So. You know. A mixed bag.
I smooth the front of my charcoal-gray top, tuck a stray curl behind my ear, and whisper to the room, “Let’s please avoid any disasters today.”
The garland above the counter rustles—mockingly.
And I just know, I’m infor a long day.
***
By ten a.m., the kettle whistles and I have a mug of rosemary-black tea warming my hands. I walk the shop floor barefoot—and check the wards, soft socks be damned. The wood floors vibrate better with skin contact.
A faint shimmer curls around the doorway.Good. The shelf of moon salts hums contentedly.Great. The enchanted mistletoe stays in the drawer where I sealed it.Excellent.
Then the front bell chimes, and Mrs. Alderberry floats in on a wave of peppermint perfume mixed with faux-fur dignity. “My dear Piper,” she says, taking one long look at me, “you’re positively glowing my dear.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “For the love of all things holy...”
“Oh don’t be dramatic. It’s a nice glow. Like candlelight and secrets.”
“Perfect,” I mutter. “I always aim for secrets.”
She buys lunar tea and asks zero suspicious questions, which might be the most alarming thing she’s ever done. The rest of the morning drifts by in slow ripples, questions about potions, requests for charms, curious tapping on the enchanted snow globes.
Nothing levitates, or bursts into flames. Nothing sings at me. For two blissful hours, life feels…stable.
Then it hits me. A hum beneath my skin, followed by a tightening just behind my sternum. Heat blooming across the bond like a sunrise.
Slade.
I whisper, “Of course.”
The bell rings, and there he is.
Slade Athalar fills the doorway like something carved out of shadow and old myths—tall, sharp, wrapped in a dark charcoal coat with obsidianbuttons, hair tousled in that unfair way that says he probably just raked a hand through it and moved on with his life. His forest-green eyes find me instantly. My pendant warms, and my magic sparks. A jar shivers in response to the connection between us. He steps inside, the air bending around him—heat first, then ozone, then something sweetly dangerous.
I hate him. Ihatethat Idon’tactually hate him.
“Morning, gorgeous,” he murmurs, voice low, like he’s allowed to say things like that.
I lift my chin. “You’re early.”
“You look ravishing, little witch.”
“STOP SAYING THAT.”
His mouth curves slowly, wicked. Delighted, even. He moves through my shop with the fluid confidence of someone born to walk marble halls and make mortals lose their minds. Customers stare openly, some blushing, one nearly dropping a jar of enchanted sugar.
Slade ignores all of it. He stops in front of me, fingertips brushing the counter. “You felt it,” he says.
“Of course I did,” I snap. “My magic is basically a hazard light right now.”
“The Ninth Court is whispering about you.”
My pulse stutters. “Me?” I squeak.
He leans closer. “Your invocation. The bond. The archives. Veda. They felt everything.”
The lights flicker. The snow globes hum a chord of disapproval. My pendant heats until I swear it leaves a violet glow on my skin. I exhale shakily. “This was supposed to be a normal day.”
