“Part of it.” She was quiet for a moment. “What’s your worst case? Besides your mysterious failure that you won’t talk about.”
He considered deflecting, but they were still trapped in this circle for hours. “Banshee possession in Salem, 1894. The family called me too late. I saved the possessed girl, but her sister…” He trailed off. “The sound of mourning banshees stays with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was over a century ago.”
“Time doesn’t make some things easier. Just makes them more familiar.”
They traded stories as the hours crawled by. Professional disasters, not personal traumas. A vampire nest in Philadelphia that had taken Marcus three weeks to clear. A rogue coven in New Orleans that had nearly killed Hazel before she’d figured out their weakness.
Somewhere around four in the morning, exhaustion started winning. Hazel’s voice grew drowsy, her weight shifting more heavily against his back.
“Stay awake,” he said. “The circle requires conscious maintenance from both of us.”
“I’m awake.” She yawned hugely. “Just resting my eyes.”
“Hazel.”
“I’m fine, you overprotective…” Another yawn. “…demon lawyer person.”
Despite everything, his mouth twitched toward a smile. “Eloquent.”
“Shut up. It’s four in the morning, and my own subconscious nearly murdered me. I’m allowed to be ineloquent.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is now.” She shifted again, and he realized she was fighting to stay upright. “How much longer?”
He checked the window. The barest hint of gray touched the eastern sky. “Hour, maybe less.”
“Great. Wonderful. I love sitting vigil with shirtless demons who criticize my vocabulary.”
“Would you prefer I put my shirt back on?”
A pause. “It’s covered in murraue residue. Probably best not to.”
“Probably,” he agreed, and left it at that.
They made it to dawn through sheer determination and periodic elbowing when one of them started to drift. As the firstrays of sunlight touched the window, the silver circle flickered and faded. The murraue’s presence, which had been pressing against the barriers all night, finally retreated.
“We can move now,” Marcus said, though neither of them did.
“Right. Moving. That’s a thing we should do.”
Another minute passed.
“On three?” she suggested.
“One,” he said.
“Two,” she added.
“Three.”
They separated, both standing too quickly. Hazel grabbed the headboard for balance. Marcus focused on finding his shirt, which had landed near the door. The fabric was indeed stained with otherworldly goo that would never wash out.
“I’ll go make breakfast,” Hazel said, not looking at him. “You should… yeah.”
