“I’m only one demon.”
“One demon with excellent reflexes and encyclopedic knowledge of supernatural law.”
“Are you complimenting me, Miss Wickwood?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Maybe having a bodyguard wouldn’t be completely terrible.
From the backseat, Azrael said, “If I might suggest, perhaps we could continue this analysis somewhere with fewer opportunities for our enemies?”
“He’s right,” Marcus said. “We need to get to the safe house.”
Hazel watched the familiar landmarks slide past. The library where she’d learned her first cantrips. The diner that kept her favorite tea in stock. The turn-off to Mrs. Henderson’s place.
Tomorrow, Jeremy Hollins would come to her shop for his weekly stabilizer. The door would be locked. She’d left a note:Family emergency, back soon.It felt like a lie. The Castellan twins were expecting their fertility charms by the solstice. Old Mr. Vance needed his arthritis salve. Seventeen-year-old Rosie Whitlock had finally worked up the courage to ask about a love potion, and Hazel had been planning to gently redirect her toward a self-confidence charm instead.
All of them would knock on a dark window.
She pressed her palm against the cold glass. The Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner, the one that always smelled like burnt sugar and old grease. The turn-off to the Castellan place.
The town limits sign flashed past. LEAVING WILLOWBROOK. COME BACK SOON.
“That was close.” She watched the road. “The coffee shop.”
“Viktor’s demonstrating reach. He wanted us to know he can get to you anywhere.”
“Comforting.”
“It should be the opposite. Professional assassins don’t demonstrate unless they’re confident. He’s overplaying his hand.”
Hazel studied Marcus’s profile as he drove. “You’ve dealt with this before.”
“I’ve kept witnesses alive through worse.” He glanced at her. “You handled yourself well.”
“So did you.”
They drove in silence after that. In the backseat, Azrael had curled into a tight ball, but his ears stayed pricked forward.
4
Marcus cutthe engine and stared through the windshield at what the firm laughingly called a “safe house.” Weathered wood siding curled away from the frame. The porch leaned to one side. A single window glowed with what he could only hope was electric light and not some sort of haunting.
“This isn’t a safe house,” he said. “It’s where hope goes to die.”
Beside him, Hazel stretched, joints popping after six hours of driving. Six hours of her music. Six hours of her feet on his dashboard despite repeated requests. Six hours of her scent filling the car until he’d cracked the windows to think straight.
“It has indoor plumbing,” she said, gathering her things. “You’ll survive, city boy.”
Azrael yawned from the backseat. “I’ve seen worse. There was that place in Salem with the possessed toilet.”
“That’s not reassuring,” Marcus said.
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
Marcus retrieved their bags from the trunk, reorganizing as he went. Hazel had somehow managed to scatter her belongings throughout the car during the drive. A grimoire inthe glove compartment. Crystals in the cup holders. What looked suspiciously like dried herbs ground into his pristine floor mats.
“Leave it,” Hazel called, already halfway up the porch steps. “I’ll get it later.”
