Chapter 6
Marcus Hawthorne had survived plague outbreaks, prohibition raids, and the entire disco era with his sanity intact. But waking to an empty cabin with no trace of his witness might finally be what broke him.
“Hazel?” His voice echoed through the cramped space. The bedroom door stood open, bed neatly made. No answer from the bathroom. No humming from the kitchen where she usually massacred breakfast.
The protective pendant he’d given her lay on the kitchen counter like an accusation.
“Azrael?” Nothing. Even the cat had vanished.
Losing a witness meant career suicide. Losing Hazel meant—
No.
He burst out of the cabin, October air sharp in his lungs. No signs of struggle. The wards he’d reinforced yesterday remained intact, which meant she’d left willingly. The stubborn, reckless, absolutely infuriating witch.
There. A trace of her magic, faint but unmistakable, leading into the woods. Lavender and lightning, uniquely hers. His demon senses locked onto it like a bloodhound catching scent.
Marcus plunged into the forest, following the magical trail. Pine needles crunched under his Allen Edmonds oxfords, completely inappropriate for hiking, but he hadn’t exactly planned a nature walk when he’d dressed this morning, expecting to find his witness where he’d left her.
The trail wound through dense trees for what felt like hours but was probably twenty minutes. His shirt snagged on branches. Mud splattered his perfectly pressed pants. A branch caught him across the cheek hard enough to draw blood.
None of it mattered. He had to find her before something else did.
In five centuries, he’d protected dozens of witnesses. Professional about all of them. Detached.
Voices ahead. Marcus slowed, recognizing the buzz of commerce. A gap in the trees revealed a clearing filled with vendor stalls and supernatural citizens haggling over goods: a magical market.
And there, examining a display of herbs like she hadn’t a care in the world, stood Hazel Wickwood.
She was browsing. Shopping. While he’d been tearing through the forest like a madman.
“Hazel.”
She turned, surprise flickering across her face before defiance hardened her features. “Marcus? What are you doing here?”
“What am I—” He crossed the market in three strides, not caring who stared. “You could have been killed!”
“I needed ingredients.” She lifted her chin. “I’m not a prisoner.”
“You’re under my protection!”
“I’m a grown witch who needed supplies!”
They stood toe to toe now, both breathing hard. The entire market had gone quiet, vendors and customers watching with undisguised interest.
“Everything alright here?” A selkie vendor approached, concern creasing her weathered face.
“Fine,” Hazel said.
“Perfect,” Marcus added, though his tone suggested otherwise.
The selkie looked between them, then at Marcus’s mud-splattered Armani and the leaves in his hair. Amusement flickered across her face, but she had the grace not to comment.
“I’ll just finish ringing these up, then,” she said, and retreated behind her stall.
“We’re leaving,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I haven’t finished shopping.”
“Now, Hazel.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then seemed to register the tension in his jaw, his clenched fists. Her defiance faded. “Fine. Let me pay for these.”
He stood rigid while she completed her transaction, ignoring the vendor’s winks and the way other shoppers whispered behind their hands. The walk back to the cabin took forever, neither speaking, the forest path barely wide enough for single file.
Neither spoke. Hazel walked ahead, arms crossed, studiously avoiding looking back at him. Marcus followed, his shoes squelching through mud.
“Was that really necessary?” she finally muttered.
“You mean tracking down my missing witness who left without protection in active danger? Yes.”
“I meant the scene.”
“You created the scene by running off!”
“I didn’t run. I walked. To buy the ingredients I need. Because, unlike some people, I have a business to maintain.”
“Your business won’t matter if you’re dead.”
The path widened slightly, and she slowed enough that they were walking side by side. Close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm, that he could smell the lavender in her hair.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “in all those breakup songs, the guy is always the villain.”
Despite himself, Marcus’s lips quirked. “You can’t hex a radio we don’t have with us.”
“Watch me hex your shoes when we get back.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
They were almost at the cabin now, October sunlight filtering through the trees. The sight of the porch through the pines should have been a relief. He found himself slowing his pace.
The moment they reached the cabin, she was up the porch steps and through the door. Marcus followed.
“We need to discuss boundaries,” he said once they were inside.
“Boundaries?” She whirled on him. “You want to discuss boundaries? How about the boundary where I’m allowed to leave the house?”
“Not without protection.”
“I don’t need—”
“Yes, you do!” He barked. “You have no idea what the Blackwoods are capable of. What they’ll do if they find you alone.”
“Then tell me! Stop treating me like a child and tell me exactly what they’ll do!”
“They’ll torture you. For hours. Days. They’ll break every bone in your body and heal them to break them again. They’ll tear your mind apart looking for ways to discredit your testimony. And when they’re done, when there’s nothing left but pain, they’ll make it look like you did it to yourself.”
Hazel paled. “How do you know this?”
“Because I’ve seen what they leave behind.”
Neither spoke. Azrael chose that moment to materialize on the kitchen counter, tail swishing.
“You found her, then,” the familiar observed.
“Where were you?” Hazel demanded.
“Scouting the perimeter. Someone had to.” He eyed the herbs in her bag. “Did you at least get the valerian root?”
“Yes.” She pulled the herbs out, her hands shaking. “Among other things.”
Marcus watched her sort through her purchases, anger fading to exhaustion. “You can’t do that again.”
“I know.” The word came out small. “I just… I needed to feel normal for an hour.”
“Normal.” He ran a hand over his face. “Hazel, nothing about this situation is normal.”
“No kidding.” She started putting herbs away, movements sharp. “But I can’t just stop living for three weeks.”
“It’s eighteen days.”
“Oh, well, that makes it so much better.”
They glared at each other across the kitchen. Azrael’s head swiveled between them like watching tennis.
“If you need ingredients,” Marcus said slowly, “we’ll go together.”
“Like you’d know wolfsbane from parsley.”
“Then you’ll teach me.”
She blinked. “What?”
“If you’re going to insist on maintaining your business, I need to understand what you’re doing. So teach me.”
“You want to learn herbology?”
“I want to keep you alive. If that means learning the difference between deadly nightshade and regular tomatoes, so be it.”
Hazel stared at him for a long moment. “Deadly nightshade looks nothing like tomatoes.”
“Then this should be educational.”
Azrael made a sound suspiciously like laughter. “Oh, this should be good. Mr. Precise Learning from Ms. Chaos. What could go wrong?”
“Everything,” Hazel muttered. But she pulled out a mortar and pestle. “Fine. But if you’re going to be underfoot, you might as well be useful. Wash your hands.”
Marcus ended up at the sink, sleeves rolled up, watching her arrange herbs with practiced efficiency. “What are we making?”
“Pain relief salve. Mrs. Henderson needs it for her arthritis.” She hesitated. “Assuming I can still get the beeswax.”
“Beeswax is difficult to obtain?”
“It wasn’t. Until this morning.” She pulled out her phone and showed him a text message.
“My supplier just canceled my standing order. No explanation. Three other vendors have done the same this week: the apothecary won’t sell me jars, the courier service dropped me, even my packaging supplier suddenly ‘doesn’t carry’ materials they’ve sold me for five years. ”
“The Shadow Council.”
“Has to be. Mrs. Henderson warned me they’d escalate.” Hazel set down the mortar with more force than necessary. “They want me gone. And if I can’t get supplies, I can’t serve my clients. If I can’t serve my clients…”
“Your business fails.”
“And I’m forced out of Willowbrook without them having to lift a finger directly.
” She started sorting through her meager herb collection: what she’d managed to buy at the market.
“Jeremy won’t get his stabilizer next week.
The Castellan twins won’t get their fertility charms. Mrs. Henderson’s granddaughter… ”
Her voice wavered. Marcus stepped closer.
“What about Mrs. Henderson’s granddaughter?”
“Lily.” Hazel set the valerian down before she spilled it.
“She’s fifteen. The moon-sickness started last year.
She can’t sleep during the full moon, screams and claws at her own skin like something’s trying to crawl out.
The nightmares are so bad she’s lost twenty pounds.
Mrs. Henderson found her on the roof last month, sleepwalking toward the edge. ”
“The tonic helps?”
“It’s the only thing that helps. The fancy supernatural doctors in Portland prescribed her sedatives that turned her into a zombie.
I made the tonic specifically for her: moonbell flowers, valerian, chamomile blessed under a dark moon.
She’s been sleeping through the full moons for three months now.
Gaining weight. Going back to school.” Her voice cracked.
“And now I can’t make more because I can’t get beeswax to preserve it properly. ”
“Who else supplies beeswax in the area?”
“The Shadow Council controls or influences every supplier within a hundred miles. That’s how they maintain power: economic pressure, not just magical politics.”
“They can’t control suppliers outside their jurisdiction.”
Hazel looked up. “What?”
“I have contacts. Boston, New York, even internationally.” He pulled out his phone. “What do you need?”
“Marcus, you don’t have to…”
“What. Do you need.” Not a question.
She stared at him for a long moment, then rattled off a list: beeswax, glass jars, certain rare herbs, packaging materials. He typed everything into his phone, then made three calls. When he hung up ten minutes later, Hazel was still staring.
“Everything will be delivered here within three days,” he said. “Billed to the firm. Consider it operational expenses for witness protection.”
“That’s not… the firm isn’t going to pay for my potion supplies.”
“They’ll pay for whatever keeps my witness alive and mentally stable.” He paused. “A witness who can’t help her clients, who watches her community suffer because of her testimony—that’s a witness who might decide the trial isn’t worth it. Keeping you supplied keeps you committed.”
“Besides,” he added, “Malphas owes me for taking this case on such short notice. He can foot the bill.”
Hazel launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Marcus froze, then his arms came up automatically, steadying her.
“Thank you,” she whispered against his shoulder. “Lily, she needs this. They all need this.”
“I know.” He should step back. This was unprofessional. But her warmth seeped through his shirt, and she smelled like lavender and ozone from her magic, and he found himself holding on.
She pulled back, cheeks flushed. “Sorry. That was…”
“Don’t apologize for being grateful.” Though his hands lingered at her waist, perhaps a beat too long before he let go.
“Still.” She turned back to the counter, busying herself with herbs. “The Shadow Council isn’t going to like you circumventing their blockade.”
“The Shadow Council can take it up with my legal department.”
“Your legal department is terrifying.”
“I am my legal department.”
That startled a laugh out of her. “Of course you are.”
“The same Mrs. Henderson whose granddaughter needed moonbell flowers?”
Hazel looked up sharply. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything about this case.”
“Just the case?”
He didn’t answer, focusing instead on drying his hands. When he turned back, she was grinding herbs with perhaps more force than necessary, but there was a lightness to her shoulders that hadn’t been there before.
“The valerian root needs to be crushed, not pulverized,” she said. “Here, like this.”
Hazel guided him through basic preparations, her hands sure and graceful as she measured and mixed. Marcus was genuinely interested, asking questions about properties, reactions.
They worked side by side, falling into a rhythm. Pass the jar. Hold this steady. Careful with that, it stains. The kitchen filled with herbal scents and quiet concentration.
“You’re not terrible at this,” she admitted as he successfully ground lavender to the right consistency. He’d put too much pressure on the first batch and turned half of it to powder; they’d tipped that into the compost without comment.
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Azrael had long since wandered off, leaving them alone. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, catching the red in her hair. Marcus realized he was staring and forced his attention back to the mortar in his hands.
They finished the salve in careful silence, packing it into small jars. Normal. Domestic. Nothing like what Marcus had expected when he’d woken to find her gone.
“I won’t run again,” Hazel said quietly as they cleaned up. “I mean it.”
“Good.”
“But I need you to trust me. At least a little.”
“I trust you not to intentionally get yourself killed.”
“Such faith.”
“You ran off to a magical market alone while being hunted by assassins.”
“I needed ingredients!”
“You needed supervision.”
She threw a dish towel at his head. He caught it easily, and her scowl cracked into reluctant amusement.
“Show off,” she muttered, but there was warmth in it.
“I prefer ‘highly skilled.’”
“You would.”
They finished cleaning in companionable silence. As evening fell, they made dinner together, nothing fancy, but edible. Progress from their first attempt.
“Tomorrow you’ll try to leave again,” Marcus said as they sat across from each other, empty plates between them.
“Not alone,” Hazel said.
He looked up, surprised. “No?”
“You were right about the Blackwoods. What they do to people.” She pushed food around her plate. “But I still need supplies. My life can’t just stop.”
“So we go together.”
“So we go together,” she agreed. “But I’m still going to be difficult about it.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”