“Have you faced worse armed with nothing but legal codes and a fly swatter?”
That almost-smile again. “Point taken.”
“Besides,” she added, watching familiar landmarks pass: the library where she’d learned her first cantrips, the park where magical kids played after dark, the diner where she’d had her first date at sixteen. “They’re my problem. You’re just…”
“The unwelcome outsider demon lawyer who’s keeping you alive?”
“I was going to say temporary inconvenience, but that works too.”
“Temporary,” he repeated quietly.
Seventeen days until the trial. Seventeen days until he went back to Boston and his perfect suits and his legal briefs, and she went back to her shop and her herbs and her quiet little life.
If she was still alive. If she still had a shop.
“What happens after?” she asked. “After the trial, I mean. Assuming I survive.”
“You’ll survive.” His voice left no room for doubt.
“But then what? The Shadow Council isn’t going to forget that I testified. Viktor’s family won’t forgive me. Even if he goes to prison, his people will still be here.” She pulled at the sleeve of his shirt, the soft cotton sliding between her fingers. “I might have to leave. Start over somewhere new.”
Marcus was quiet for a moment. “The firm has resources. Relocation assistance, new identities if needed. We take care of our witnesses.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He glanced at her, then back at the road. “What are you asking?”
She didn’t know. Or maybe she did, and she was too scared to say it out loud. What happens to us? Will you forget me the moment the trial ends? Is this just a job to you, or?—
“Nothing,” she said. “Never mind.”
“Hey,” she said, desperate to lighten the weight in her chest. “You never tried the gas station coffee.”
“Next time.”
“Next time,” she agreed.
He reached over and turned on the radio. Some classical piece she didn’t recognize filled the car, and she didn’t change it. Small victories.
Behind them, pixie dust glittered on the gas station parking lot.
Hazel pulled the collar of Marcus’s shirt up to her nose. It smelled like dryer sheets. She didn’t move away from the gear shift.
8
The morning sunslanted through the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. After a quick breakfast, he’d finally mastered not burning the toast, Marcus stood in the center of the living room, having pushed the orange shag couch against the wall to create space. He’d traded his usual suit for khakis and a somewhat wrinkled blue Oxford: his version of casual after five days without an iron.
“We need to prepare you for court,” he announced as Hazel emerged from the kitchen, mug of tea in hand. Her hair was twisted up in a messy bun, secured with what appeared to be a pencil, and she wore faded jeans and an oversized sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder. Azrael trailed behind her, tail twitching.
“I know how to testify.” She settled cross-legged on the couch. “I tell the truth, the Truth Stone glows, done.” Azrael jumped up beside her, clearly planning to supervise.
“The supernatural court system is more complex than that.” Marcus pulled a legal pad from his briefcase; of course he’d brought legal pads to a safe house. “You’ll face cross-examination from Blackwood’s lawyers. They’ll try to discredit you, make you emotional, twist your words.”
“Let them try.” She took a defiant sip of tea.
“This is exactly what I mean.” He set the pad aside. “That attitude will hurt your credibility. The court expects a certain… decorum.”
“You mean they expect me to perform like a good little witch?”
