“I have clients who depend on me. Mrs. Henderson’s arthritis medication. The Kowalski boy’s anxiety tincture. Thirteen standing orders that ship this week.” She stopped an arm’s length away, close enough that he could smell the herbs that clung to her clothes, the faint sweetness of whatever she’d been brewing that morning. “I can’t just disappear because it’s convenient for your case.”
“It’s not about convenience. It’s about survival.”
“Then let me worry about my survival.” She jabbed a finger toward his chest?—
And stopped.
Light flickered between them. Faint. Purple and gold, there and gone in a heartbeat. If Marcus hadn’t been watching, he might have missed it entirely.
But he was watching. And he saw the way her eyes widened. The way she stepped back, putting distance between them.
“What was that?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” It was the truth. He’d felt resonances before: magical signatures that harmonized with his own, creating temporary amplification effects. Court witches used them deliberately, aligning their power for complex workings. But those were conscious efforts, carefully orchestrated.
This had happened without either of them trying. Without either of them wanting it to.
Her expression suggested she found that as unsettling as he did.
A sleek black cat emerged from behind the herb storage, amber eyes taking in the scene with unsettling intelligence. Hepadded across the counter, positioning himself between Hazel and Marcus with the casual possessiveness of a familiar who’d been doing this for over a century.
“Azrael,” Hazel said. “This is Mr. Hawthorne. He was just leaving.”
The cat’s gaze fixed on Marcus. Assessed him with the thoroughness of a predator evaluating prey. “Demon,” Azrael said. “Five centuries, give or take. Bound to no house, which is unusual. Smells like old magic and expensive cologne.”
“Perceptive,” Marcus said.
“I’m a cat. Perception is what we do.” Azrael’s tail swished. “You felt her magic last night. From Boston.”
It wasn’t a question. Marcus considered lying, but familiars were notoriously difficult to deceive. “Yes.”
“That’s never happened before. Not from that distance.” Azrael’s tail stilled. “Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting,” Hazel cut in. “It’s irrelevant. Mr. Hawthorne is leaving, and I’m getting back to work.”
“The protection order is binding,” Marcus said. “I’m required to secure your safety whether you cooperate or not.”
“Then arrest me. I’ve been arrested before.”
They stared at each other across the counter. Her jaw was set, her shoulders squared, the posture of someone who’d learned to stand her ground against things far more dangerous than a demon lawyer in an expensive suit.
Marcus was weighing his options when the front window exploded.
Glass cascaded inward.Marcus moved without thinking, centuries of combat training overriding conscious thought. Hewas between her and the threat before the first shard hit the floor, his shields flaring to life around them both.
Her magic rose to meet his. Not deliberately—instinctively, the way the body flinches from pain. Their magic wove together in a flare of violet and amber, their combined shields far stronger than either could have managed alone.
For a fraction of a second, he was aware of her pressed against his chest. The warmth of her body through the flannel shirt. The way her magic felt against his, not just compatible but complementary, two instruments playing the same chord.
Then training took over, and he was scanning the street for threats while Azrael transformed from house cat into something significantly larger, golden light crackling around claws that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
“Window’s clear,” the familiar growled. “Whatever came through is already gone.”
Marcus released her and moved toward the broken window. Glass crunched under his shoes. The morning sunlight caught something on the floor: a small object that had been thrown through the window with considerable force.
Not a brick. A stone, smooth and black, with symbols carved into its surface.
He recognized the symbols. Old magic. Very old.
