Chapter 7
Hazel had never considered gas station coffee a luxury, but watching Marcus Hawthorne stare at the self-serve coffee station like it might bite him was almost worth the stop.
“It’s just coffee,” she said, filling a paper cup with the dark sludge that passed for morning fuel in rural Maine. The dispenser had a handwritten sign taped to it: OUT OF HAZELNUT. “Not a demonic summoning ritual.”
Marcus adjusted his perfectly pressed collar. How did he keep his shirts so crisp after four days in a cabin? He examined the row of dusty flavor pumps. “The sanitation standards alone…”
“Will you live a little?” Hazel dumped three sugars into her cup and grabbed a package of powdered donuts. “Gas station coffee is a road trip tradition.”
“We’re not on a road trip. We’re maintaining mobile security while resupplying.” But he picked up a cup, movements precise even when confronted with a dispenser that had seen better decades.
The bell over the door chimed. Hazel recognized the newcomer immediately: Margaret Thornfield, secretary of the Shadow Council and professional pain in everyone’s collective ass.
“Hazel Wickwood.” Margaret’s tone could have frosted the windows. Her pearl necklace gleamed against her pressed cardigan, the uniform of small-town authority everywhere from here to Kennebunkport. “Heard you have an outsider protecting you.”
Marcus straightened, his whole demeanor shifting from annoyed to alert. Professional demon lawyer replacing the man who’d spent twenty minutes organizing her snack choices by nutritional value.
“Mrs. Thornfield.” Hazel kept her voice level. “Lovely to see you too.”
Margaret’s gaze fixed on Marcus like he was something scraped off her shoe. “The Shadow Council doesn’t approve of demon interference in local matters.”
“I’m here legally.” Marcus’s voice carried courtroom authority.
“Legal doesn’t mean welcome.” Margaret’s smile could have curdled milk. “The Shadow Council has concerns about outside influence during these… delicate times.”
“Delicate?” Hazel stepped forward. “Viktor Blackwood murdered someone. That’s not delicate, that’s murder!”
“Murder.” Margaret examined her nails with elaborate disinterest. “You know, there was a selkie named Coral who used that word once. Fifteen years ago.”
“I don’t…”
“She had a daughter. Lovely girl, about twelve at the time.” Margaret’s voice was almost pleasant. “Coral was going to testify. Very determined. Very brave. Reminded me of you, actually.”
The past tense settled over Hazel like a shroud.
“What happened to her?”
“Nothing dramatic. Her boat sank; old vessel, could have happened to anyone. Her sister’s house caught fire a few months later.
Then her daughter’s school had a gas leak.
Little things, really, spread out over time.
Hard to prove a pattern when things just…
happen.” “By the time the trial came around, Coral had moved to Alaska. Somewhere very remote. Very cold. I hear her daughter’s doing well now.
College, I think. Sends Christmas cards with photos of the northern lights. ”
Marcus moved closer to Hazel, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
“The thing about Viktor,” Margaret continued, brushing invisible lint from her cardigan, “is that he’s a patient man.
Doesn’t need to make threats. Doesn’t need to rush.
He just… waits. And things happen to people who inconvenience him.
Eventually.” She met Hazel’s eyes with something that might have been pity.
“You have a lovely shop, dear. Twenty years of work. Your grandmother’s legacy.
All those jars of herbs, all those family recipes.
It would be a shame if anything happened to it. ”
“Is that a threat, Mrs. Thornfield?” Marcus asked.
“Friendly advice. From someone who’s lived in this town long enough to know how things work.” Her smile returned, bright and empty. “The smart play would be to develop a sudden case of amnesia. Maybe take a nice long vacation. Viktor respects discretion.”
“And if I don’t?” Hazel asked.
Margaret sighed like a teacher disappointed in a student. “Then I suppose we’ll all find out what happens next. But since you’re so determined to discuss official business…”
A sound like a thousand angry bees filled the air. Hazel’s coffee cup hit the floor.
“Oh, shit.”
The cloud of pixies descended through the ceiling vent, their tiny wings catching the fluorescent lights in rainbow flashes.
Not the garden-variety pixies that pollinated magical gardens; these were the poisonous kind, bred for violence, their dust a paralytic that could drop a werewolf in seconds.
Their eyes glowed red, and their tiny teeth gleamed like needles.
“The Shadow Council sends their regards!” Margaret called, already backing out the door. The bell chimed cheerfully as she fled.
Marcus stepped forward, pushing Hazel behind him. “What the hell…”
A pixie dive-bombed his face. He swatted it away, still shouting legal codes. “Section four clearly states that binding magical creatures to attack civilians violates…”
“They don’t care about your regulations!
” Hazel grabbed a fly swatter from the impulse-buy rack and started swinging.
Pixies scattered, regrouped, and attacked again.
Their angry buzzing filled her ears, drowning out thought.
One got tangled in her hair; she felt its tiny claws scraping against her scalp before she managed to swat it away.
They moved back-to-back without discussing it, Marcus’s solid warmth against her spine as they fought off the swarm. His precise swats complemented her wild swings: order and chaos finding rhythm.
“Binding magical creatures to attack”—he swatted a pixie out of the air—“violates three different treaties”—another swat—“and carries a minimum sentence of…”
“Less talking, more swatting!” She knocked away a cluster heading for his neck. Pixie dust sparkled in the air, sweet and deadly. Her eyes were already starting to water, her lips going numb where a pixie had grazed her cheek.
The gas station clerk had vanished behind the counter, probably calling someone or hiding until this blew over. Through the window, she spotted two of the local werewolf pack lounging against their trucks, watching the show with undisguised amusement. One of them actually had popcorn.
“Your boyfriend fights well,” one called out.
“He’s not my—” A pixie flew straight at her mouth. She spat, swung, missed. “He’s my lawyer!”
“Sure he is, honey.”
Marcus grabbed her hand. “Bathroom! Now!”
They ran, pixies pursuing in a glittering cloud. The gas station bathroom was tiny, dingy, and smelled like industrial cleaner and despair. They tumbled inside, Marcus slamming the door behind them and throwing the deadbolt.
Angry buzzing filled the air outside. Pixies battered against the door, tiny bodies thudding against the cheap wood.
“Well.” Hazel tried to catch her breath. “This is cozy.”
They stood pressed together in the narrow space between sink and toilet, both covered in shimmering pixie dust. Marcus’s usually perfect hair stuck up at odd angles, gold dust caught in the dark strands.
A smudge of glitter decorated his left cheek, another on the bridge of his nose, a third along his jawline.
He looked almost… human.
“The Shadow Council did this?” He sounded personally offended by the procedural violation.
“Welcome to small-town politics.” She tried to inch away, but there was nowhere to go. Her back hit the paper towel dispenser. “The Shadow Council’s always hated outsiders. Me bringing in a demon lawyer from Boston? Might as well have declared war.”
“I’ll file a formal complaint.”
She laughed. Actually laughed, because only Marcus Hawthorne would threaten paperwork while hiding from poisonous pixies in a gas station bathroom. “That’ll show them.”
His mouth twitched, almost a smile. This close, she could see gold flecks in his brown eyes that she’d never noticed before. Could see the individual lashes, dark against his skin.
“How long before they give up?”
“Depends. How long can you stand being this close to me?”
For a moment, the buzzing outside faded, and there was only his eyes on hers, the heat of his body inches away, the absurdity of their situation.
The buzzing outside intensified, then gradually faded as the swarm lost interest in prey they couldn’t reach.
“They’re leaving.”
“Right. Good.” Neither of them moved.
“We should…”
“Yeah.”
His hand was still on her hip from when he’d steadied her. She could feel the warmth of his palm through her shirt, the slight pressure of his fingers.
“The dust.” He cleared his throat. “It’s toxic. We need to wash it off before it absorbs through the skin.”
“Right. Toxic.” She reached for the door handle, her arm brushing against his chest. She stopped, hand on the deadbolt.
“Shower,” he said. “There’s a truck stop next door. They have facilities.”
“Shower. Yes. Separately. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
The truck stop shower facilities were exactly as glamorous as expected: two stalls separated by walls thin enough to hear everything. Hazel tried not to think about that as she stepped under the spray, pixie dust swirling down the drain in glittering spirals.
His voice carried through the wall, making her jump. “Tell me about this Shadow Council.”
She closed her eyes, let the hot water beat against her shoulders. Talking was safe. Talking was good. Talking meant not thinking about the fact that Marcus Hawthorne was naked twelve inches away, separated by nothing but cheap plywood.
“Five members,” she called back. “Margaret Thornfield, you met her. She’s the secretary and head busybody.
Runs half the committees in town, knows everyone’s secrets.
Two others hate outsiders on principle, been that way since before I was born.
Two are neutral, meaning they’ll go whichever way the wind blows. ”