Chapter 2 #2
But he was watching. And he saw the way her eyes widened. The way she stepped back, putting distance between them.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. He’d felt resonances before: magical signatures that harmonized with his own, creating temporary amplification effects. Court witches used them deliberately, aligning their power for complex workings. But those were conscious efforts, carefully orchestrated.
This had happened without either of them trying. Without either of them wanting it to.
Her expression suggested she found that as unsettling as he did.
A sleek black cat emerged from behind the herb storage, amber eyes taking in the scene with unsettling intelligence. He padded across the counter, positioning himself between Hazel and Marcus with the casual possessiveness of a familiar who’d been doing this for over a century.
“Azrael,” Hazel said. “This is Mr. Hawthorne. He was just leaving.”
The cat’s gaze fixed on Marcus. Assessed him with the thoroughness of a predator evaluating prey. “Demon,” Azrael said. “Five centuries, give or take. Bound to no house, which is unusual. Smells like old magic and expensive cologne.”
“Perceptive,” Marcus said.
“I’m a cat. Perception is what we do.” Azrael’s tail swished. “You felt her magic last night. From Boston.”
It wasn’t a question. Marcus considered lying, but familiars were notoriously difficult to deceive. “Yes.”
“That’s never happened before. Not from that distance.” Azrael’s tail stilled. “Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting,” Hazel cut in. “It’s irrelevant. Mr. Hawthorne is leaving, and I’m getting back to work.”
“The protection order is binding,” Marcus said. “I’m required to secure your safety whether you cooperate or not.”
“Then arrest me. I’ve been arrested before.”
They stared at each other across the counter. Her jaw was set, her shoulders squared, the posture of someone who’d learned to stand her ground against things far more dangerous than a demon lawyer in an expensive suit.
Marcus was weighing his options when the front window exploded.
Glass cascaded inward. Marcus moved without thinking, centuries of combat training overriding conscious thought. He was between her and the threat before the first shard hit the floor, his shields flaring to life around them both.
Her magic rose to meet his. Not deliberately—instinctively, the way the body flinches from pain. Their magic wove together in a flare of violet and amber, their combined shields far stronger than either could have managed alone.
For a fraction of a second, he was aware of her pressed against his chest. The warmth of her body through the flannel shirt. The way her magic felt against his, not just compatible but complementary, two instruments playing the same chord.
Then training took over, and he was scanning the street for threats while Azrael transformed from house cat into something significantly larger, golden light crackling around claws that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“Window’s clear,” the familiar growled. “Whatever came through is already gone.”
Marcus released her and moved toward the broken window. Glass crunched under his shoes. The morning sunlight caught something on the floor: a small object that had been thrown through the window with considerable force.
Not a brick. A stone, smooth and black, with symbols carved into its surface.
He recognized the symbols. Old magic. Very old.
“Don’t touch it,” Hazel said sharply. She’d recovered faster than he’d expected, already moving toward the object with professional caution. “That’s a message stone. Blackwood craft.”
She produced a silk cloth from somewhere and used it to pick up the stone without making skin contact. The moment she lifted it, words appeared in the air above the surface, burning letters that hung for several seconds before fading:
THE ASHFORD DEBT IS PAID. YOURS IS JUST BEGINNING.
Hazel’s face went pale. “Tobias Ashford. The fae Viktor killed.”
“You knew him?”
“We’d met. Supplier markets.” She set the stone on the counter, careful to keep the silk between her skin and its surface. “He had daughters. Twin girls.”
Marcus looked at the broken window. At the message stone, still faintly glowing with malevolent intent. At the wards that had failed to stop a simple thrown object, which meant Viktor had someone capable of punching through generational blood magic.
“You need to come with me,” he said. “Now.”
Hazel stared at the message. When she looked up, the defiance hadn’t left her eyes. But she’d gone pale.
“Twenty minutes,” she said. “I need to secure the shop, notify my clients, and pack.”
“Fifteen.”
“Seventeen, and I don’t hex you on the way out.”
Marcus almost smiled. Almost. “Done.”
She disappeared into the back room. Azrael remained on the counter, his enhanced form slowly shrinking back to ordinary housecat proportions. The golden light faded from his claws.
“She won’t make this easy,” the familiar said.
“I’m aware.”
“Viktor Blackwood has killed forty-seven witnesses over six centuries. Forty-seven that we know of.” Azrael’s amber eyes met his. “The last one was a full demon. Senior associate at a rival firm. They found pieces of him in three different dimensions.”
Forty-seven witnesses. A senior demon, dismembered across dimensional boundaries. Methodical. Patient.
“She won’t be the forty-eighth,” Marcus said.
“Bold statement.”
“Accurate one.”
Azrael studied him. Whatever he saw seemed to pass inspection, because he nodded once, a surprisingly human gesture from a cat.
“She trusts slowly and forgives never,” Azrael said. “Her grandmother was the same way. Took me fifteen years to earn a place by the fire.”
“Fifteen years.”
“I’m patient.” The cat’s tail flicked. “The question is whether you are.”
He leaped down from the counter and padded toward the back room, leaving Marcus alone with the broken window and the message stone’s fading glow.
Marcus looked at the symbols carved into its surface. Old magic. Blackwood craft. A message designed not just to threaten, but to demonstrate capability.
They’d punched through her wards. They’d known exactly where to find her. They’d delivered their message within eighteen hours of the murder.
Viktor Blackwood wasn’t just coming for Hazel Wickwood.
He was already here.
Marcus pocketed the message stone. Broken window. Wards that hadn’t stopped a thrown rock. He started a list of things he’d need to fix before they left.
Seventeen minutes.