Hazel's spine straightened. Nate's grip on her hand tightened—not pulling away, not retreating. Holding.
Baba Yaga crossed the room in three strides that covered more distance than the space contained. She sank into the chair opposite them, and the furniture didn't dare adjust. She studied their faces the way astronomers study binary stars—measuring the gravitational pull between them, calculating orbital decay and fusion potential.
"Love makes you strong, little witch." Her violet eyes held Hazel's. "It also makes you vulnerable. Both are necessary."
The words landed in Hazel's chest like a stone dropped into still water. Ripples spreading outward through every protective wall she'd built, every carefully organized shelf in the library of her heart.
Nate leaned forward. "Is that a blessing or a warning?"
"Yes."
"That's not helpful!" Hazel said.
Baba Yaga's mouth curved—not quite a smile. Something older. Something that had watched civilizations build temples to love and then burn them down and then build them again.
"Truth rarely is, child. But storms are coming. Hold tight to what matters."
Her gaze dropped to their hands again. She reached across the table and placed one long, manicured finger on top of their joined knuckles. A pulse of warmth moved through Hazel's bones—golden, ancient, fierce. It tasted like the first page of a book she'd been waiting her whole life to read.
Nate inhaled sharply. He felt it too.
"Your ancestors fought what's coming." Baba Yaga withdrew her hand. The warmth remained, banked coals beneath their skin. "They fought it apart and they lost. You will not make their mistake."
She rose. The shoulder pads caught the light. The sparkles resumed their orbit, cheerful and absurd and somehow exactly right.
"Now. If you'll excuse me." The theatrical register returned like a curtain dropping. "Fabio owes me a croissant and several other things I won't describe in front of his daughter."
"PLEASE DON'T," Zelda groaned from her position facedown on the table.
Purple smoke. Gardenia. Gone.
The cottage walls quietly repaired themselves. Fat Bastard emerged from beneath the couch, dignity shattered.
Hazel looked at Nate. His green eyes held the same banked warmth she felt in her own chest—golden, steady, refusing to be extinguished. His thumb traced a slow circle on her palm.
"Storms," he said.
"Storms," she agreed.
His fingers tightened around hers. Not desperate. Certain.
"Then we'd better hold on tight."
11
PAWNS AND CLAWS
The moon hung fat and yellow over Assjacket, casting long shadows across the rooftops where the real power brokers of the supernatural community conducted their business.
Jinxie balanced on three legs atop the water tower, her mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—scanning the assembled cats below. Seventeen of them. Not bad for short notice. The calico's stub where her fourth leg should have been twitched with anticipation.
"Listen up, fur balls." Her voice carried the authority of a cat who'd survived things that would make a hellhound whimper. "Something's hunting magical pairs, and our humans are targets."
A fat tabby from the fish market yawned, displaying teeth that had seen better decades. "What's in it for us?"
"Protection of the tuna supply."
Seventeen pairs of ears swiveled forward. Now she had their attention.
