Chapter 4
Marcus cut the engine and stared through the windshield at what the firm laughingly called a “safe house.” Weathered wood siding curled away from the frame. The porch leaned to one side. A single window glowed with what he could only hope was electric light and not some sort of haunting.
“This isn’t a safe house,” he said. “It’s where hope goes to die.”
Beside him, Hazel stretched, joints popping after six hours of driving. Six hours of her music. Six hours of her feet on his dashboard despite repeated requests. Six hours of her scent filling the car until he’d cracked the windows to think straight.
“It has indoor plumbing,” she said, gathering her things. “You’ll survive, city boy.”
Azrael yawned from the backseat. “I’ve seen worse. There was that place in Salem with the possessed toilet.”
“That’s not reassuring,” Marcus said.
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
Marcus retrieved their bags from the trunk, reorganizing as he went.
Hazel had somehow managed to scatter her belongings throughout the car during the drive.
A grimoire in the glove compartment. Crystals in the cup holders.
What looked suspiciously like dried herbs ground into his pristine floor mats.
“Leave it,” Hazel called, already halfway up the porch steps. “I’ll get it later.”
“We have a system…”
“YOU have a system. I have a life.” She fumbled with the lockbox, extracting a key that looked old enough to have opened doors for the Revolutionary War. “Besides, what kind of protection detail makes the protectee carry her own bags?”
She had a point. Marcus grabbed both suitcases and her overflowing boxes of magical supplies. The weight surprised him. What had she packed, bricks? But he managed to navigate the porch steps without dropping anything.
The door opened onto a time capsule from the 1970s. Wood paneling covered every surface. Orange shag carpet crunched underfoot. The furniture looked like it had been upholstered in rejected hotel lobby fabric.
“Charming,” Hazel said. “Very serial killer chic.”
Marcus set the bags down and assessed their situation. Kitchen to the left, barely. Living room straight ahead with a couch that had seen better decades. One door on the right that presumably led to…
“Dibs on the bedroom!” Hazel darted through the door before he could object.
Marcus followed, stopping in the doorway. One bed. Queen-sized, brass frame that would creak if someone breathed on it. A patchwork quilt that had probably witnessed things.
“There’s only one bed,” he said.
“Keen observation, counselor.” She dropped her bag on the mattress, claiming it. “The couch is all yours.”
“That’s not…” He stopped. Arguing about sleeping arrangements felt too intimate. “Fine. I’ll take the couch.”
He returned to the living room and examined his future bed. The cushions had compressed into concrete over the years. Springs poked through in strategic locations. It was barely long enough for someone half his height.
This would be a long three weeks.
The kitchen yielded more disappointments. Avocado-green appliances that belonged in a museum. A refrigerator that hummed ominously. And…
“Is that supposed to be a coffee maker?” It was a Mr. Coffee from approximately the Carter administration, the carafe clouded with mineral deposits so thick it looked geological.
“I can make tea,” Hazel offered from the doorway.
He turned to find her watching him, head tilted, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. She’d changed while he investigated: soft leggings and an oversized sweater that made her look smaller, younger. Her hair was twisted up in a messy bun, red curls escaping to frame her face.
“Tea,” he repeated. “Yes. That would be adequate.”
She moved into the kitchen, navigating around him in the narrow space. The kitchen was too small for two people. Too small for one person, really.
Marcus occupied himself by reorganizing the cabinets while she worked. The dishes were stacked haphazardly. Glasses mixed with plates. Spices scattered with no system whatsoever.
“You know we’re only here for three weeks, right?” Hazel watched him arrange mugs by size. “The kitchen doesn’t need a new filing system.”
“Organization promotes efficiency.”
“Organization promotes obsessive-compulsive disorder.” She reached past him to get the kettle. “Relax. Live a little.”
He noticed she kept touching her left wrist, fingers rubbing over the spot where their magic had sparked when she’d jabbed him in the shop. The gesture was unconscious, repetitive. Was the magical connection bothering her too?
Not that it was bothering him. It was merely noticeable. Purely professional concern.
The kettle whistled. Hazel poured water over tea bags—simple mortal tea, nothing magical—and handed him a mug.
“Thank you,” he said.
She nodded and retreated to the living room, curling into the armchair farthest from the couch. Marcus remained in the kitchen, using cabinet organization as an excuse not to join her.
This was a job. She was a witness. In twenty days, he’d deliver her safely to court and never see her again. Everything else was irrelevant.
Marcus had located ingredients for pasta: simple, foolproof, impossible to ruin. He’d underestimated Hazel’s capacity for culinary chaos.
“You can’t just throw spices in without measuring,” he said, watching her shake oregano directly into the sauce.
“Sure, I can. Watch me.” She added basil with the same casual disregard for portions. “Cooking is art, not science.”
“It’s chemistry. Precise measurements create predictable results.”
“Predictable is boring.” She reached for the red pepper flakes.
He intercepted her hand. “That’s enough spice.”
They stood frozen, his hand wrapped around her wrist, both staring at the point of contact. No magical sparks, but his thumb rested against her pulse point. He could feel it hammering.
“The sauce will burn,” she said.
He released her and turned to stir the pot. Behind him, she continued her assault on organized cooking, adding ingredients by instinct rather than recipe. The kitchen filled with the scent of garlic and herbs and far too much oregano.
They moved around each other carefully. Items passed back and forth without a word. When she reached for the salt, he had it in her hand before she finished the gesture. When he needed a spoon, she handed one over.
“How long have you been a demon lawyer?” she asked, draining the pasta.
“Four hundred and ninety-seven years.”
“That’s very specific.”
“Precision matters in legal work.” He took the pot from her. “How long have you been a witch?”
“My whole life. It’s not exactly a career choice when you’re born with power.” She added the pasta to the sauce without measuring portions. “Though the shop is only twenty years old. Inherited it from my grandmother.”
“And the illegal moonbell gathering?”
Her spine stiffened. “Recent development. Someone needed them.”
He waited, but she offered nothing more. Fair enough. He had his own secrets. They were temporary allies, nothing more.
The pasta was, predictably, inedible. Too much salt, too much spice, sauce simultaneously burnt and undercooked. They sat at the small table, poking at their plates in silence.
“It’s not that bad,” Hazel said.
“It’s terrible.”
“Yeah.” She pushed a noodle around her plate. “I’m better with potions than pasta. Potions have specific instructions.”
“So do recipes.”
“Recipes are suggestions. Potions are requirements. There’s a difference.”
A weight landed on the table. Azrael padded between their plates, delicately selected a piece of chicken from the sauce, and ate it with dramatic relish.
“Traitor,” Hazel said. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I’m on the side of edible food.” Azrael licked his whiskers. “This barely qualifies.”
“Everyone’s a critic.” But she was smiling, tension breaking.
Something shifted in Marcus’s expression — the barest easing of his jaw, like he’d been clenching it for centuries and had just remembered how to stop. “Perhaps tomorrow I should cook.”
“Deal. But I’m still in charge of seasoning.”
“Absolutely not.”
She laughed, a bright unexpected sound. Then her eyes met his across the table. They both looked away.
“I should clean up,” she said, standing to gather plates.
“I can help…”
“No.” She softened it with, “You organized the entire kitchen. The least I can do is wash dishes.”
He retreated to the living room and his torture device of a couch. Through the archway, he could see her at the sink, sleeves pushed up, humming tunelessly.
He made himself look away.
The argument about watch schedules started at eleven PM and lasted thirty minutes.
“I don’t need you to stay awake all night,” Hazel said, arms crossed. She’d changed into pajamas: soft pants and a tank top. Marcus kept his eyes firmly on her face.
“Standard protection protocol requires rotating watches.”
“Protocol.” She made the word sound like a curse. “I’m perfectly capable of sensing magical threats.”
“The assassins yesterday suggest otherwise.”
Her eyes flashed. “I was distracted.”
“By what?”
She didn’t answer. Her mouth pressed into a stubborn line.
“It doesn’t matter.” She crossed her arms tighter. “I don’t need babysitting while I sleep.”
“It’s not babysitting. It’s professional protection.”
“Protocol. I know.” She threw up her hands. “Fine. You take first watch. Wake me at three.”
She stalked to the bedroom and shut the door firmly. Marcus settled onto the couch, wincing as a spring jabbed his back, and pulled out case files. If he was going to be awake, he could at least be productive.
The couch proved even less comfortable than anticipated.
Springs dug into his back no matter how he positioned himself.
The cushions smelled of mildew and regret.
He’d slept in worse conditions—hell dimensions rarely offered luxury accommodations—but something about this particular discomfort grated.
An hour passed. Then two. The cabin creaked and settled around him. Somewhere in the walls, mice scurried. Outside, wind rattled the windows. Inside the bedroom, he could hear Hazel tossing and turning, the brass bed frame protesting her restlessness.
At one-thirty, the bedroom door opened. She emerged looking rumpled and frustrated.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked.
“The bed smells like mothballs and broken dreams.” She padded to the couch and perched on the arm, not quite joining him but not retreating either.
“And it’s too quiet. I’m used to town noises: cars, drunk people arguing outside the bar, Mr. Patterson’s dog barking at nothing.
” She glanced at the papers spread across his lap. “What are you reading?”
“Precedent cases for supernatural witness protection.”
“Thrilling.” She peered at the dense legal text. “Have many witnesses actually made it to trial?”
“All of mine have.”
“How many is that?”
He looked up, considering. “Too many to count. Centuries of cases.”
“And the ones who didn’t make it?”
He paused. The question cut closer than she knew. “There was one. She wasn’t a witness. She was…” He stopped. Discussing Eliza with Hazel felt like crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.
“Someone you cared about,” Hazel said.
“Someone I failed to protect.”
He waited for her to push, to demand details. Instead, she just nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Time doesn’t help with that kind of thing.” She stood, wrapping her arms around herself. “I should try to sleep again.”
“Hazel.”
“Yeah?”
He didn’t know what he’d been about to say. Thank you for understanding? Tell me your own failures so we’re even? Stay and keep me company in this uncomfortable vigil?
“Get some rest,” he said instead.
She smiled, sad and knowing. “You too. Wake me at three. And Marcus? You can’t protect anyone if you’re exhausted.”
The door closed gently this time. Marcus returned to his files, but the words blurred together.
By three AM, when he should have woken her for her watch shift, he let her sleep. She needed rest more than he needed relief. By five, his own exhaustion won. He told himself he’d close his eyes for just a moment.
When pale dawn light filtered through the windows, he woke to find a quilt draped over him, the same patchwork monstrosity from the bedroom.
Hazel was curled in the armchair across from him, wrapped in one of his suit jackets, which she must have retrieved from his luggage while he slept.
Her face was peaceful, one hand tucked under her cheek.
She’d given him her blanket. Taken his jacket in trade. Kept watch while he slept.
Marcus pulled the quilt higher and stared at the water stain on the ceiling. The shape didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was eight feet away, breathing slow and even, and he hadn’t woken her.
Nineteen days.