Chapter 3
The sharp scent of singed herbs filled Wicked Brews as Hazel crouched beside her damaged wards, running her fingers along the twisted metal framework. The attack had been precise; whoever threw that stone knew exactly where to strike.
“Professional job,” she muttered, examining the severed ward anchors. “They cut through three layers of protection like they had a blueprint.”
Behind her, Marcus pulled out his phone and began photographing the damage.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Documenting evidence.” Marcus adjusted his tie. “Chain of custody requirements.”
“This is my shop, not a crime scene.”
“Someone just threatened your life. That makes it both.” He pocketed the phone. “You can’t stay here unprotected.”
“I’m not being chased out of my own home.” Hazel moved to the back room, where her workspace waited: mortar and pestle, drying herbs, bottles organized by effect. “I have clients who depend on me.”
Marcus followed her into the workshop. “Your clients will understand.”
“Will they?” She gestured to the appointment book. “Mrs. Henderson’s granddaughter needs her moon-sickness tonic by Friday. Jeremy Hollins is a werewolf with early-onset moon madness. Without his weekly stabilizer, he could hurt someone.”
“Those are important, but they’re not more important than your life.”
“Tell that to the fifteen-year-old girl who can’t sleep through the full moon without screaming.
Or Jeremy’s wife, terrified she’ll wake up one night to find her husband gone feral.
” Hazel pulled three prepared potions from her shelf and began wrapping them in protective cloth.
“I’m not just a shopkeeper, Mr. Hawthorne.
I’m the only hedge witch in fifty miles who’ll work with werewolves and fae-touched families.
The only one who makes house calls at three in the morning when someone’s curse starts activating early.
These people can’t just go to the supernatural Walmart and pick up a replacement. ”
Marcus watched her work in silence. Her hands moved with the efficiency of long practice: selecting bottles without looking, wrapping them with precise folds, sealing each package with a touch of magic.
“How many active clients do you have?”
“Forty-three regulars.”
“And if you die protecting that community?”
“Then I die.” She didn’t look away. “But I won’t abandon them because I’m scared.”
The bell above the shop door chimed. Hazel moved to the front room, expecting maybe a customer who hadn’t heard about the attack. Instead, she found Mrs. Henderson, silver-streaked hair pulled back, worry lines deep around her eyes.
“Mrs. Henderson.” “I have Lily’s tonic ready.”
“I heard about the brick.” Mrs. Henderson glanced at the broken window, then at Marcus with undisguised suspicion. “Are you alright, dear?”
“I’m fine. This is Marcus Hawthorne. He’s helping with security.”
“Security.” Mrs. Henderson’s tone made it clear what she thought of that. “I used to tell Robert, before he passed, that they’d come after you eventually. They hate anyone who helps the lesser folk.”
“They?”
“The Shadow Council. Local supernatural government,” Hazel explained to Marcus. “They’re not fans of my business model.”
“Your business model of actually helping people?” Mrs. Henderson’s laugh was bitter.
“Heaven forbid.” She pressed money into Hazel’s hand, carefully counted bills that felt like more than the tonic cost. “For the window. And don’t argue.
Lily’s been sleeping through the full moons without nightmares for the first time in three years.
That’s worth every penny.” The older woman squeezed Hazel’s hand.
“You take care of yourself, dear. My granddaughter needs you.”
After Mrs. Henderson left, Hazel found Marcus watching her.
“What?”
“I’m beginning to understand why you’re stubborn about leaving.”
“It’s not stubbornness. It’s responsibility.”
“There’s a difference?”
Despite everything, the broken window, the threat, Hazel felt her lips twitch. “Sometimes.”
The bell chimed again before Hazel could process Marcus’s expression. She turned, expecting another concerned customer.
Vivienne Aldrich stood in the doorway, immaculate as always.
Honey-blonde hair swept into a perfect chignon, cream cashmere coat that had never seen weather, the silver coven pendant gleaming at her throat.
She surveyed the broken window, the scattered glass, Hazel’s general state of disaster, with an expression of polished concern.
“Hazel. I heard there was trouble.”
“News travels fast. What do you want, Viv?”
“Can’t an old friend check on you?”
“We’re not friends.”
“We were. Once.” Vivienne’s smile was perfectly measured sympathy. “Before things got complicated.”
Marcus moved to Hazel’s side, and Vivienne’s eyes sharpened.
“And who’s this?”
“My lawyer.”
“Demon lawyer,” Vivienne observed. “The coven heard you witnessed something. Viktor Blackwood.” She shook her head. “You always did have terrible luck.”
“Was there a point to this visit?”
“The coven wants to help.” Vivienne produced a cream envelope, the Aldrich coven seal pressed in silver wax. “Full protection. Our wards are considerably stronger than”—she gestured at the broken window—“whatever you’re using here. You’d be safe with us.”
Hazel didn’t take the envelope. “And the price?”
“There’s no price. We take care of our own.”
“I’m not your own. You made that clear thirty years ago.”
Vivienne’s mask slipped, just for a moment. The smile stayed but her eyes went flat. “That vote wasn’t personal, Hazel. Your magic was unstable. Dangerous. The elders had concerns.”
“And now?”
“Now you’re in danger, and the coven is willing to overlook past issues.” She set the envelope on the counter. “Come home. Submit your shop to coven oversight, accept guidance on your practice, and we’ll make this whole mess disappear.”
Not rescue. Acquisition.
“I’d rather take my chances with Viktor.”
“Pride was always your weakness.”
“Funny. I thought it was my magic.”
They stared at each other. Thirty years of history in the silence: shared apprenticeship, the vote that split them, Hazel watching Vivienne accept the pendant she’d wanted so badly. Vivienne had cried that day, prettily, and told Hazel it wasn’t fair. Then she’d put on the pendant anyway.
“The offer stands,” Vivienne said. “When this gets worse—and it will—you know where to find us.” She glanced at Marcus. “Try to keep her alive. She’s never been good at accepting help.”
The bell chimed as she left.
“Old friend?” Marcus asked.
“Old something.” Hazel picked up the envelope and dropped it in the trash. “The coven that rejected me wants me back. Isn’t that sweet.”
“Rejected you?”
“Long story. Short version: my magic was too chaotic. They voted. I lost. Vivienne got the pendant, the status, the belonging. I got a severance check and a suggestion to try hedge witchery instead.”
Marcus was quiet. “Their loss.”
Hazel’s hands stilled on a jar of moonflower petals. She didn’t turn around.
“Yeah. Their loss.”
The shop’s phone rang. Hazel picked up, then tensed. “Jeremy? Slow down. What’s wrong?”
She listened, expression growing concerned. “Okay. I have your backup supply here. Twenty minutes. I promise.” She hung up, already moving toward her storage cabinet. “His stabilizer shattered. If he doesn’t get a replacement before moonrise…”
“We’ll deliver it.” Marcus was already pulling out his phone. “Where does he live?”
“We? You just spent ten minutes telling me how dangerous it is to be out.”
“And I spent the last five watching Mrs. Henderson.” He held her gaze. “Your clients need you. So we deliver it together, then we leave. Deal?”
“Deal. But we need to hurry.”
Jeremy Hollins lived in a third-floor walkup on the edge of town. His wife answered the door with tired eyes, forced calm.
“Thank god,” she said when she saw the potion. “He’s in the bedroom. The shaking started an hour ago.”
Marcus positioned himself by the door while Hazel went to work. When she emerged twenty minutes later, some of the tension had left her shoulders.
“He’ll be okay. The potion will hold through the full moon.”
Mrs. Hollins pressed a jar of homemade sauce into Hazel’s hands. “For everything you do. I know it’s not enough.”
“It’s plenty,” Hazel told her. And meant it.
By the time they returned to the shop, the sun was setting, and Hazel was exhausted. They climbed the stairs to her apartment in silence until she paused at the door.
“Thank you,” she said. “For not making Jeremy wait.”
“Your clients are your responsibility. I understand that now.” Marcus met her eyes. “Though I hope you understand that keeping you alive is mine.”
She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the determination beneath the professional mask.
“I understand.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Hazel’s apartment above the shop was a testament to what she called “organized chaos.” Books stacked in precarious towers, herb bundles hanging from every available hook, crystals scattered across every surface.
Dried flowers pressed between window panes.
A collection of antique mortars lined up on the kitchen counter like soldiers awaiting orders.
It smelled like her. Marcus cataloged the space for tactical weaknesses and found himself distracted by a photograph on the mantle — an older woman with Hazel’s eyes, squinting against the sun. There was a mug on the side table, still half-full of cold tea.
“This is your filing system?” He stared at a pile of grimoires reaching nearly to the ceiling.
“That’s my winter reading. The stack by the window is protective magic, the one by the bed is healing.” Hazel pulled a suitcase from her closet and began tossing clothes into it.
“You cannot bring seventeen grimoires for a three-week protection detail.”
“Says the man who packed four identical suits.”
“They’re not identical. The pinstripes vary.”