“Called the last detail, and I’m quoting here, ‘an insult to her intelligence and a waste of everyone’s time.’” Malphas’s lips curved. “She hung up on Vectoris. He’s still sulking.”
Marcus allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Vectoris was a pompous ass who’d coasted on his family connectionsfor three centuries. Being dismissed by a provincial witch was exactly what he deserved.
“The magical disturbance last night,” Malphas continued. “You felt it.”
It wasn’t a question. Marcus had spent three hours trying to identify the source of that pulse: raw power that had reached him across three hundred miles and settled into his bones like a second heartbeat. He’d felt magical signatures before. Thousands of them, across centuries of practice. Nothing like this.
“I felt something,” he said carefully.
“Something.” Malphas finally looked up, pale eyes assessing. “That ‘something’ was Miss Wickwood’s defensive shields activating during the murder. Her magical signature is now logged in every supernatural database from here to the Pacific. Viktor Blackwood knows exactly who witnessed his crime.”
He slid a file across the desk. Marcus picked it up, scanning the contents with practiced efficiency. A surveillance photo showed a woman with wild copper hair arguing with what appeared to be a parking enforcement sprite. Her expression suggested the sprite was losing.
Hazel Wickwood. One hundred and fifty-three years old. Owner of Wicked Brews, a potions shop operating under a Class C hedge witch license. Thirty-seven citations for minor magical infractions, ranging from unlicensed familiar bonding to selling love potions without proper disclaimers. No convictions.
The photo didn’t capture what he’d felt last night. That wild, bright power that had cut through three hundred miles of distance like it was nothing.
“She’s the only witness,” Malphas said. “Without her testimony, Viktor walks. The entire case collapses.”
“Then we need her alive.”
“Obviously.” Malphas stood, adjusting his cuffs, a gesture he’d spent millennia perfecting. “The Blackwood trial sets precedent for the new Inter-Dimensional Court protocols. If we fail here, every supernatural crime family from Boston to Bangkok will know they can eliminate witnesses with impunity.”
Marcus closed the file. “I’ll handle it.”
“Like you handled Eliza?”
The name landed between them. Marcus kept his expression neutral through long practice. Eliza Pemberton. Nineteen years old. A witness in a case against the Marchetti family, back when Marcus still believed protection details were beneath his talents.
She’d died because he’d underestimated the threat. Because he’d been arrogant enough to think his reputation alone would keep her safe.
That was more than a hundred and fifty years ago. He still remembered her face. Still visited her grave every decade, leaving flowers that wouldn’t grow in that poisoned soil.
Some failures you carried forever.
“This is different,” he said.
“Is it?” Malphas leaned back, steepling his fingers. “A stubborn witness who refuses protection. A powerful crime family with resources to reach anywhere. A trial that cannot afford to fail.” He paused. “The only difference I see is that this time, you felt her magic before you met her.”
Marcus said nothing. There was nothing to say.
“Don’t let history repeat itself.” Malphas returned to his desk, dismissing him. “The firm’s reputation is at stake. So is yours.”
Marcus picked up his briefcase and left without another word.
The driveto Maine took four hours. Marcus spent most of it trying not to think about the way her magical signature grew stronger with every mile north.
It sat behind his sternum like a second pulse.
He’d felt attraction before. This was different, and he didn’t want to think about how.
He pushed the thought aside. She was a witness. He was her protection. Anything else was irrelevant.
The GPS failed as he crossed into what the locals apparently called “the Veil,” a region where supernatural activity had saturated the land so thoroughly that human technology struggled to function. His phone lost signal. The radio devolved into static punctuated by what might have been voices speaking in languages that predated human civilization.
Marcus navigated by the pull in his chest. It led him through forests that seemed too old, past farmhouses with protective symbols carved into their doorframes, down roads that definitely hadn’t been on any map.
The town of Willowbrook announced itself with a hand-painted sign: WELCOME TO WILLOWBROOK. POPULATION: VARIABLE. PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY. WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE.
