Charming.
He found the shop on the town’s main street, sandwiched between an apothecary and what appeared to be a bookstore specializing in prophecy. The hand-painted purple letters above the door confirmed it: Wicked Brews.
The wards hit him before he’d taken three steps from his car.
Multilayered protections, woven into the building’s very bones. Deflection charms, confusion hexes, and underneath it all, something older: blood magic, probably generational.
Impressive work. Also illegal in at least four jurisdictions.
Viktor Blackwood would know what he was doing.
Marcus straightened his tie, composed his expression into professional neutrality, and walked through the front door.
The interiorof Wicked Brews smelled like his grandmother’s garden, if his grandmother had been a chaos witch with questionable organizational skills and a fondness for controlled substances.
Herbs hung from every available surface, filling the air with competing scents that made his eyes water. Shelves lined the walls, packed with bottles and jars whose contents glowed faintly with stored magic. A massive oak counter dominated the center, its surface scarred by what looked like centuries of chemical burns and one very determined knife mark.
And behind that counter stood Hazel Wickwood.
The surveillance photo hadn’t done her justice. Wild copper hair caught the morning light streaming through the windows, making it look like her head was on fire. Green eyes, not the pale green of most Europeans, but deep forest green, the color of old magic, fixed on him with immediate suspicion.
She was smaller than he’d expected. Maybe five-six in her boots. She wore a faded flannel shirt over a tank top, sleeves rolled to her elbows, revealing forearms covered in old burn scars. Occupational hazard for potion-makers.
His demon nature stirred.
He crushed it.
“We’re closed to suits,” she said, not looking up from the inventory ledger spread across the counter.
“Miss Wickwood. I’m Marcus Hawthorne, from Grimm, Malphas & Associates.”
She did look up then. Studied him. “Another corporate demon who thinks an expensive suit makes him intimidating. I’m flattered, truly.”
Marcus laid his credentials on the counter. “I’m here to discuss your witness protection.”
“And I’m here to tell you I don’t need a babysitter.” She closed the ledger with a snap. “I’ve kept myself alive for a century and a half. Managed just fine before your firm decided I was their problem.”
“The Blackwood family has considerable resources. You witnessed a capital crime committed by Viktor himself. That makes you a priority target.”
“Priority target.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been a priority target for the Hendersons, the Marchettis, and the Valdez cartel. Still here. Still breathing. Still running my shop.”
She gestured at the room around them: the herbs, the potions, the accumulated evidence of decades of careful work.
A hedge witch who’d survived conflicts with three major crime families. Either extraordinarily lucky, or the file was missing a few chapters.
“This is different. The subpoena creates legal obligations. Binding ones.”
“My legal obligations are my concern, not yours.”
“They become my concern when your death collapses a case the firm has spent eighteen months building.”
“So that’s what this is about. Not my safety, your case.”
“Both, ideally.”
“At least you’re honest.” She came around the counter, moving with the easy grace of someone comfortable in her ownspace. “Here’s my honesty in return: I don’t trust corporate demons. I don’t trust lawyers. And I especially don’t trust corporate demon lawyers who show up uninvited and expect me to upend my life on their schedule.”
“Miss Wickwood…”
