Kazimir’s fangs glimmered when he spoke. “All the better. I like challenge.”
Menace looked at me with a solemn nod. “We’ll get him back, Aspen. But you need to be ready to run point. She’ll want you, not the rest of us.”
I was watching Parker tweak a new security script when the thought hit me. “She’s probably waiting with a message for me at the bakery,” I said. “Last time she tried to reach me, that’s where I was.”
Bronc, who’d appeared in the entry at some point, gave a hard nod. “Let’s check it out. All of us.”
I stood, legs shaky, and Oscar scrambled to perch on my shoulder. “I’ll get the grimoire.”
Juliet pressed a thermos into my hands. “Coffee. You’re running on fumes.”
I took a sip and let the heat settle my nerves. “Thanks.”
Maddie hugged me so tight my ribs popped. “Bring him home, sweet girl. He’s counting on you.”
I nodded, throat too tight for words.
We rolled out, the whole rescue team moving with military precision. The cold outside bit my cheeks, and the moon was still hanging heavy and low, as if it wanted a front-row seat. Arsenal drove, Wrecker rode shotgun, Bronc and Menace flanked me in the back with Parker and Oscar in the third row. Juliet and Maddie stayed behind to coordinate any backup we might need, and I felt the loss of their comfort instantly.
The ride to the bakery took less than ten minutes, but every second felt like an hour. The closer we got, the more I felt the thrum of magic—dark and oily, seeping through the cracks of the world. The grimoire was in a satchel under the seat.
We rolled up to the bakery, the yellow glow of the streetlights giving the building an eerie, washed-out look. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might vibrate the bones right out of my chest, but I kept my hands steady as I unlocked the truck and led the way up the dark sidewalk. Behind me, Bronc, Menace, Arsenal, and Wrecker fanned out in a practiced wedge—men built for violence and for moments just like this.
The bakery’s front window was dark, the neon “OPEN” sign off, but taped smack-dab in the middle of the glass was a sheet of paper—no, not paper, but thick, textured cardstock, the kind you’d use for invitations or funerals. There was something written on it in dark red ink that looked like it might have come from a vein instead of a pen.
I glanced back at Bronc, who nodded for me to go ahead. I peeled the tape, trying not to rip the edges, and the note came away with a sickening tack. I didn’t realize my hands were shaking until I tried to unfold it.
On the front was a hand-drawn map—scrawled, but accurate, every turn and street labeled in a spiky, precise hand. There was a red X about fifty miles south of Dairyville, where the highway branched toward Morgantown. Beneath the map, in jagged script, were the words:
BRING THE GRIMOIRE TO THE STAR OR YOU’LL GET TO SEE YOUR MUTT IN PIECES.
Wrecker whistled, low and soft. “Subtle, ain’t she?”
Menace took the note from my hand, eyes narrowing as he traced the lines. “This is deep in Morgantown territory. Not their usual spot for business. If she picked it, she wants the wolves watching.”
Bronc studied the map with the calm of someone who’d run a thousand ops like this and survived all of them. “That explains why the Morgantown pack has been snooping around,” he said, mostly to himself. “She’s got muscle to back her play.”
Arsenal stepped back from the bakery’s entry, sharp eyes scanning the street. “There’s activity up by the main road. Could be a tail.”
“We knew she wouldn’t make it easy,” Bronc said, folding the note and tucking it in his vest. “Let’s get moving.”
Before we could even step off the curb, two sets of headlights swung into the lot: a matte-black Mercedes, and a new-looking Cadillac Escalade with the plates blacked out. Kazimir emerged from the Benz in a tailored suit, not a hair out of place, and Rafe rolled out of the Caddy, wearing his “Sunday best”—which, for him, meant a pearl-button shirt and jeans that looked poured on.
Menace strode over and handed Kazimir the note. He read it with a sneer, then offered it to Rafe, who just shook his head and muttered, “She’s a real piece of work.”
I caught Rafe’s gaze—he was one of the few who could look me straight in the eye without flinching. “You ready for this?” he asked, voice pitched so only I could hear.
“Born ready,” I lied. I was shaking inside, but I didn’t have time to let that show.
Kazimir’s gaze flicked to the bakery. “You have book?” he asked, blunt as a hammer.
I nodded.
Bronc clapped his hands, commanding attention. “Oscar, you have any idea what to expect at the drop?”
Oscar’s face popped up over the third row seat. “There will be wards. Strong ones. I suggest Miss keeps the book close at all times—do not let them separate you.”
Rafe gave me a quick, fierce smile. “We’ll be right at your back, little witchling.”
