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“You’re just mad because you have no soul left to pawn,” Khol fires back.
“Actually, he does,” I say, grinning. “But someone else owns it now, and I’m not willing to trade.”
Dezi’s eyes do that thing where they flash scarlet, but I can see he’s fighting a smile. The tough-guy act is thin as onion skin with him these days.
We finally slow down near a side street. The green lamps get brighter here, yet the alleys are almost black between them. The necropolis isn’t just narrow, it’s layered—homes and shops on top, tunnels and more homes below, with the runoff from the city’s weather channeled through everything. The air smells like scorched incense and sulfur. At the end of the street is a building so jammed into the curve of the block it looks like it was put there by mistake. The sign is hand-painted in wild silver script, ‘The Witches’ Tit & Cauldron—Cold, Hot, We Have It All’, and I consider if I want to go in.
The name is pretty baller, and I haven’t seen witches in Faerie much.
Khol grabs my sleeve, reading it out loud with a voice so sharp it could slice glass. “Witches’ Tit and Cauldron. Damn, that’s fun.” He glances at the windows, which are blacked out with something sticky. “The inside is probably grosser than the outside, though. Not sure you really want to go in.”
“Which is why we absolutely will,” Dezi says firmly. “I guarantee it will yield the best kind of magical supplies. It’s not a fancy place for people who piddle; it’s real.”
I step forward, but Tiernan blocks my path with a hand on my shoulder.
His gaze sweeps the alley, and then he puts his mouth right to my ear, voice low. “The security detail is holding at the mouth of this alley. We’ll go in alone, but they’re within reach.” He doesn’t say don’t go in; he just makes sure we have backup.
I meet his eyes before I look back at my crew. “Ready to see what kind of black magic Ravenhold has for sale?”
Khol cracks his neck. “I cannot wait, actually. Hopefully, they have a strong drink in the bar. I could use a boost.”
“Let’s get what we need and get out. If we stay more than twenty minutes in this place, the owner will feature us in the next marketing campaign. That’s a problem I do not need getting back to Oliver. He’s a big enough pain in my ass as it is,” Rev says as he gives me a lop-sided smile.
“Don’t worry, babe. We’ll do our best to keep you from violating contracts,” I say, and shoulder past Khol toward the door.
As we head down the alley to the door, I feel every lamp on the street following us; the light pooling behind our heels like we’re the only thing alive out here. It’s weird, but everything in Faerie is weird, so I shrug it off.
Welcome to the necropolis where the humor is as dark as the Midnight sky, and the eerie glow isn’t just bad makeup.
Once we’re inside, I realize the shop is the kind of cluttered that comes from actual hoarding, not an aesthetic. Shelves line the walls and run down the center in uneven rows, so crammed with inventory that each one bows under the weight. There’s zero branding or slick packaging—just hand-labeled bottles, wax-sealed jars, and bundles of herbs tied with twine so old the fibers have fossilized. Every horizontal surface is a mad scientist’s fever dream: boxes of candles in every color, grimoires stacked in lopsided towers, and trays of crystals that hum with enough static to make my teeth itch.
Messy, but I like it and I won’t pretend otherwise.
The ascent of cedar smoke with an undertone of something sweetly putrid fills my nose. It’s not decay—more like whatever’s inside some of these bottles is meant to ferment. The effect is dizzying, and the longer we stand here, the less it feels like a store and more like an alchemist’s bunker.
No bell rings, nor does anyone greet us as we enter. The only sound is Fidget, who climbs off my shoulder to inspect a jar of dried beetles on the lowest shelf, and then recoils with a face so disgusted I feel it in my molars. He pips once, retreating to my neck in a scramble, his wings pressed tight as he wriggles.
Tiernan positions himself just inside the doorway, staring through the greasy window at the street outside. He doesn’t touch a thing, not even the doorframe, as if he expects the entire building to combust if he so much as bumps a shelf. He’s in full bouncer mode, eyes never leaving the alley, but I can feel him tracking every move I make in here.
The prince and the vampire, however, attack the shelves with professional purpose, as if this is a scavenger hunt, and the timer is already counting down. Rev moves down the first aisle, reading hand-written labels out loud, his tone weirdly reverent. “Red agaric, whole. Moonflower extract, undiluted. Mercury-dipped wolfsbane…” He pauses to hold up a vial. “Can you even buy this legally?”
“Not in Briarvale, thank fuck,” I mutter. “That shit is basically poison.”
Dezi is three steps behind, plucking bottles from the shelf and examining them with the detachment of a lab tech. He twists off the lid of a blue-glass bottle, sniffs, then passes it back to Revelin. “You don’t want that one. It’s not fresh, and the solvent’s separating.” He pockets a squat jar of black powder, then glances at me. “The blue glow on the labels? That means they’re spelled to be shelf-stable, but they lose potency after a year. Get only what’s got a date stamp within the last six months.”
“How do you know that?” I ask with a frown. “There’s no sign I missed, right?”
“Because I have lived a very long time and been in a lot of spell shops run by various beings, witchling. It’s not an uncommon way for Fae to label things. Actually, in Europe, it’s much more common to be less… commercialized than it is in our town at home.”
I let the boys do their thing, scanning the shelves for anything on the list we made earlier. I spot bundles of dried rue and yarrow, a vial of moon oil, and a box of black candles that smells like burned sugar. Each time I pull something off a shelf, Fidget leans down to inspect, and then either pips approval or shakes his head so hard his big ears flop. He’s being a quality control tyrant, and I love him for it.
We clear half the list in under five minutes without a single soul emerging to assist us. By then, Dezi’s coat pockets are bulging, and Rev has filled one of the store’s splintery baskets with a haul that would make any witch jealous. I’m about to call it when I spot something weird at the back of the shop. It’s a wall covered in drying racks, every inch draped with garlands of flowers and strips of pale leather. At first, I think it’s just for show, but then I see a narrow gap between the racks — and the faint outline of a spiral staircase behind it. It’s the only way up, and the only spot in the store not visible from the front.
I don’t like it, but something in my gut is humming as I stare at it.
Walking along the back wall, I slip behind the curtain of drying botanicals. The stairs are black metal, and the handrail is sticky with something unidentifiable. Every voice in my head says don’t, but I put my hand on the rail anyway and start climbing because my gut is screaming the opposite. It might not be the right move, but I have to stop overthinking and let my magic and my instinct help me. The heat buzzing in my new tattoos tells me that the former agrees with me, so I keep going.
Footsteps follow me up without a word, and by the heavy gait, I know it’s Khol’s boots. Fidget tenses on my head, tiny claws digging into my scalp as I pause at the top to listen. Nothing—just the hum of magic and a hint of perfume so sharp it makes my eyes water. I brace myself, then keep going, each step tighter than the last.
