Chapter 2
Marcus Hawthorne had been a lawyer for four hundred and ninety-seven years. In that time, he’d represented fallen angels, brokered treaties between warring demon houses, and once argued a case before the Throne of Judgment itself.
He had never lost a witness.
He wasn’t about to start with a hedge witch from Maine.
Malphas’s corner office occupied the top floor of the firm’s Boston headquarters, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the harbor that most humans would find impressive. Marcus found it ostentatious. But then, Malphas had always enjoyed reminding visitors of his position.
“The Wickwood woman.” Malphas didn’t look up from the file spread across his obsidian desk. “She’s refused protection twice.”
“I’m aware.”
“Called the last detail, and I’m quoting here, ‘an insult to her intelligence and a waste of everyone’s time.’” Malphas’s lips curved. “She hung up on Vectoris. He’s still sulking.”
Marcus allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Vectoris was a pompous ass who’d coasted on his family connections for three centuries. Being dismissed by a provincial witch was exactly what he deserved.
“The magical disturbance last night,” Malphas continued. “You felt it.”
It wasn’t a question. Marcus had spent three hours trying to identify the source of that pulse: raw power that had reached him across three hundred miles and settled into his bones like a second heartbeat.
He’d felt magical signatures before. Thousands of them, across centuries of practice. Nothing like this.
“I felt something,” he said carefully.
“Something.” Malphas finally looked up, pale eyes assessing. “That ‘something’ was Miss Wickwood’s defensive shields activating during the murder. Her magical signature is now logged in every supernatural database from here to the Pacific. Viktor Blackwood knows exactly who witnessed his crime.”
He slid a file across the desk. Marcus picked it up, scanning the contents with practiced efficiency. A surveillance photo showed a woman with wild copper hair arguing with what appeared to be a parking enforcement sprite. Her expression suggested the sprite was losing.
Hazel Wickwood. One hundred and fifty-three years old.
Owner of Wicked Brews, a potions shop operating under a Class C hedge witch license.
Thirty-seven citations for minor magical infractions, ranging from unlicensed familiar bonding to selling love potions without proper disclaimers. No convictions.
The photo didn’t capture what he’d felt last night. That wild, bright power that had cut through three hundred miles of distance like it was nothing.
“She’s the only witness,” Malphas said. “Without her testimony, Viktor walks. The entire case collapses.”
“Then we need her alive.”
“Obviously.” Malphas stood, adjusting his cuffs, a gesture he’d spent millennia perfecting.
“The Blackwood trial sets precedent for the new Inter-Dimensional Court protocols. If we fail here, every supernatural crime family from Boston to Bangkok will know they can eliminate witnesses with impunity.”
Marcus closed the file. “I’ll handle it.”
“Like you handled Eliza?”
The name landed between them. Marcus kept his expression neutral through long practice. Eliza Pemberton. Nineteen years old. A witness in a case against the Marchetti family, back when Marcus still believed protection details were beneath his talents.
She’d died because he’d underestimated the threat. Because he’d been arrogant enough to think his reputation alone would keep her safe.
That was more than a hundred and fifty years ago. He still remembered her face. Still visited her grave every decade, leaving flowers that wouldn’t grow in that poisoned soil.
Some failures you carried forever.
“This is different,” he said.
“Is it?” Malphas leaned back, steepling his fingers. “A stubborn witness who refuses protection. A powerful crime family with resources to reach anywhere. A trial that cannot afford to fail.” He paused. “The only difference I see is that this time, you felt her magic before you met her.”
Marcus said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Don’t let history repeat itself.” Malphas returned to his desk, dismissing him. “The firm’s reputation is at stake. So is yours.”
Marcus picked up his briefcase and left without another word.
The drive to Maine took four hours. Marcus spent most of it trying not to think about the way her magical signature grew stronger with every mile north.
It sat behind his sternum like a second pulse.
He’d felt attraction before. This was different, and he didn’t want to think about how.
He pushed the thought aside. She was a witness. He was her protection. Anything else was irrelevant.
The GPS failed as he crossed into what the locals apparently called “the Veil,” a region where supernatural activity had saturated the land so thoroughly that human technology struggled to function.
His phone lost signal. The radio devolved into static punctuated by what might have been voices speaking in languages that predated human civilization.
Marcus navigated by the pull in his chest. It led him through forests that seemed too old, past farmhouses with protective symbols carved into their doorframes, down roads that definitely hadn’t been on any map.
The town of Willowbrook announced itself with a hand-painted sign: WELCOME TO WILLOWbrOOK. POPULATION: VARIABLE. PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.
Charming.
He found the shop on the town’s main street, sandwiched between an apothecary and what appeared to be a bookstore specializing in prophecy. The hand-painted purple letters above the door confirmed it: Wicked Brews.
The wards hit him before he’d taken three steps from his car.
Multilayered protections, woven into the building’s very bones. Deflection charms, confusion hexes, and underneath it all, something older: blood magic, probably generational.
Impressive work. Also illegal in at least four jurisdictions.
Viktor Blackwood would know what he was doing.
Marcus straightened his tie, composed his expression into professional neutrality, and walked through the front door.
The interior of Wicked Brews smelled like his grandmother’s garden, if his grandmother had been a chaos witch with questionable organizational skills and a fondness for controlled substances.
Herbs hung from every available surface, filling the air with competing scents that made his eyes water.
Shelves lined the walls, packed with bottles and jars whose contents glowed faintly with stored magic.
A massive oak counter dominated the center, its surface scarred by what looked like centuries of chemical burns and one very determined knife mark.
And behind that counter stood Hazel Wickwood.
The surveillance photo hadn’t done her justice. Wild copper hair caught the morning light streaming through the windows, making it look like her head was on fire. Green eyes, not the pale green of most Europeans, but deep forest green, the color of old magic, fixed on him with immediate suspicion.
She was smaller than he’d expected. Maybe five-six in her boots. She wore a faded flannel shirt over a tank top, sleeves rolled to her elbows, revealing forearms covered in old burn scars. Occupational hazard for potion-makers.
His demon nature stirred.
He crushed it.
“We’re closed to suits,” she said, not looking up from the inventory ledger spread across the counter.
“Miss Wickwood. I’m Marcus Hawthorne, from Grimm, Malphas & Associates.”
She did look up then. Studied him. “Another corporate demon who thinks an expensive suit makes him intimidating. I’m flattered, truly.”
Marcus laid his credentials on the counter. “I’m here to discuss your witness protection.”
“And I’m here to tell you I don’t need a babysitter.” She closed the ledger with a snap. “I’ve kept myself alive for a century and a half. Managed just fine before your firm decided I was their problem.”
“The Blackwood family has considerable resources. You witnessed a capital crime committed by Viktor himself. That makes you a priority target.”
“Priority target.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been a priority target for the Hendersons, the Marchettis, and the Valdez cartel. Still here. Still breathing. Still running my shop.”
She gestured at the room around them: the herbs, the potions, the accumulated evidence of decades of careful work.
A hedge witch who’d survived conflicts with three major crime families. Either extraordinarily lucky, or the file was missing a few chapters.
“This is different. The subpoena creates legal obligations. Binding ones.”
“My legal obligations are my concern, not yours.”
“They become my concern when your death collapses a case the firm has spent eighteen months building.”
“So that’s what this is about. Not my safety, your case.”
“Both, ideally.”
“At least you’re honest.” She came around the counter, moving with the easy grace of someone comfortable in her own space.
“Here’s my honesty in return: I don’t trust corporate demons.
I don’t trust lawyers. And I especially don’t trust corporate demon lawyers who show up uninvited and expect me to upend my life on their schedule. ”
“Miss Wickwood…”
“I have clients who depend on me. Mrs. Henderson’s arthritis medication.
The Kowalski boy’s anxiety tincture. Thirteen standing orders that ship this week.
” She stopped an arm’s length away, close enough that he could smell the herbs that clung to her clothes, the faint sweetness of whatever she’d been brewing that morning.
“I can’t just disappear because it’s convenient for your case. ”
“It’s not about convenience. It’s about survival.”
“Then let me worry about my survival.” She jabbed a finger toward his chest—
And stopped.
Light flickered between them. Faint. Purple and gold, there and gone in a heartbeat. If Marcus hadn’t been watching, he might have missed it entirely.