“I want to keep you alive. If that means learning the difference between deadly nightshade and regular tomatoes, so be it.”
Hazel stared at him for a long moment. “Deadly nightshade looks nothing like tomatoes.”
“Then this should be educational.”
Azrael made a sound suspiciously like laughter. “Oh, this should be good. Mr. Precise Learning from Ms. Chaos. What could go wrong?”
“Everything,” Hazel muttered. But she pulled out a mortar and pestle. “Fine. But if you’re going to be underfoot, you might as well be useful. Wash your hands.”
Marcus ended up at the sink, sleeves rolled up, watching her arrange herbs with practiced efficiency. “What are we making?”
“Pain relief salve. Mrs. Henderson needs it for her arthritis.” She hesitated. “Assuming I can still get the beeswax.”
“Beeswax is difficult to obtain?”
“It wasn’t. Until this morning.” She pulled out her phone and showed him a text message. “My supplier just canceled my standing order. No explanation. Three other vendors have done the same this week: the apothecary won’t sell me jars, the courier service dropped me, even my packaging supplier suddenly ‘doesn’t carry’ materials they’ve sold me for five years.”
“The Shadow Council.”
“Has to be. Mrs. Henderson warned me they’d escalate.” Hazel set down the mortar with more force than necessary. “They want me gone. And if I can’t get supplies, I can’t serve my clients. If I can’t serve my clients…”
“Your business fails.”
“And I’m forced out of Willowbrook without them having to lift a finger directly.” She started sorting through her meager herb collection: what she’d managed to buy at the market. “Jeremy won’t get his stabilizer next week. The Castellantwins won’t get their fertility charms. Mrs. Henderson’s granddaughter…”
Her voice wavered. Marcus stepped closer.
“What about Mrs. Henderson’s granddaughter?”
“Lily.” Hazel set the valerian down before she spilled it. “She’s fifteen. The moon-sickness started last year. She can’t sleep during the full moon, screams and claws at her own skin like something’s trying to crawl out. The nightmares are so bad she’s lost twenty pounds. Mrs. Henderson found her on the roof last month, sleepwalking toward the edge.”
“The tonic helps?”
“It’s the only thing that helps. The fancy supernatural doctors in Portland prescribed her sedatives that turned her into a zombie. I made the tonic specifically for her: moonbell flowers, valerian, chamomile blessed under a dark moon. She’s been sleeping through the full moons for three months now. Gaining weight. Going back to school.” Her voice cracked. “And now I can’t make more because I can’t get beeswax to preserve it properly.”
“Who else supplies beeswax in the area?”
“The Shadow Council controls or influences every supplier within a hundred miles. That’s how they maintain power: economic pressure, not just magical politics.”
“They can’t control suppliers outside their jurisdiction.”
Hazel looked up. “What?”
“I have contacts. Boston, New York, even internationally.” He pulled out his phone. “What do you need?”
“Marcus, you don’t have to…”
“What. Do you need.” Not a question.
She stared at him for a long moment, then rattled off a list: beeswax, glass jars, certain rare herbs, packaging materials. He typed everything into his phone, then made three calls. When he hung up ten minutes later, Hazel was still staring.
“Everything will be delivered here within three days,” he said. “Billed to the firm. Consider it operational expenses for witness protection.”
“That’s not… the firm isn’t going to pay for my potion supplies.”
“They’ll pay for whatever keeps my witness alive and mentally stable.” He paused. “A witness who can’t help her clients, who watches her community suffer because of her testimony—that’s a witness who might decide the trial isn’t worth it. Keeping you supplied keeps you committed.”
“Besides,” he added, “Malphas owes me for taking this case on such short notice. He can foot the bill.”
