Marcus pocketed the message stone. Broken window. Wards that hadn’t stopped a thrown rock. He started a list of things he’d need to fix before they left.
Seventeen minutes.
3
The sharp scentof singed herbs filled Wicked Brews as Hazel crouched beside her damaged wards, running her fingers along the twisted metal framework. The attack had been precise; whoever threw that stone knew exactly where to strike.
“Professional job,” she muttered, examining the severed ward anchors. “They cut through three layers of protection like they had a blueprint.”
Behind her, Marcus pulled out his phone and began photographing the damage.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Documenting evidence.” Marcus adjusted his tie. “Chain of custody requirements.”
“This is my shop, not a crime scene.”
“Someone just threatened your life. That makes it both.” He pocketed the phone. “You can’t stay here unprotected.”
“I’m not being chased out of my own home.” Hazel moved to the back room, where her workspace waited: mortar and pestle, drying herbs, bottles organized by effect. “I have clients who depend on me.”
Marcus followed her into the workshop. “Your clients will understand.”
“Will they?” She gestured to the appointment book. “Mrs. Henderson’s granddaughter needs her moon-sickness tonic by Friday. Jeremy Hollins is a werewolf with early-onset moon madness. Without his weekly stabilizer, he could hurt someone.”
“Those are important, but they’re not more important than your life.”
“Tell that to the fifteen-year-old girl who can’t sleep through the full moon without screaming. Or Jeremy’s wife, terrified she’ll wake up one night to find her husband gone feral.” Hazel pulled three prepared potions from her shelf and began wrapping them in protective cloth. “I’m not just a shopkeeper, Mr. Hawthorne. I’m the only hedge witch in fifty miles who’ll work with werewolves and fae-touched families. The only one who makes house calls at three in the morning when someone’s curse starts activating early. These people can’t just go to the supernatural Walmart and pick up a replacement.”
Marcus watched her work in silence. Her hands moved with the efficiency of long practice: selecting bottles without looking, wrapping them with precise folds, sealing each package with a touch of magic.
“How many active clients do you have?”
“Forty-three regulars.”
“And if you die protecting that community?”
“Then I die.” She didn’t look away. “But I won’t abandon them because I’m scared.”
The bell above the shop door chimed. Hazel moved to the front room, expecting maybe a customer who hadn’t heard about the attack. Instead, she found Mrs. Henderson, silver-streaked hair pulled back, worry lines deep around her eyes.
“Mrs. Henderson.” “I have Lily’s tonic ready.”
“I heard about the brick.” Mrs. Henderson glanced at the broken window, then at Marcus with undisguised suspicion. “Are you alright, dear?”
“I’m fine. This is Marcus Hawthorne. He’s helping with security.”
“Security.” Mrs. Henderson’s tone made it clear what she thought of that. “I used to tell Robert, before he passed, that they’d come after you eventually. They hate anyone who helps the lesser folk.”
“They?”
“The Shadow Council. Local supernatural government,” Hazel explained to Marcus. “They’re not fans of my business model.”
“Your business model of actually helping people?” Mrs. Henderson’s laugh was bitter. “Heaven forbid.” She pressed money into Hazel’s hand, carefully counted bills that felt like more than the tonic cost. “For the window. And don’t argue. Lily’s been sleeping through the full moons without nightmares for the first time in three years. That’s worth every penny.” The older woman squeezed Hazel’s hand. “You take care of yourself, dear. My granddaughter needs you.”
After Mrs. Henderson left, Hazel found Marcus watching her.
“What?”
