“You needed supervision.”
She threw a dish towel at his head. He caught it easily, and her scowl cracked into reluctant amusement.
“Show off,” she muttered, but there was warmth in it.
“I prefer ‘highly skilled.’”
“You would.”
They finished cleaning in companionable silence. As evening fell, they made dinner together, nothing fancy, but edible. Progress from their first attempt.
“Tomorrow you’ll try to leave again,” Marcus said as they sat across from each other, empty plates between them.
“Not alone,” Hazel said.
He looked up, surprised. “No?”
“You were right about the Blackwoods. What they do to people.” She pushed food around her plate. “But I still need supplies. My life can’t just stop.”
“So we go together.”
“So we go together,” she agreed. “But I’m still going to be difficult about it.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”
7
Hazel had never consideredgas station coffee a luxury, but watching Marcus Hawthorne stare at the self-serve coffee station like it might bite him was almost worth the stop.
“It’s just coffee,” she said, filling a paper cup with the dark sludge that passed for morning fuel in rural Maine. The dispenser had a handwritten sign taped to it: OUT OF HAZELNUT. “Not a demonic summoning ritual.”
Marcus adjusted his perfectly pressed collar. How did he keep his shirts so crisp after four days in a cabin? He examined the row of dusty flavor pumps. “The sanitation standards alone…”
“Will you live a little?” Hazel dumped three sugars into her cup and grabbed a package of powdered donuts. “Gas station coffee is a road trip tradition.”
“We’re not on a road trip. We’re maintaining mobile security while resupplying.” But he picked up a cup, movements precise even when confronted with a dispenser that had seen better decades.
The bell over the door chimed. Hazel recognized the newcomer immediately: Margaret Thornfield, secretary of theShadow Council and professional pain in everyone’s collective ass.
“Hazel Wickwood.” Margaret’s tone could have frosted the windows. Her pearl necklace gleamed against her pressed cardigan, the uniform of small-town authority everywhere from here to Kennebunkport. “Heard you have an outsider protecting you.”
Marcus straightened, his whole demeanor shifting from annoyed to alert. Professional demon lawyer replacing the man who’d spent twenty minutes organizing her snack choices by nutritional value.
“Mrs. Thornfield.” Hazel kept her voice level. “Lovely to see you too.”
Margaret’s gaze fixed on Marcus like he was something scraped off her shoe. “The Shadow Council doesn’t approve of demon interference in local matters.”
“I’m here legally.” Marcus’s voice carried courtroom authority.
“Legal doesn’t mean welcome.” Margaret’s smile could have curdled milk. “The Shadow Council has concerns about outside influence during these… delicate times.”
“Delicate?” Hazel stepped forward. “Viktor Blackwood murdered someone. That’s not delicate, that’s murder!”
“Murder.” Margaret examined her nails with elaborate disinterest. “You know, there was a selkie named Coral who used that word once. Fifteen years ago.”
“I don’t…”
“She had a daughter. Lovely girl, about twelve at the time.” Margaret’s voice was almost pleasant. “Coral was going to testify. Very determined. Very brave. Reminded me of you, actually.”
