Victor stopped walking. “That’s a myth.”
“That’s what I thought.” Derek turned the screen to face them. “But look: three documented cases in the last thousand years. All successful. If a building has been used for the same purpose continuously, and if a blood ritual is performed by three generations of the same family, it becomes protected. Sacred ground.”
“Protected how?” Ava asked.
“The building can’t be seized. Can’t be taken through legal action, demonic or otherwise. The contracts become void—not cancelled, void. Like they never existed.”
Ava grabbed the laptop, scanning the text. Ancient legalese mixed with what looked like Sumerian. “This would save my parents?”
“If we can invoke it before Lilith forces a shutdown.” Derek’s expression was grim. “There’s a catch. The continuous use can’t be broken. If those stoves go cold, if the restaurant stops serving food even for a single day, the protection can never be established. The window closes permanently.”
“That’s why she’s attacking now.” Victor’s voice was tight. “She knows about the hearth rights. She’s trying to break the chain before we can invoke it.”
“So we need to stop the shutdown and perform a ritual.” Ava handed the laptop back to Derek. “At the same time.”
“I can walk you through the ritual over the phone.” Derek was already pulling up another screen. “It’s not complicated: blood from three generations, spoken words, application to the primary threshold. But Victor needs to get the actual text. It’s in the archives. Level B13.”
“I have access.” Victor turned to Ava. “You go to the restaurant. Stall the inspectors. I’ll get the ritual and meet you there.”
“How long?”
“Thirty minutes. Maybe less.”
“My mother’s been dealing with them for almost ten already.”
“Then you’ll have to buy me time.” He touched her face, brief and fierce. “You’re a lawyer. Make them follow their own rules.”
The parking lotof the strip mall was chaos.
Two white vans with CITY OF NEW YORK emblazoned on the sides. A fire truck, lights still flashing. Yellow caution tape stretched across the entrance to Feng’s Kitchen. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered: customers who’d been evacuated mid-meal, curious employees from neighboring businesses, a woman from the nail salon still wearing her smock.
Through the window, Ava could see her mother arguing with someone in a reflective vest. Her father stood behind the counter, arms crossed, face thunderous.
She pushed through the crowd and ducked under the caution tape.
“Ma’am, you can’t…” A young inspector tried to stop her.
“I’m their attorney.” She flashed her bar card without slowing down. “And their daughter. Where’s your supervisor?”
The kitchen was full of people who didn’t belong there. Inspectors with handheld meters. Someone in a hazmat suit, theatrical overkill for a supposed gas leak. Her mother’s carefully organized prep stations had been disrupted, ingredients pushed aside to make room for equipment.
“You must be the lawyer.” A man in his fifties approached, clipboard in hand. His name tag read HENDRICKS. “We’ve explained the situation to your parents.”
“Explain it to me. Specifically.” Ava pulled out her phone and started recording. “For the lawsuit.”
Hendricks’ smile flickered. “I’m sorry?”
“The lawsuit I’ll be filing if this inspection isn’t by the book. Harassment, loss of business, emotional distress.” She kept her voice pleasant, professional. “Now, what exactly are your readings showing?”
“Our meters indicate elevated levels of…”
“Show me.” She held out her hand. “The actual readings. On the actual meter. Right now.”
The inspector holding the device glanced at Hendricks uncertainly.
“It’s proprietary equipment…”
“It’s publicly funded equipment used in a public capacity. Show me the readings, show me your calibration certificates, show me the specific regulation you’re citing, and show me your warrant or written authorization to search a private business.”
