “You’re better off sending me a stray cat and calling it security.”
My dad’s grunt was a low, amused rumble. “I’d pay to see that showdown. You’ll be fine, Grace. I know you don’t like him, but he’ll get the job done.”
“You mean he’ll sit around acting like he’s the one calling all the shots,” I muttered. “I don’t need him sniffing around my shop, getting in my business. I’ve handled things just fine on my own. Just tell me what to do.”
“Look, I trust you, but you’re outnumbered on this one,” my dad said, his tone shifting. “The Scorpions don’t play nice. They’re not the kind you scare off with a broom. Let Hellsing take some of the weight off, just this once.”
I scoffed. “Weight off? Hellsing’s a whole new brand of headache.”
“It’s either that or you call Jameson. Either way, he’ll send out Hellsing.”
“Fine, I’ll call him.”
“Just try not to kill the poor boy when he shows up. For me,” he said, dead serious but with the hint of a smirk that suggested he may actually be enjoying this.
“He’s a grown ass man, Dad. But you’re right, he is a child.”
“Grace…” he warned.
“Fine, you make the call.” I sighed, giving in although every bone in my body told me I’d regret it.
“But if he steps out of line, I’m sending him packing. I may have a deal with Jameson and the club, but I don’t care who Peter Hellsing thinks he is or what history we share. This is my shop.”
“I’m sure he’s aware of that. I’ll ask Jameson to send Hellsing over as soon as possible. And, Grace? Watch your back. Scorpions have a way of showing up when you least expect it.”
I hung up, feeling the weight of his words settle over me. If the Bloody Scorpions thought I’d roll over and let them have their way, they were in for a hell of a surprise. But dealing with them and Hellsing? That was a different fight entirely.
Peter. Hellsing.
The one man who seemed to show up in my life like some sort of bad omen.
He was a storm cloud darkening my doorstep every time I thought I’d found some peace.
I’d known him practically since birth, thanks to his connection with my father.
And if I was being honest, I’d spend just as long resenting him.
From the start, he’d been everything I wasn’t.
A reckless risk-taker, a charming devil with that maddening, half-cocked grin, practically dripping in confidence.
Not to mention how handsome he was, the way he wore that worn out leather coat, or the easy swagger in his gait, I won’t even mention the wicked glint in his eye that made you think he knew all your secrets before you’d even said hello.
I’d spent years trying to ignore that deep southern drawl, and that perpetual bad boy look he walked around with like he was straight out of some brooding, backwoods fantasy.
But if he thought I was going to let him march into my shop and take over, he was sorely mistaken.
I wasn’t a little girl anymore, and I didn’t need a hero, especially not him.
I’d cleaned up my own messes and learned how to handle a gun and throw a punch from the same teachers he had.
I was also better at it. Hell, I’d learned to keep this place running, made sure I had eyes on every dark alley in the Quarter, without needing a man to help me.
He could watch from a distance if that’s what he needed to feel like he was doing his part for Dad, but he wasn’t about to barge into my life with that cowboy attitude and assume he’d take the reins.
I smirked, grabbing the broom again and sweeping the last of the glass into the dustpan.
If he thought he could play the knight in shining armor, riding in to save the day, he’d be sorely disappointed.
Because there wasn’t a single part of me that needed saving.
And if that meant standing toe-to-toe with Peter Hellsing, trading jabs and staring him down until he got to the point, then that’s exactly what I’d do.
“Go ahead, Hellsing,” I muttered under my breath, casting a glance at the front door, half-expecting him to come waltzing in with that irritatingly smug grin. “Try me. I dare you.”