Chapter 5
This was the dream where her grandmother died. It was always this dream.
Hazel knew she was dreaming: the trees stretched too tall, too close together, and the moonlight had a sickly green tinge that belonged in no natural sky. She was back in Blackwood Forest, but the path kept shifting beneath her feet.
“Run, child.” Her grandmother’s voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere. “Run.”
She ran. The trees closed in behind her, branches snapping at her heels. Ahead, a clearing opened: the same clearing where she’d watched Tobias die, except now her grandmother knelt in the center, silver hair matted with blood.
“No—” Hazel lunged forward, but the ground turned to tar, sucking at her boots. “Grandma!”
“She can’t hear you.”
The voice came from her left. Hazel spun, and there he was.
Viktor Blackwood looked nothing like the cold-eyed killer from the forest. Here, in her nightmare, he wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit and an expression of genuine sympathy. He held two cups of tea, steam curling in the green-tinged air.
“Chamomile,” he said, offering one. “Your favorite, isn’t it? You always make it when you’re stressed.”
“Get away from me.”
“Miss Wickwood.” He sighed, setting the rejected cup on thin air where it floated obligingly. “I’m not the one hurting you. That’s just a nightmare demon doing what nightmare demons do. I’m simply… taking advantage of the opportunity to talk.”
Behind him, her grandmother screamed. Hazel tried to move, but her feet were rooted to the ground.
“Let her go.”
“She’s not real. You know that.” Viktor sipped his tea. “This is your fear, not my doing. I’m merely a visitor.” He gestured at the twisted forest. “Unpleasant place, your subconscious. You should see someone about that.”
“What do you want?”
“To offer you a choice.” He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne: something expensive and subtle. “You’re a hedge witch from a small town. You make potions for old women with arthritis. You have a cat and a shop and a quiet little life. None of this concerns you.”
“You murdered someone.”
“I resolved a problem. There’s a difference.” His smile was almost kind. “You witnessed something you shouldn’t have. That’s unfortunate, but it doesn’t have to define the rest of your life. Which, I should mention, could be quite long or quite short, depending on your choices.”
Her grandmother screamed again.
“Go home, Miss Wickwood.” Viktor’s voice was gentle, reasonable, the voice of a man offering directions to a lost tourist. “Forget what you saw. Return to your shop, your customers, your herbs and potions. The demon lawyer will be disappointed, but he’ll recover. He always does.”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” He set down his tea and reached out, almost tenderly, to touch her cheek. His fingers were ice-cold. “I’m not a monster. I’m a businessman who protects his interests. You’re not my enemy unless you choose to be.”
“And if I testify?”
The kindness drained from his face. For one instant, she saw what lived behind the charming mask: something ancient and patient and without mercy.
“Then I’ll visit you again,” he said. “And next time, I won’t come alone.”
The forest collapsed. Her grandmother’s screams multiplied, became a chorus, became—
Marcus surfaced from sleep, his brain struggling to process the sound that had woken him. A cry? The wind?
Another scream. High, terrified, raw.
Hazel.
He rolled off the couch, bare feet hitting the cold floor. His hip clipped the coffee table in the dark. By the time he reached her door, he was fully awake and ready for blood.
The door slammed against the wall as he burst through. She thrashed on the brass bed, tangled in sheets stained with spreading shadows. Her eyes were open but unseeing, pupils blown wide with terror.
“No,” she gasped, clawing at invisible enemies. “Please, no…”
Marcus recognized it instantly. Murraue, a nightmare demon. The air tasted of copper and burnt sugar, the telltale residue of nightmare magic gone predatory. Purple-black tendrils of power wrapped around Hazel’s limbs, holding her in whatever horror the creature had crafted.
His hands hovered over her shoulders. Wake her too suddenly, and the psychic shock could kill her. Let the nightmare continue, and it would drain her magic, her life force.
Hazel screamed again, arching off the bed. A trickle of blood ran from her nose.
No time for hesitation. Marcus yanked off his shirt, climbed onto the bed, and pulled her against his chest. She fought him, still trapped in the nightmare, her nails raked across his shoulders.
“Protego animam, protego mentem,” he said, the words raw as he poured his power into them. His magic flared outward, demon-dark, forming a protective circle around them both. The brass bed frame groaned under the pressure. “Expello malum, expello…” His voice cracked. “Get out. Get OUT.”
The murraue’s tendrils tightened, fighting his intrusion. Hazel whimpered against his chest, her whole body shaking. He held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, and continued the chant.
“Come back to me, witch.” The words weren’t part of the spell, but he said them anyway. “Fight it. You’re stronger than this.”
Her magic suddenly flared to life: chaotic, wild, beautiful. Purple light pulsed across her skin where it touched his, and the shadows shattered like glass.
Hazel’s eyes snapped into focus. For a moment, she stared at him, at his bare chest, his arms around her, the protective circle glowing silver around them both. She could feel her own pulse where his arm crossed her ribs.
“Marcus?” Her voice came out raw, confused. “What… why are you…”
They became aware of their position simultaneously. She was in his lap, legs tangled with his, every inch of her pressed against him. His hand was still in her hair.
Hazel scrambled backward so fast she nearly fell off the bed. Marcus caught her arm automatically, steadying her.
“Murraue,” he said. “You were under attack.”
She touched her nose. Her fingers came away bloody. “I was back there. In the forest. But different. Viktor had my grandmother, and I couldn’t…” She shook her head and shut down whatever memory had surfaced. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“It happens.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You can go now.”
“Actually, I can’t.” He gestured to the silver circle surrounding the bed. “We need to maintain the protection until dawn. Murraue are persistent. It’ll try again the moment I break the circle.”
Her laugh held no humor. “How did it even find me? I thought your firm’s wards…”
“Murraue don’t need physical location. They stalk the world of dreams, following the traces people leave in sleep.
” He shifted, trying to find a position on the small bed that didn’t involve full-body contact.
“The cabin’s wards keep it from manifesting physically or learning where we are, but once you’re asleep, you’re in its territory. ”
“Perfect. So I can’t sleep safely anywhere.”
“Not until we identify who sent it and deal with the source.” He frowned. “Three hours until sunrise.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“This is necessary.” It was hard to maintain authority while half-dressed and trying not to notice how her nightgown had fallen off one shoulder. “Unless you’d prefer another round with our friend?”
She glared at him but didn’t argue. They eventually worked out an arrangement: sitting back-to-back in the center of the bed, the circle humming around them. His skin burned where her spine pressed against his.
“Thank you,” she said after several minutes of awkward silence.
“It’s my job.”
“Right. Your job.” She was quiet for a beat. “You’re good at it. The protection spell, I mean. Very… thorough.”
“Approximately five hundred years of practice.”
“Do murraue attack your witnesses often?”
“Often enough.” He felt her tense. “But I’ve never lost anyone to one. You’re safe, Hazel.”
“I could have handled it.”
“Your stubbornness will get you killed.”
“Better than your arrogance getting us both killed.”
They lapsed back into silence. The cabin creaked around them. Somewhere in the walls, mice scurried.
“I wasn’t always afraid of the dark. Started about thirty years ago. Bad situation with a coven in Boston. They specialized in nightmare magic.”
He didn’t turn or push; he just listened.
“I won that fight, obviously. But some things stick with you.” She shifted slightly, her hair brushing his shoulder blade. “I’m guessing you know about things that stick.”
“Everyone in our world has scars.”
“Mine usually don’t show up until I’m asleep.” A bitter laugh. “Makes sleepovers complicated.”
“Is that why you can’t sleep in strange places?”
“Part of it.” She was quiet for a moment. “What’s your worst case? Besides your mysterious failure that you won’t talk about.”
He considered deflecting, but they were still trapped in this circle for hours. “Banshee possession in Salem, 1894. The family called me too late. I saved the possessed girl, but her sister…” He trailed off. “The sound of mourning banshees stays with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was over a century ago.”
“Time doesn’t make some things easier. Just makes them more familiar.”
They traded stories as the hours crawled by. Professional disasters, not personal traumas. A vampire nest in Philadelphia that had taken Marcus three weeks to clear. A rogue coven in New Orleans that had nearly killed Hazel before she’d figured out their weakness.
Somewhere around four in the morning, exhaustion started winning. Hazel’s voice grew drowsy, her weight shifting more heavily against his back.
“Stay awake,” he said. “The circle requires conscious maintenance from both of us.”
“I’m awake.” She yawned hugely. “Just resting my eyes.”
“Hazel.”
“I’m fine, you overprotective…” Another yawn. “…demon lawyer person.”
Despite everything, his mouth twitched toward a smile. “Eloquent.”
“Shut up. It’s four in the morning, and my own subconscious nearly murdered me. I’m allowed to be ineloquent.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is now.” She shifted again, and he realized she was fighting to stay upright. “How much longer?”
He checked the window. The barest hint of gray touched the eastern sky. “Hour, maybe less.”
“Great. Wonderful. I love sitting vigil with shirtless demons who criticize my vocabulary.”
“Would you prefer I put my shirt back on?”
A pause. “It’s covered in murraue residue. Probably best not to.”
“Probably,” he agreed, and left it at that.
They made it to dawn through sheer determination and periodic elbowing when one of them started to drift. As the first rays of sunlight touched the window, the silver circle flickered and faded. The murraue’s presence, which had been pressing against the barriers all night, finally retreated.
“We can move now,” Marcus said, though neither of them did.
“Right. Moving. That’s a thing we should do.”
Another minute passed.
“On three?” she suggested.
“One,” he said.
“Two,” she added.
“Three.”
They separated, both standing too quickly. Hazel grabbed the headboard for balance. Marcus focused on finding his shirt, which had landed near the door. The fabric was indeed stained with otherworldly goo that would never wash out.
“I’ll go make breakfast,” Hazel said, not looking at him. “You should… yeah.”
She was gone before he could respond, nightgown fluttering behind her.
He put on his ruined shirt and headed for his own shower. It was going to be a long day.
By the time Marcus emerged, dressed in fresh clothes, Hazel had transformed back into her usual prickly self. She stood at the stove in jeans and an oversized sweater, scrambling eggs aggressively.
“Tea’s in the pot,” she said without turning. “And before you reorganize my spice rack again, I know where everything is.”
He poured himself a cup, noting she’d made it exactly how he liked it. Two sugars, no milk. When had she learned that?
“About last night…” he began.
“Murraue attack. You saved me. Moving on.” She divided the eggs between two plates with unnecessary force. “Toast?”
“Hazel.”
“Do you want toast or not?”
He accepted the change of subject. For now. “Toast would be fine.”
They ate in stilted silence. Azrael watched from the windowsill, tail flicking slowly back and forth.
After a few minutes, the cat grabbed a piece of bacon and headed for the cat flap Marcus had installed yesterday.
“You’re not staying?” Hazel asked.
“I’ll be outside. You two clearly have things to discuss.” He vanished before she could respond.
“Your familiar has opinions,” Marcus noted.
“My familiar knows when to leave a room.” She stabbed at her eggs. “We should reinforce the wards today. That thing found us too easily.”
“Agreed. And…” He hesitated. “I have something in my briefcase. A charm that should help with nightmares.”
“A charm?”
“Silver and obsidian. Wear it while you sleep, and it creates a buffer. Not foolproof, but it should buy us time if another one comes hunting.”
She looked up sharply. “You just happened to have an anti-nightmare charm?”
“I told you. These attacks aren’t uncommon for witnesses.”
She threw her napkin at him. He caught it without looking up from his plate.
“Show-off,” she muttered.
“I prefer ‘competent.’”
They spent the morning working on the wards. Marcus produced the promised charm from his briefcase, a delicate chain with a small pendant that looked like crystallized midnight.
“Sleep with this on,” he said, handing it over.
“And it’ll keep the nightmares away?”
“It’ll make you less… appetizing to things that hunt in dreams.”
“Charming.” But she put it on, the pendant settling just below her collarbone. “Thanks.”
By afternoon, the cabin was wrapped in layers of protection. Hazel stood back to admire their work.
“Not bad for a morning’s work,” she said.
“It’s past one.”
“Not bad for five hours’ work doesn’t have the same ring to it.” She turned to face him, her teasing fading. “Marcus, I… thank you. For last night. I know I was difficult about it, but you saved my life. Again.”
“It’s my…”
“If you say ‘job’ one more time, I’m hexing your tea for a week.”
He shut his mouth.
She held his gaze for a moment, then shook her head. “I should do laundry. Very important, laundry.”
“Of course.”
“Right.” She backed toward the cabin. “You should probably check your emails or review legal things or whatever it is you do.”
“Hazel.”
She paused at the door.
“We make a good team,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Don’t get used to it, witch.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She smiled despite herself. “Demon.”
She disappeared inside. Marcus stood among the wards, hands in his pockets. He should reinforce the southwest line; he’d done it sloppy. He didn’t. He stood there until the cold drove him in.