Chapter 3 #2
Hazel reached for her favorite scrying crystal, wrapping it carefully in silk. “This is important.”
“It’s a rock.”
“It’s a family heirloom. Six generations.” She shot him a look. “Some of us value things a trip to the corporate wardrobe can’t replace.”
Marcus had the grace to look ashamed. “I apologize. I didn’t realize it had sentimental value.”
“It’s fine. Just don’t touch my stuff.”
She continued packing, aware of Marcus standing awkwardly by the door. Every time she bent to retrieve something from a low drawer, she could feel his attention. When she stretched to reach a high shelf, she caught him looking away.
The apartment felt too small with him in it. Too warm.
“Where’s Azrael’s carrier?” Marcus asked, apparently looking for something useful to do.
“In the closet, but he hates it. Azrael’s not a pet. He’s my partner. He goes where he wants.”
As if to prove her point, Azrael appeared in the doorway and fixed Marcus with a baleful stare. When Marcus reached for the carrier, Azrael flattened his ears and hissed.
“I think that’s a no,” Hazel said.
“How does he travel, then?”
“However he wants. Last time I moved, he rode in the passenger seat and commented on my driving the entire way.”
Marcus stared at Azrael, who stared back with the unwavering intensity only cats could manage.
“Fine.” Marcus broke the stare first. “But if he damages my rental car…”
“He won’t. He has better taste than that.”
Hazel zipped her suitcase. “Ready.”
“Absolutely not.”
Marcus stared at Hazel’s hand hovering over his car’s radio.
“It’s just music,” Hazel said.
“It’s Bach. Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, performed by the Berlin Philharmonic.”
Hazel pressed the scan button.
The elegant strains dissolved into a screaming guitar solo that made Azrael yowl and Marcus flinch.
“Much better,” Hazel said.
“That’s noise pollution.” But Marcus didn’t change it back. He reached over and adjusted the volume down slightly.
Hazel let him. It was probably the best compromise they were going to get.
They drove in relative peace for fifteen minutes before Marcus said, “Tell me about the moonbell flowers.”
Hazel’s fingers curled in her lap. “What moonbell flowers?”
“The ones you were gathering when you witnessed the murder. The ones that require a Class Seven permit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Miss Wickwood, lying to your protection detail is counterproductive.”
“I’m not lying. I’m strategically omitting details.”
“That’s the definition of lying.”
“How did you know?”
“Your gathering basket still smelled like moonbell sap. The murder occurred on the full moon, when moonbells bloom. And you were carrying shears designed for magical plants.”
“I had a permit.”
“You had an expired permit for common herbs. Moonbells require Class Seven certification.”
“The renewal takes six months. I’ve been waiting since April.”
“And you needed the flowers urgently enough to risk criminal charges?”
She stared out the window. How could she explain that Mrs. Henderson’s granddaughter was struggling with her curse, and moonbell flowers were the only ingredient that could ease her suffering? That sometimes the law moved too slowly for people who were in pain?
“It’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.”
Before she could respond, Marcus pulled into a drive-through coffee shop. The barista leaned out with an artificial smile.
“What can I get you folks?”
“Two coffees, black,” Marcus said.
“Make mine with cream and sugar,” Hazel corrected.
The barista’s smile widened. “Coming right up!”
Marcus handed over a twenty and accepted two steaming cups, passing one to Hazel. She wrapped her hands around the warm cardboard, grateful for something to occupy her nervous energy.
They drove in silence for several minutes before Marcus raised his coffee to his lips. He paused, frowning at the cup.
“Don’t drink that,” he said sharply, pulling over.
Hazel looked at her cup. “What’s wrong?”
“The scent’s off. Copper and sulfur instead of coffee.” Marcus set his cup down without drinking. “Death curse. Professional work.”
“That barista tried to kill us?”
“Very much so.” Marcus made a U-turn. “Assassination attempt.”
When they reached the spot where the drive-through had been, there was nothing but an empty field.
“Well,” Hazel said faintly, staring at the grass where a building had stood moments before. “That’s not ominous at all.”
“Thank you.”
Marcus glanced at her. “You don’t need to thank me for doing my job.”
“Yes, I do. I’m not used to having someone watch out for me. Azrael does his best, but he’s only one cat.”
“I’m only one demon.”
“One demon with excellent reflexes and encyclopedic knowledge of supernatural law.”
“Are you complimenting me, Miss Wickwood?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Maybe having a bodyguard wouldn’t be completely terrible.
From the backseat, Azrael said, “If I might suggest, perhaps we could continue this analysis somewhere with fewer opportunities for our enemies?”
“He’s right,” Marcus said. “We need to get to the safe house.”
Hazel watched the familiar landmarks slide past. The library where she’d learned her first cantrips. The diner that kept her favorite tea in stock. The turn-off to Mrs. Henderson’s place.
Tomorrow, Jeremy Hollins would come to her shop for his weekly stabilizer.
The door would be locked. She’d left a note: Family emergency, back soon.
It felt like a lie. The Castellan twins were expecting their fertility charms by the solstice.
Old Mr. Vance needed his arthritis salve.
Seventeen-year-old Rosie Whitlock had finally worked up the courage to ask about a love potion, and Hazel had been planning to gently redirect her toward a self-confidence charm instead.
All of them would knock on a dark window.
She pressed her palm against the cold glass. The Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner, the one that always smelled like burnt sugar and old grease. The turn-off to the Castellan place.
The town limits sign flashed past. LEAVING WILLOWbrOOK. COME BACK SOON.
“That was close.” She watched the road. “The coffee shop.”
“Viktor’s demonstrating reach. He wanted us to know he can get to you anywhere.”
“Comforting.”
“It should be the opposite. Professional assassins don’t demonstrate unless they’re confident. He’s overplaying his hand.”
Hazel studied Marcus’s profile as he drove. “You’ve dealt with this before.”
“I’ve kept witnesses alive through worse.” He glanced at her. “You handled yourself well.”
“So did you.”
They drove in silence after that. In the backseat, Azrael had curled into a tight ball, but his ears stayed pricked forward.