Chapter 8 #2
“Your familiar’s been quiet today,” Marcus observed, turning a page.
“He’s plotting something.” Hazel glanced at the cat. “Probably our doom.”
“I resent that,” Azrael said without opening his eyes. “I’m simply conserving energy for the inevitable disaster.”
“What disaster?”
“The Blackwoods finding us. The Shadow Council escalating. The usual.” He yawned, showing all his teeth. “Wake me if anything interesting happens.”
Marcus cleared his throat and returned to his book.
The fire crackled. Jazz played softly from Marcus’s phone; she was actually humming along to it.
Outside, the wind rattled the windows, but inside, it felt warm and safe.
The orange shag carpet didn’t look quite as horrible in firelight.
Even the avocado-green kitchen visible through the doorway had taken on a cozy glow.
Gradually, the awkwardness eased. Hazel’s feet tucked under her as she read, occasionally humming along to the music. Marcus pulled out his briefcase to file away some papers, force of habit, keeping everything organized even here.
Something small tumbled from an inner pocket: a locket, silver and delicate, landing on the couch cushion between them.
Hazel looked up at the sound. “What’s that?”
Marcus stared at the locket as if it had bitten him.
“Marcus?”
He picked it up slowly, thumb brushing across the tarnished silver. “Something I should have thrown away a long time ago.”
Hazel set down her grimoire. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No.” He turned the locket over in his hands. “But maybe I should.” He took a breath. “Her name was Eliza. Eliza Pemberton. I was assigned to protect her a hundred and fifty years ago; witness protection, just like you. She’d seen a murder, too. Different family, same kind of monsters.”
Hazel’s hands tightened on her mug. “What happened?”
“She was a hedge witch. Like you, she was stubborn and independent, and she insisted on maintaining her business while in hiding. I was young for a demon. Barely over three hundred. Thought I knew everything.” “We had three weeks until the trial. Just like you and me.”
He opened the locket. Inside was a tiny portrait, watercolor and faded: a young woman with dark hair and kind eyes, wearing the high-necked dress of the 1870s.
“She’s beautiful,” Hazel whispered.
“She was.” Marcus stared at the portrait. “We spent those three weeks in a farmhouse outside Boston. She taught me about folk magic. I taught her courtroom procedure. We made dinner together. Argued about everything. And I…” His voice cracked. “I fell in love with her.”
Hazel’s hands twisted in her lap.
“Two days before the trial, they found us. I don’t know how: someone talked, or the wards failed, or they were just that good.
But they came at dawn. Professional hit squad, just like the Blackwoods have now.
” His grip tightened on the locket. “Eliza heard them first. Woke me up. We had maybe sixty seconds.”
“Marcus, you don’t have to…”
“I followed protocol.” The words came out flat.
“I grabbed my briefcase. I recited the emergency extraction spell exactly as I’d been taught.
I did everything by the book. And while I was being careful, methodical, and professional, they broke through the door.
They grabbed her. She screamed my name.”
Hazel’s eyes burned.
“I hesitated. Half a second, maybe less. Enough time to think, ‘Should I break the spell to help her or finish the extraction?’ That’s all it took.
By the time I broke protocol and went back for her…
” He closed the locket with a snap. “They’d already slit her throat.
Left her body on the farmhouse floor like garbage. ”
“Oh god. Marcus…”
“The trial went forward without her. They were convicted based on circumstantial evidence, but the sentence was lighter. The murderer served twenty years instead of life.” He fell silent. “Twenty years for taking everything from me.”
Hazel crossed to the couch without thinking, sitting beside him. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I was supposed to protect her. That was my job. And I chose protocol over her life.” He wouldn’t look at Hazel, but she saw the moisture in his eyes.
“I’ve carried this for a hundred and fifty years.
Malphas knows; he’s the only one. It’s why he gave me your case.
He thought… he thought I’d learned my lesson.
That I wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. ”
“And have you?”
Marcus looked at her, his gaze intense enough to make her forget to breathe.
“Every time you do something reckless, every time you put yourself in danger, I see her. I see that farmhouse. And I swear to every god that exists that I won’t hesitate again.
Protocol be damned. The rules be damned.
If they come for you, I’m not reaching for my briefcase first.”
Hazel’s hand found his, squeezing gently. He turned his palm up, threading their fingers together.
“Is that why you’re so obsessive about safety? Why did you nearly have a meltdown when I went to the market alone?”
“I can’t lose you.” The admission came out rough. “I know I’m supposed to be professional. I know this is just a job. But Hazel, I can’t…” He stopped.
“You won’t lose me,” she said fiercely. “I’m not Eliza. And you’re not that young demon anymore. We’re going to make it to trial, we’re going to win, and we’re both going to walk out of that courthouse alive.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Watch me.” She squeezed his hand harder. “I’m a stubborn witch, remember? I don’t die easily.”
Despite everything, his lips quirked. “No, you don’t.”
They sat in silence, hands still joined. The fire crackled. Jazz played softly.
“Thank you,” Marcus said. “For listening. I haven’t… I haven’t talked about her since it happened.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Hazel studied their joined hands: his so much larger than hers, callused from centuries of work, warm and solid. “She’d want you to move on, you know. To be happy.”
“Would she?”
“Any woman who loved you would want that.” The words came out softer than she intended.
Marcus looked at her then, really looked at her, and the silence stretched. “Hazel…”
“I know this is complicated,” she said quickly. “I know we shouldn’t. But Marcus, you’re not just my bodyguard anymore. You’re…”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He raised their joined hands, pressing his lips to her knuckles. Hazel’s breath caught.
“You’re important too.” He squeezed her hand, fingers tightening over hers.
“Since when do we play it safe?”
That startled a real laugh out of him, short but genuine. He released her hand, setting the locket on the side table.
“I should put this away properly. Stop carrying it around like a talisman against making the same mistakes.”
“Or,” Hazel said, “you could just keep carrying it.”
Marcus considered this, then slipped the locket back into his briefcase pocket. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I’m always right. You just haven’t figured that out yet.”
“Your humility is astounding.”
“I learned from the best.” She grinned, and some of the heaviness lifted.
They returned to their books, but now Hazel was on the couch beside him instead of in the chair. Not touching, but close.
She looked up at him suddenly, catching him watching her. Instead of looking away, they held each other’s gaze.
“Good book?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t absorbed a single word.”
Her lips curved. “Legal thriller not thrilling enough?”
“Something like that.”
They watched each other across the small space. Her sweater had slipped off her shoulder again.
“There’s…” She touched her own cheek. “You have something…”
Marcus reached up, finding nothing.
“No, let me.” She shifted closer, kneeling on the couch beside him. “It’s dirt. From the magic practice outside. Hold still.”
She leaned close, thumb brushing his cheekbone. This close, he could count each freckle across her nose, catch the slight hitch in her breathing.
Her hand froze against his cheek. They were breathing in sync, faces inches apart.
“Hazel.”
“I know,” she whispered. “We shouldn’t.”
“We can’t.”
But neither moved away. Her fingers spread against his cheek, palm warm against his jaw. He covered her hand with his, keeping it there.
“Marcus…”
He leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull back. She didn’t. Their lips were a heartbeat from touching when—
His phone rang, shattering the moment.
They jerked apart as if electrocuted. Marcus grabbed the phone, noting Malphas’s name on the screen, and let out a curse.
“I have to…”
“Take it.” She was already retreating to her chair, face flushed. “I’ll just… reading. I’ll be reading.”
Marcus answered as he stepped outside, the cold air a shock after the warmth of the cabin.
“Status report,” Malphas said without preamble.
“Secure. No incidents today.” Unless you counted almost kissing his witness. “The Shadow Council attempted interference yesterday, but we handled it.”
“Hmm. And Ms. Wickwood?”
“Progressing well with testimony preparation.”
“Good. Remember, Marcus—keep it professional. We can’t afford complications.”
“Of course.” The words tasted like ash.
After Malphas hung up, Marcus remained outside, letting the cold night air cool his heated skin. Through the window, he could see Hazel curled in her chair again, grimoire open but her eyes unfocused, staring at nothing.
When he went back inside, she didn’t look up.
“Everything okay?”
“Fine. Just checking in.” He reclaimed his spot on the couch, picking up his book.
They read in silence for another hour. Every page turn seemed too loud. Every shift of position seemed too noticeable.
Hazel closed her grimoire. “I’m going to bed.”
“Sleep well.”
She paused at her bedroom door. “Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“When did you become less annoying?”
Despite everything, he smiled. “When did you become less impossible?”
She disappeared into her room, door clicking shut softly.
Marcus stared at the closed door, then settled back with his unread book. Fifteen days left.
In her room, Hazel pressed her back against the door. Through the thin walls, she could hear him settling onto that god-awful couch. A spring twanged. He swore under his breath.
She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, and went to bed.