Chapter 1 #2
Hazel sprinted the last hundred yards and slammed through her front door, immediately activating every ward she’d layered into the building’s bones over two decades.
Deflection charms in the window frames, designed to make hostile eyes slide past without seeing.
Confusion hexes worked into the foundation, turning certain thoughts to fog.
A particularly nasty curse on anyone who crossed the threshold with intent to harm: nothing lethal, but enough to buy her time.
The familiar smell of dried herbs and old wood wrapped around her. Lavender from the bundles hanging in the windows. The faint mustiness of her grandmother’s grimoires, stacked everywhere like leather-bound sentries.
Only then did she realize what she’d lost.
Her gathering license. The small laminated card that proved her right to harvest regulated plants. Gone. Probably lying in the leaves somewhere between the murder scene and safety, stamped with her name and address in official ink.
“No. No, no, no.”
She patted her pockets frantically, knowing it was pointless. The card was gone. Viktor Blackwood would find it. Would know exactly who had witnessed him murder Tobias Ashford in cold blood.
Azrael landed on the counter, fur still standing on end. “We need to leave. Tonight.”
“And go where?” She barely recognized the sound of her own voice. “He owns half this state. He has connections in the other half. He has connections in places that don’t technically exist.”
She moved toward the kettle, muscle memory taking over. Tea. She’d make tea. That’s what you did when—
The kettle slipped from her shaking hands and clattered into the sink. Water splashed across her shirt, cold and sudden. She gripped the counter’s edge and forced herself to breathe.
She’d just watched a man die. Watched the light leave Tobias Ashford’s eyes while he tried to say his daughters’ names. Watched Viktor Blackwood apologize to his victim like he was canceling lunch plans, all while arranging for the man’s family to be compensated for his murder.
Her stomach heaved. She made it to the bathroom just in time.
Hazel was sitting on the floor behind the counter, knees pulled to her chest, when someone knocked on her shop door.
The clock on the wall read 2:47 AM. Less than three hours since she’d watched a man die.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“Miss Wickwood.” The voice was formal, implacable. “This is Official Marshall Business. Please open the door.”
Azrael’s ears flattened against his skull. “Marshall demon,” he whispered. “They only show up for…”
“I know what they show up for.”
Legal documents that couldn’t be ignored, avoided, or hexed into oblivion. The supernatural world’s version of process servers, except these ones could track you across dimensions and their paperwork literally bound your soul.
She considered pretending she wasn’t home, but the ward signatures around her shop would have announced her presence the moment she’d activated them. To a Marshall demon, she might as well have lit a flare.
Hazel pulled herself up using the counter, legs unsteady, and opened the door.
Seven feet of impeccably dressed demon waited on her doorstep. Charcoal-gray skin, eyes the color of fresh blood, a suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent. The formal subpoena in his clawed hand glowed with binding magic, soft gold light pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Hazel Wickwood?”
“That’s me.”
“You are hereby summoned to appear as a witness in the case of The Supernatural State versus Viktor Blackwood and Associated Criminal Enterprise.” His voice carried the weight of absolute authority.
“The matter will be heard before the Honorable Judge Ironfang in exactly twenty-one days. Refusal to appear will result in immediate arrest and contempt charges.”
He held out the subpoena.
Hazel’s hand shook as she accepted the document. The magical binding settled around her like chains, impossible to break or ignore. She could feel it weaving into her bones, her blood, the fundamental structure of her being. Miss that court date and her own body would drag her there.
“How did you know?” The question came out before she could stop it. “About what I saw?”
“Fae death magic triggers automatic alerts in Supernatural Court jurisdiction.” The Marshall’s tone was clinical. Professional. “Your defensive shields were logged at the scene. Cross-referenced with local practitioners registered in the northeastern database. Standard procedure.”
“Standard procedure.” A man was dead and there was standard procedure for it. Forms to fill out. Databases to query. “How many witnesses does your standard procedure usually find?”
“You’re the only one.” His blood-red eyes held hers. “Which makes your testimony particularly valuable, Miss Wickwood. And your safety particularly precarious.”
“I don’t suppose I could plead the Fifth? Decline to testify on grounds of not wanting to be murdered?”
The Marshall’s smile revealed teeth like obsidian daggers. “Supernatural Court operates under different rules. Witness testimony is compelled by binding magic. You will answer every question put to you, truthfully and completely, whether you want to or not.”
“Of course I will.”
“A representative from Grimm, Malphas & Associates will contact you within twenty-four hours to coordinate your protection,” he continued.
She knew the name. Everyone in the supernatural world knew the name.
Demon lawyers with a reputation for being absolutely ruthless and completely unbeatable.
They’d prosecuted kings and kingmakers, brought down crime families that had operated for millennia, won cases that everyone said were impossible.
If they were handling prosecution, Viktor Blackwood was in serious trouble.
Which meant she was in serious trouble.
“The Blackwood family has considerable resources,” the Marshall said. His tone was carefully neutral, but his eyes held warning. “They have a long history of ensuring witnesses don’t survive to testify. The firm’s protection program is your best chance of reaching that courtroom alive.”
“And if I refuse protection? Try to handle this myself?”
“Then I’ll likely be serving your next of kin with notification of your death.” He adjusted his cuffs with clawed fingers. “The Blackwoods don’t leave loose ends, Miss Wickwood. In six hundred years, not a single witness has survived to testify against them without professional protection.”
“Six hundred years. That’s a lot of dead witnesses.”
“It’s a lot of reasons to accept help when it’s offered.”
He dissolved into smoke before she could respond, leaving only the scent of sulfur and a binding she’d carry until she testified or died.
Hazel closed the door and leaned against it. The subpoena glowed faintly in her hand, its binding magic already woven into her bones.
Twenty-one days. She had twenty-one days to survive the attention of a six-hundred-year-old crime family, testify in a court that would magically compel her to tell the truth about everything she’d witnessed, and somehow come out the other side alive.
She looked around her shop. The grimoires she’d inherited from her grandmother. The herbs she’d spent twenty years learning to cultivate. The careful life she’d built in the margins, quiet and safe and hers.
Tobias Ashford had tried to do the right thing, and now his daughters would grow up without a father. His wife would receive a settlement and a lie. His murderer would walk free unless someone stopped him.
Unless she stopped him.
Azrael wound around her ankles, fur sparking with protective magic. He didn’t say anything. For once, there was nothing to say.
Hazel slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor again.
Twenty-one days. The subpoena hummed against her palm.
She closed her eyes and let the shaking start.