Marcus was on his feet instantly. “Stay here.”
“Like hell.”
“Hazel…”
But she was already reaching for her jacket, and he knew better than to argue.
The perimeter check revealed nothing: a false alarm, maybe a deer or a curious fox. When they returned to the cabin, neither of them reached for the other.
They cleaned up dinner. He dropped a fork. She handed him a clean one without looking up.
11
Hazel staredat her laptop screen, refreshing her bank account for the third time in ten minutes. The Chase app loaded with its cheerful blue interface — that little swoopy logo practically smirking at her — which felt like a personal insult. The numbers didn’t change. Still red. Still terrifying.
Three suppliers had canceled this week, leaving her unable to fill half her orders. The bills kept coming: rent on the shop, utilities, insurance. But no money flowed in to cover them. Marcus’s contacts had come through with emergency supplies, but those were for active clients, not for restocking inventory or paying overhead.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Mrs. Hollins:Jeremy’s doing so well on the stabilizer. Can we get a three-month supply? I can pay up front.
Hazel pressed her fingers against her eyes. Three months would cost six hundred dollars in materials alone; materials she couldn’t get from any local supplier thanks to the Shadow Council’s blockade. She could source them from Marcus’s contacts, but that meant owing the firm even more money she had no way to repay.
Jeremy Hollins’s wolf had been destabilizing for months, the moon madness creeping in earlier each cycle. Before the stabilizer, he’d shifted involuntarily during a work meeting and nearly mauled his supervisor. His wife had driven forty miles to find someone who could help.
She typed back:Let me check supply and get back to you.
Another buzz. The Castellan twins:Is our fertility charm ready? We’re running out of time before the solstice.
They’d been trying for three years. The charm wasn’t guaranteed; nothing magical ever was. But the solstice alignment would give them their best chance. She’d already gathered most of the components, had the spell mapped out, and now the final ingredients sat in some Shadow Council warehouse, seized from her suppliers as “contraband.”
And another. Mrs. Henderson:Lily’s tonic is almost gone. When can you make more? She’s starting to have nightmares again.
Lily was fifteen. The nightmares weren’t ordinary; they were prophetic visions too powerful for a teenager’s mind to process. Without the tonic, she’d wake screaming about deaths she couldn’t prevent. Hazel had been making that particular brew since Lily was twelve.
Hazel’s hands shook as she set down the phone. She’d built this business over twenty years since inheriting it from her grandmother, helped hundreds of people. Three generations of Wickwoods serving Willowbrook’s supernatural community, and she might be the one to watch it end.
The laptop showed her email: seventeen unread messages. She clicked through them mechanically.
Your business insurance payment is overdue.
Final notice: Utility bill for Wicked Brews is past due.
Rent payment required within 5 days to avoid late fees.
And buried among the bills, one from a regular customer:Hi Hazel! I heard you’re in some trouble with the Council. I can’t risk using your services anymore. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.
Diane Marchetti. Hazel had helped her through three miscarriages and a difficult pregnancy, had sat with her through the night when her son was born with the cord wrapped around his neck, had whispered the words that kept his tiny lungs breathing until the doctors could intervene. That boy was seven now. Hazel got a card every year on his birthday.
She understood perfectly. The Shadow Council wasn’t just cutting off her supplies; they were driving away her customers through intimidation. Soon there wouldn’t be a business left to save.
Hazel opened a new browser tab and started searching. Alternative suppliers outside the Council’s reach. Wholesale accounts in Boston, New York, even overseas. Marcus’s contacts had helped with the emergency supplies, but she couldn’t keep relying on firm money. She needed her own solution.
Three hours later, she had a list. Eight potential suppliers who might work with her. Four of them required minimum orders she couldn’t afford. Two were in Europe with shipping costs that would eat her margins. But two might actually work: a hedge witch collective in Vermont and an apothecary in Salem that had survived three centuries of supernatural politics.
She drafted emails to both, careful to mention her credentials without revealing her current situation. If the Shadow Council had reach beyond Willowbrook, she didn’t want to advertise that she was the witch causing trouble.
The Vermont collective had a reputation for helping practitioners facing institutional pressure. They’d sheltered witches during the McCarthy-era supernatural purges, had connections that ran deep into the underground networks thatexisted parallel to organizations like the Shadow Council. If anyone would take a chance on her, they would.
Salem was a longer shot. The apothecary there had relationships with every major supernatural governing body on the East Coast. They might not want to risk their neutrality for one hedge witch in Vermont. But they also had a history of protecting individual practitioners against overreach. It was worth trying.
