The past tense settled over Hazel like a shroud.
“What happened to her?”
“Nothing dramatic. Her boat sank; old vessel, could have happened to anyone. Her sister’s house caught fire a few months later. Then her daughter’s school had a gas leak. Little things, really, spread out over time. Hard to prove a pattern when things just… happen.” “By the time the trial came around, Coral had moved to Alaska. Somewhere very remote. Very cold. I hear her daughter’s doing well now. College, I think. Sends Christmas cards with photos of the northern lights.”
Marcus moved closer to Hazel, not quite touching but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.
“The thing about Viktor,” Margaret continued, brushing invisible lint from her cardigan, “is that he’s a patient man. Doesn’t need to make threats. Doesn’t need to rush. He just… waits. And things happen to people who inconvenience him. Eventually.” She met Hazel’s eyes with something that might have been pity. “You have a lovely shop, dear. Twenty years of work. Your grandmother’s legacy. All those jars of herbs, all those family recipes. It would be a shame if anything happened to it.”
“Is that a threat, Mrs. Thornfield?” Marcus asked.
“Friendly advice. From someone who’s lived in this town long enough to know how things work.” Her smile returned, bright and empty. “The smart play would be to develop a sudden case of amnesia. Maybe take a nice long vacation. Viktor respects discretion.”
“And if I don’t?” Hazel asked.
Margaret sighed like a teacher disappointed in a student. “Then I suppose we’ll all find out what happens next. But since you’re so determined to discuss official business…”
A sound like a thousand angry bees filled the air. Hazel’s coffee cup hit the floor.
“Oh, shit.”
The cloud of pixies descended through the ceiling vent, their tiny wings catching the fluorescent lights in rainbow flashes. Not the garden-variety pixies that pollinated magical gardens; these were the poisonous kind, bred for violence, their dust a paralytic that could drop a werewolf in seconds. Their eyes glowed red, and their tiny teeth gleamed like needles.
“The Shadow Council sends their regards!” Margaret called, already backing out the door. The bell chimed cheerfully as she fled.
Marcus stepped forward, pushing Hazel behind him. “What the hell…”
A pixie dive-bombed his face. He swatted it away, still shouting legal codes. “Section four clearly states that binding magical creatures to attack civilians violates…”
“They don’t care about your regulations!” Hazel grabbed a fly swatter from the impulse-buy rack and started swinging. Pixies scattered, regrouped, and attacked again. Their angry buzzing filled her ears, drowning out thought. One got tangled in her hair; she felt its tiny claws scraping against her scalp before she managed to swat it away.
They moved back-to-back without discussing it, Marcus’s solid warmth against her spine as they fought off the swarm. His precise swats complemented her wild swings: order and chaos finding rhythm.
“Binding magical creatures to attack”—he swatted a pixie out of the air—“violates three different treaties”—another swat—“and carries a minimum sentence of…”
“Less talking, more swatting!” She knocked away a cluster heading for his neck. Pixie dust sparkled in the air, sweet and deadly. Her eyes were already starting to water, her lips going numb where a pixie had grazed her cheek.
The gas station clerk had vanished behind the counter, probably calling someone or hiding until this blew over.Through the window, she spotted two of the local werewolf pack lounging against their trucks, watching the show with undisguised amusement. One of them actually had popcorn.
“Your boyfriend fights well,” one called out.
“He’s not my—” A pixie flew straight at her mouth. She spat, swung, missed. “He’s my lawyer!”
“Sure he is, honey.”
Marcus grabbed her hand. “Bathroom! Now!”
They ran, pixies pursuing in a glittering cloud. The gas station bathroom was tiny, dingy, and smelled like industrial cleaner and despair. They tumbled inside, Marcus slamming the door behind them and throwing the deadbolt.
Angry buzzing filled the air outside. Pixies battered against the door, tiny bodies thudding against the cheap wood.
“Well.” Hazel tried to catch her breath. “This is cozy.”
They stood pressed together in the narrow space between sink and toilet, both covered in shimmering pixie dust. Marcus’s usually perfect hair stuck up at odd angles, gold dust caught in the dark strands. A smudge of glitter decorated his left cheek, another on the bridge of his nose, a third along his jawline.
He looked almost… human.
“The Shadow Council did this?” He sounded personally offended by the procedural violation.
