They stared at each other for another heartbeat before she spun away. “We should practice more. In case you need it. For the case.”
“Right. For the case.”
She backed up several paces, raising her hands. “Again. And this time, don’t think so hard, I can hear it.”
For the next hour, she pelted him with increasingly creative attacks: energy that curved like boomerangs, sparks that multiplied mid-flight, one memorable attempt that smelled like burnt sugar and made his teeth ache. His shields evolved from rigid walls to something more fluid, bending without breaking.
“Better,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “You might actually survive a real fight now.”
“Your confidence is overwhelming.”
“Yeah, well.” She turned toward the cabin. “Sun’s getting low. We should head in.”
Dinner was a quiet affair,both hyperaware of the day’s charged moments. They moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, no longer bumping into each other but consciously avoiding contact. She made tea without asking, remembering his grumbled morning complaints about the lack of coffee. He cleaned as they cooked, keeping her workspace clear without needing to be asked.
Afterward, they settled in the living room with their books. Marcus had claimed one end of the couch with a water-damaged paperback someone had left in the kitchen drawer: a legal thriller that had seen better days. Hazel curled in the armchair with a grimoire, occasionally marking pages with torn strips of paper.
Azrael sprawled on the rug between them, tail twitching lazily.
“Your familiar’s been quiet today,” Marcus observed, turning a page.
“He’s plotting something.” Hazel glanced at the cat. “Probably our doom.”
“I resent that,” Azrael said without opening his eyes. “I’m simply conserving energy for the inevitable disaster.”
“What disaster?”
“The Blackwoods finding us. The Shadow Council escalating. The usual.” He yawned, showing all his teeth. “Wake me if anything interesting happens.”
Marcus cleared his throat and returned to his book.
The fire crackled. Jazz played softly from Marcus’s phone; she was actually humming along to it. Outside, the wind rattled the windows, but inside, it felt warm and safe. The orange shag carpet didn’t look quite as horrible in firelight. Even the avocado-green kitchen visible through the doorway had taken on a cozy glow.
Gradually, the awkwardness eased. Hazel’s feet tucked under her as she read, occasionally humming along to the music. Marcus pulled out his briefcase to file away some papers, force of habit, keeping everything organized even here.
Something small tumbled from an inner pocket: a locket, silver and delicate, landing on the couch cushion between them.
Hazel looked up at the sound. “What’s that?”
Marcus stared at the locket as if it had bitten him.
“Marcus?”
He picked it up slowly, thumb brushing across the tarnished silver. “Something I should have thrown away a long time ago.”
Hazel set down her grimoire. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“No.” He turned the locket over in his hands. “But maybe I should.” He took a breath. “Her name was Eliza. Eliza Pemberton. I was assigned to protect her a hundred and fifty years ago; witness protection, just like you. She’d seen a murder, too. Different family, same kind of monsters.”
Hazel’s hands tightened on her mug. “What happened?”
“She was a hedge witch. Like you, she was stubborn and independent, and she insisted on maintaining her business while in hiding. I was young for a demon. Barely over three hundred. Thought I knew everything.” “We had three weeks until the trial. Just like you and me.”
He opened the locket. Inside was a tiny portrait, watercolor and faded: a young woman with dark hair and kind eyes, wearing the high-necked dress of the 1870s.
“She’s beautiful,” Hazel whispered.
“She was.” Marcus stared at the portrait. “We spent those three weeks in a farmhouse outside Boston. She taught me about folk magic. I taught her courtroom procedure. We made dinner together. Argued about everything. And I…” His voice cracked. “I fell in love with her.”
