Hazel sprinted the last hundred yards and slammed through her front door, immediately activating every ward she’d layered into the building’s bones over two decades. Deflection charms in the window frames, designed to make hostile eyes slide past without seeing. Confusion hexes worked into the foundation, turning certain thoughts to fog. A particularly nasty curse on anyone who crossed the threshold with intent to harm: nothing lethal, but enough to buy her time.
The familiar smell of dried herbs and old wood wrapped around her. Lavender from the bundles hanging in the windows. The faint mustiness of her grandmother’s grimoires, stacked everywhere like leather-bound sentries.
Only then did she realize what she’d lost.
Her gathering license. The small laminated card that proved her right to harvest regulated plants. Gone. Probably lying in the leaves somewhere between the murder scene and safety, stamped with her name and address in official ink.
“No. No, no, no.”
She patted her pockets frantically, knowing it was pointless. The card was gone. Viktor Blackwood would find it. Would know exactly who had witnessed him murder Tobias Ashford in cold blood.
Azrael landed on the counter, fur still standing on end. “We need to leave. Tonight.”
“And go where?” She barely recognized the sound of her own voice. “He owns half this state. He has connections in the other half. He has connections in places that don’t technically exist.”
She moved toward the kettle, muscle memory taking over. Tea. She’d make tea. That’s what you did when?—
The kettle slipped from her shaking hands and clattered into the sink. Water splashed across her shirt, cold and sudden. She gripped the counter’s edge and forced herself to breathe.
She’d just watched a man die. Watched the light leave Tobias Ashford’s eyes while he tried to say his daughters’ names. Watched Viktor Blackwood apologize to his victim like he was canceling lunch plans, all while arranging for the man’s family to be compensated for his murder.
Her stomach heaved. She made it to the bathroom just in time.
Hazel was sittingon the floor behind the counter, knees pulled to her chest, when someone knocked on her shop door.
The clock on the wall read 2:47 AM. Less than three hours since she’d watched a man die.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
“Miss Wickwood.” The voice was formal, implacable. “This is Official Marshall Business. Please open the door.”
Azrael’s ears flattened against his skull. “Marshall demon,” he whispered. “They only show up for…”
“I know what they show up for.”
Legal documents that couldn’t be ignored, avoided, or hexed into oblivion. The supernatural world’s version of process servers, except these ones could track you across dimensions and their paperwork literally bound your soul.
She considered pretending she wasn’t home, but the ward signatures around her shop would have announced her presencethe moment she’d activated them. To a Marshall demon, she might as well have lit a flare.
Hazel pulled herself up using the counter, legs unsteady, and opened the door.
Seven feet of impeccably dressed demon waited on her doorstep. Charcoal-gray skin, eyes the color of fresh blood, a suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent. The formal subpoena in his clawed hand glowed with binding magic, soft gold light pulsing like a heartbeat.
“Hazel Wickwood?”
“That’s me.”
“You are hereby summoned to appear as a witness in the case of The Supernatural State versus Viktor Blackwood and Associated Criminal Enterprise.” His voice carried the weight of absolute authority. “The matter will be heard before the Honorable Judge Ironfang in exactly twenty-one days. Refusal to appear will result in immediate arrest and contempt charges.”
He held out the subpoena.
Hazel’s hand shook as she accepted the document. The magical binding settled around her like chains, impossible to break or ignore. She could feel it weaving into her bones, her blood, the fundamental structure of her being. Miss that court date and her own body would drag her there.
“How did you know?” The question came out before she could stop it. “About what I saw?”
“Fae death magic triggers automatic alerts in Supernatural Court jurisdiction.” The Marshall’s tone was clinical. Professional. “Your defensive shields were logged at the scene. Cross-referenced with local practitioners registered in the northeastern database. Standard procedure.”
“Standard procedure.” A man was dead and there was standard procedure for it. Forms to fill out. Databases to query.“How many witnesses does your standard procedure usually find?”
