With a flick of my wrist, the car shrinks down, its sleek form folding impossibly small until it floats neatly into my coat pocket. Mattie’s eyes light up, a grin spreading across her face. “I love it when you do that.”

  I glance at her, unimpressed. “When we’re done here, you’re reversing the spell.”

  She opens her mouth to protest but quickly thinks better of it, snapping her jaw shut with a resigned sigh. Good. She’s learning.

  We head up the marble steps of the Order of Magi’s Chicago Office, my boots echoing with each deliberate step. Even at three in the morning, the place is alive with activity. Practitioners in navy blue uniforms bustle about, their robes swishing as they move between offices, carrying scrolls, artifacts, and enough paperwork to drown the most diligent bureaucrat.

  I ignore the curious glances thrown my way as we stride through the grand hall, the faint hum of ambient magic hanging in the air. Zefpyre pads silently beside me, his tail swishing in measured disapproval, while Mattie follows close behind, her eyes darting around, taking in every detail.

  I head straight for Gabriel’s office. The Grand Chancellor of the Order of Magi doesn’t keep regular hours—he doesn’t need to. As a Nephilim and one of the most powerful beings in the Order, he’s always working, always watching. And if anyone has answers about this mess with Lord Lazur, it’ll be him.

  The heavy oak door looms ahead, its intricate carvings glowing faintly with protective enchantments. Without hesitation, I push it open, the polished brass handle cool under my palm. Gabriel Pendragon doesn’t bother with formalities, and neither do I.

  “Pendragon,” I say, stepping into the room.

  “Holmes,” he replies, his tone clipped, his gaze steady.

  The chair in front of me looks as uncomfortable as I feel about this conversation. With a flick of my fingers, it vanishes, replaced by an intricately carved throne that materializes with a soft hum of magic. Gabriel’s face tightens with annoyance, but he doesn’t protest. He knows the rule: when he’s strong enough to counter my magic, he can complain.

  Gabriel Pendragon, for all his Nephilim heritage, sits comfortably at the Enlightened rank—a respectable level of power but still leagues beneath me. He’s formidable by most standards, but one day, even Mattie will surpass him. Her raw potential is unmatched, and I see no point in hiding that fact.

  Mattie slips quietly into the chair behind me, her formal position as a trainee. I glance back at her and jerk my head. “Next to me.”

  Her eyes widen, the weight of the gesture hitting her immediately. Sitting beside me in this conversation elevates her to an equal, at least in this room. It also means she won’t be dismissed if things turn sensitive. She swallows hard and moves to the chair on my right, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap. Good. She’s ready to listen.

  “What is this about, Holmes?” Gabriel asks, his voice edged with frustration.

  “Lord Lazur,” I say simply.

  Gabriel’s wings twitch as his irritation deepens. “What about him? If you’re here about the cursed cauldrons, he wasn’t involved. We caught the actual criminal.”

  “This isn’t about the cauldrons,” I reply, my voice steady but sharp. “His warehouse was robbed a week ago.”

  That gets his attention. He sinks into his chair, his wings folding tightly against his back. For a moment, the room is silent.

  “Julius,” he says finally, his voice low, “I swear this is the first I’m hearing of this. Do you know who did it?”

  I bark a laugh, cold and humorless. “If I knew, Pendragon, do you think I’d be here wasting my time asking for information?”

  His expression darkens, worry creeping into his usually implacable demeanor. “We haven’t heard anything.”

  I scoff, pushing to my feet. “Mattie, let’s go. We’re going to the source.”

  Gabriel stands abruptly, his wings spreading slightly in agitation. “HOLMES! Don’t you dare start an incident!”

  I pause, meeting his glare with a smirk as I stride toward the door. “Too late, Pendragon. We’re already in the middle of one. And for once, I didn’t start this bullshit.”

  With that, I flick my coat, pushing open the door and stepping into the hallway, Mattie following close behind. The hum of magic lingers faintly in the air, but my thoughts are already racing toward our next move.

  Mattie hurries to catch up as I step out of the Order’s office, my boots crunching against the frost-covered pavement. “Boss Man,” she calls, her tone cautious, “shouldn’t we get some rest? Start fresh after a few hours of sleep? Plus… Lord Lazur wouldn’t even entertain an audience at this hour.”

  I laugh, the sound dry and humorless. “Entertain an audience? Oh no, my sweet summer child. We’re not requesting an audience. We’re meeting him outside his office. I know where he hangs out.”

  Zefpyre lets out an exaggerated yawn, his tail flicking lazily. “For once, I agree with the child. We’ve been running and gunning all day, and you, Julius, need to cool off.”

  I grumble under my breath. “Fine. Mattie, car.”

  She straightens, stepping into a ready stance, and lets out a deep breath. Her fingers trace intricate patterns in the air, the faint glow of magic sparking at her fingertips. A rune shimmers to life as she murmurs, “Forzara Requlium.”

  I feel the pull of magic tugging at my trench coat. The spell is crude, a little wobbly at the edges, but it gets the job done. My car floats out of my pocket and expands to its full size, settling onto the street with a soft thud. I could’ve crushed the spell with a thought, but I let it play out. She needs the practice.

  Without a word, I slide into the driver’s seat and start the engine, the familiar rumble of the Shelby Mustang filling the cold night air. Mattie and Zefpyre climb in, the latter curling up in the back seat with a contented sigh.

  I pull onto the street, heading toward Hyde Park. Home. The city at night is breathtaking, especially in winter. Christmas lights twinkle along the streets, their reflections shimmering in the frost-dusted windows of high-rises and brownstones. Chicago seems quieter now, wrapped in a blanket of cold and light. For a moment, it almost reminds me of my ancestral home—the towering spires, the warm glow of enchanted lanterns lining the streets.

  But I cut the thought off before it can dig too deep. That’s a rabbit hole I don’t have the energy to fall into tonight.

  Instead, I focus on the road ahead, the hum of the tires on asphalt steadying my thoughts. Hyde Park isn’t far, but I already know this night is far from over.

  I pull up to my apartment, cutting the engine with a satisfied sigh. With a flick of my wrist, the Shelby shrinks back down, floating neatly into my pocket. By the time I reach the building, Mattie already has the door unlocked, holding it open as Zefpyre and I step inside. We head up the stairs, my boots thudding against the worn wooden steps. I don’t bother quieting them—let her hear me coming.

  Sure enough, I hear her door creak open, followed by the unmistakable voice of my landlord, Gertrude Alistair. “WHAT IN THE INFINITE PLAINS is your problem, making all this racket in the middle of the night while decent folk are trying to sleep?”

  I grin, slowing my pace. “Oy, you shrewd bat! You weren’t asleep—you got out here awfully quick.”

  Her face flushes with rage, her bony fingers gripping the doorframe like she might wring my neck. “If I didn’t know your sister, I would… I would…”

  “You’d what?” I ask, leaning against the banister, my grin widening. “Do enlighten me.”

  Her mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air before she snaps, “Oh, never you mind, you foolish child!”

  I laugh as I brush past her. She’s one of the few people on Earth who could call me “child” without me setting them on fire. After all, I’m only a few hundred years old—a mere fledgling compared to her millennium of stubborn existence.

  Behind me, Mattie rolls her eyes. “Can you please hurry up and fuck her already? The sexual tension is unbearable.”

  I stop mid-step, turning slowly to glare at her. “Watch it, Trainee, before I come up with some very creative punishments.”

  She smirks but says nothing, skipping ahead up the stairs. Zefpyre, wisely ignoring the exchange, trots straight to his Magical Cat Castle in the corner of the living room. To the untrained eye, it looks like a run-of-the-mill cat tree from the local pet store. In reality, it’s enhanced with dimensional magic, the inside sprawling into a luxurious feline domain that Zefpyre refuses to let anyone else see.

  Mattie disappears into her room with a dramatic sigh, leaving me to my thoughts. I head to mine, shrugging off my coat and stepping out onto the balcony. The crisp night air bites at my face, but I welcome it, the cold clearing my head as I take out a rolled cigar filled with Dreamer’s Leaf. With a snap of my fingers, I light it, taking a long drag and letting the sweet, herbal smoke fill my lungs.

  The stuff’s supposed to have hallucinogenic effects, but at this point, I’m immune to most of its charms. When you smoke a dozen or more of these a day, even magic struggles to keep up. Still, I hold out hope for a flicker of the surreal, something to distract me from the gnawing thoughts of the day’s events.

  I lean against the railing, watching the city lights twinkle like scattered stars in the cold night. Chicago at this hour is quiet, save for the distant hum of traffic. For a moment, I let myself breathe, the weight of the day fading into the haze of smoke curling into the sky.

  Tomorrow’s another fight. But tonight, for just a few minutes, I let myself enjoy the calm.

  I can’t stop turning the case over in my mind. Two rituals, layered intricately—no, perfectly. An uncommon field of magic, especially here on Earth. And then there’s the Warlock. Not just any Warlock—a Royal. The threads of it all should connect, but they’re tangled, frayed. I’m missing something. Something obvious. But what?

  I sigh, taking another drag of my cigar, the smoke curling lazily into the icy night. My thoughts drift to Marcus Lazur, the Warlock I’m set to meet. His brother and I went to school together, and I know the Lazur family too well for my liking. The arrogance, the cunning—they don’t just deal in magic; they breathe it, bend it, break it. I’m not exactly thrilled to cross paths with Marcus again.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the gold coin, rubbing its smooth surface between my fingers. On one side, King Arthur’s profile stares back at me, his crown catching the faint light of the city. On the other, a dragon rears, its wings spread, its eyes glinting with quiet menace. The coin hums softly with magic, an ever-present reminder of what I still carry with me.

  Ten years. I’ve been on Earth for ten years now. Banished to this hellhole. While it’s better than the Underworld—or any lower plane of existence, for that matter—it’s still a far cry from the life I knew. The ring on the chain around my neck pulls downward, its weight as constant and unforgiving as my regret.

  The biggest mistake I ever made.

  I continue rubbing the coin, the temptation gnawing at the edges of my resolve. It would be so easy—so damn easy—to use it. One flip, one activation, and I could speak to someone in the Other Realm. All my questions answered, all my doubts laid to rest.

  But there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. The coin can only be used once, and earning another? That’s not in the cards. Not for me. Not after everything I’ve done.

  I roll the coin between my fingers, its hum seeming to grow louder, more insistent. I tuck it back into my pocket with a sharp exhale, crushing the thought before it takes root. No. Not tonight. Not yet.

  The city sprawls below, its lights glimmering faintly in the cold darkness. Somewhere out there is the missing piece, the answer to the puzzle. I just have to find it—before it finds me.

  The sun begins its slow climb over the horizon, painting the Chicago skyline in hues of orange and pink. The frost on the windows catches the light, glinting like shards of broken glass. I’ve been up all night, my cigar long burned out, the bitter cold of the balcony doing little to clear my mind. The city hums back to life beneath me, and I feel the familiar pull of duty urging me forward.

  I step back inside, the warmth of my apartment chasing away the chill clinging to my coat. Zefpyre is already up, perched on his magical cat castle, grooming himself with meticulous care. He doesn’t bother acknowledging me, which is just as well. The day hasn’t even started, and I’m already on edge.

  Mattie stumbles into the kitchen, her hair a mess, her eyes still heavy with sleep. “Morning, Boss,” she mutters, reaching for the coffee pot.

  “Morning,” I reply, watching her fumble with the machine. “Did you get enough rest?”

  “Not nearly enough,” she says, stifling a yawn. “But I’ll survive.”

  “You’d better,” I say, pulling on my coat. “We’ve got work to do.”

  She glances at me, her brow furrowing. “Are we still heading to see Marcus?”

  I nod, my tone grim. “The sooner we deal with him, the better.”

  As if on cue, Zefpyre speaks up from his perch. “I hope you’re prepared for this to end in disaster. Royals don’t exactly roll out the welcome mat for disgraced Master Wizards.”

  I shoot him a glare, but he just yawns and stretches, his tail flicking lazily.

  “I’m not looking for a welcome mat,” I say, grabbing my keys. “I’m looking for answers.”

  Mattie grabs her coat and follows me out the door, her footsteps echoing on the stairs. Zefpyre, ever the reluctant participant, jumps down from his castle and trots after us, grumbling under his breath about how little he’s appreciated.

  The morning air is sharp and cold as we step outside. I wave my hand, and my car floats out of my pocket, expanding to full size with a soft shimmer. We climb in, the engine roaring to life as I pull out onto the street.

  The drive to Marcus Lazur’s usual haunt is a long one, cutting through the heart of the city and winding toward the outskirts. The sun is higher now, casting long shadows over the streets, but the brightness does little to ease the tension building in my chest.

  “Where are we meeting him?” Mattie asks, breaking the silence.

  “An old speakeasy,” I reply. “He likes the atmosphere. Thinks it’s nostalgic.”

  “For what?” she asks, wrinkling her nose.

  “For a time when people like him thought they ruled the world,” I say, my voice heavy with disdain.

  Zefpyre chuckles from the back seat. “Careful, Julius. Your bitterness is showing.”

  I ignore him, my focus on the road ahead. The closer we get, the heavier the weight in my chest grows. Marcus Lazur isn’t just another Warlock—he’s a Royal. And Royals don’t play games. They set the board, they write the rules, and they make sure you lose.

  By the time we pull up to the speakeasy, the sun is high in the sky, its warmth doing little to thaw the frost of the morning. I park the car and step out, the cold air biting at my face.

  “Stay sharp,” I say to Mattie, glancing over my shoulder. “Royals have a way of making you regret underestimating them.”

  She nods, her expression serious. Zefpyre leaps onto my shoulder, his weight a familiar comfort as we approach the unmarked door of the speakeasy. The world feels quieter here, as if the city itself knows better than to intrude.

  I knock once, the sound heavy in the stillness. The door creaks open, and a pair of sharp eyes peer out.

  “We’re here to see Marcus,” I say, my tone firm.

  The eyes narrow, but the door swings open, revealing a dimly lit staircase descending into the speakeasy below. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, stepping into the shadows.

  This isn’t just any speakeasy. It’s neutral ground. The kind of place where peace isn’t just an understanding—it’s a law, enforced by magic older and stronger than anything in this realm. The wards here would snuff out an Arch Wizard in a millisecond. A Master Wizard like me? I’d barely register as a threat before the magic reduced me to dust. Fighting here isn’t an option—not magically, anyway.

  The bouncer, a hulking ogre with dull but watchful eyes, gestures for us to follow. I keep my hands in my pockets, my fingers brushing the coin as a quiet reminder to stay calm. Mattie walks close behind me, her steps steady but careful, while Zefpyre rides on my shoulder, his tail flicking lazily as if he’s above all of this.

  The air inside is heavy with smoke and magic, the room alive with the hum of power. This place isn’t just a gathering spot; it’s a nexus, a crossroads for the factions of the Other Realm. As we move through the dimly lit space, I catch sight of the Summer and Winter Fae Courts, each occupying their own gilded sections, the tension between them palpable even in neutral territory. Nearby, the Vampire Court lounges in shadowed corners, their crimson eyes gleaming like embers. A coven of werewolves sits at a long table, their low growls and sharp laughter cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. And scattered among them all is a sporadic collection of the Other Realm’s “who’s who”—powerful beings mingling under the unspoken truce of the speakeasy.

  The bouncer leads us all the way to the back, stopping before a brick wall. He taps a secret pattern, his knuckles striking the bricks in a rhythmic code. The wall shudders, then groans as it slides open, revealing a room thick with smoke and shadows.

  The smell of Dreamer’s Leaf fills the air, heady and intoxicating. At the center of it all sits Lord Marcus Lazur, his presence dominating the space. He’s lounging in an overstuffed leather chair, a glass of dark liquor in one hand, a cigar in the other. He looks just like his older brother—too much like him. The resemblance sends a chill down my spine.

  The room is full of familiar faces. Most of them are bannermen of House Lazur, their loyalty written in the way they hold themselves—postures straight, eyes sharp, every movement measured. And then, in the far corner, I see her.

  Cassidy Brooks.

  My breath catches for the briefest moment before I force it steady. She looks exactly as I remember—ageless, elegant, and as infuriatingly composed as ever. My ex-betrothed.

  Of all the people I never thought I’d see again, especially not in this century, she tops the list. Her gaze locks onto mine, her expression unreadable. For a moment, the noise of the room fades, and all I can hear is the pounding of my own heart.

  Mattie glances at me, clearly sensing the shift in my demeanor. “Boss?” she whispers, her voice low enough that only I can hear.

  “Stay quiet,” I mutter, tearing my eyes away from Cassidy. “Let me handle this.”

  As I step forward, Marcus notices me and smirks, raising his glass in mock salute. “Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Business,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. “We need to talk.”

  The room goes silent, the weight of unspoken tension settling over us like a heavy cloak. I square my shoulders and take another step forward, the hum of the neutral ground’s magic a constant reminder to tread carefully. Whatever happens next, I know one thing for certain: this is going to be a long day a really long fucking day.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  With a flick of my wrist, I summon a grand throne, its back carved with intricate patterns, glowing faintly with magic. I settle into it, my coat flaring dramatically as I sit. For Mattie, I summon a lesser throne, smaller but still dignified. The air in the room shifts as the bannermen tense, their indignation palpable at the perceived slight.

  One of them moves forward, his anger evident, but Marcus raises a hand, his smirk as irritating as ever. “Leave him be, boys,” he drawls. “He’s fine.”

  I meet Marcus’s gaze for a moment, then let my eyes drift to Cassidy. She’s sitting to the side, her posture regal, her presence commanding without effort. When our eyes meet, she gives me the look—the one I’ve dreaded and missed in equal measure. Disappointment. It cuts deeper than any blade.

  She always knew how to find my weakness, and losing her was the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. My chest tightens as my gaze shifts to her fingers. Bare. No ring. The blood pounding in my ears eases just a little. I lock eyes with her again, her golden-pink irises gleaming in the dim light. No one else in the world has eyes like hers.

  For a moment, time stills. My purple eyes meet hers, and in the silence, we have an entire conversation. Hundreds of years of knowing each other distilled into one glance. I’m sorry, my eyes say.

  I know, hers reply.

  If only we were alone—just for a moment. Maybe then I could explain everything, make her understand. But that chance is gone, most likely forever. I clear my throat, pushing the weight of her gaze from my mind, and compose myself.

  “Lord Lazur,” I begin, my voice steady but cold. I hate addressing him by his title, but I won’t embarrass Cassidy further. “We’re here about your warehouse.”

  Marcus leans back in his chair, swirling his glass lazily. “What… warehouse?” he says, feigning confusion.

  The bannermen in the room shift uneasily, their suspicion sharpening. Slowly, I shrug off my trench coat, revealing the Order’s sigil emblazoned on my right breast. Its glow catches the light, a subtle reminder of who and what I am.

  “Let’s try this again,” I say, my tone heavy with emphasis. “Lord Marcus Lazur, Fifth of His Name.”

  “Ohhhh,” he says, dragging the word out with mock realization. “My warehouse. I didn’t realize the Order dealt with such minor, petty thefts.”

  I scoff, leaning forward. “We both know that warehouse held wealth enough to rival nations.”

  He smirks, swirling his glass again. “Perhaps, Master Wizard. But where we come from, it’s barely a drop in the bucket. It means nothing to me.”

  My patience wears thin, my knuckles cracking as I clench my fists. “No one robs a Royal lightly,” I say, my voice sharp.

  The lie grates on me. “No one robs a Royal lightly, Marcus,” I say, my voice sharper now. “We both know that.”

  His smirk returns, this time with a dangerous edge. “Do we both STILL know?”

  I crack my knuckles deliberately, the sound echoing in the tense silence. “Hilarious,” I say dryly. “Your warehouse wasn’t just robbed—it was emptied in a very intricate and unique way.”

  That catches his attention. The smirk vanishes, his posture straightening just slightly. “What do you know about it?” he asks, his tone suddenly cautious.

  I lean forward, locking eyes with him, letting the weight of my presence fill the room. “That’s what I’m here to find out. So why don’t you tell me what you know, Marcus?”

  I smile thinly, leaning back in my throne. “That’s the real question, isn’t it, Marcus? Let’s start with what you know—and we’ll see if you can keep up.”

  The room is silent, all eyes on the two of us as the weight of the conversation presses down. Cassidy’s gaze burns into me, but I keep my focus on Marcus. This isn’t over—not by a long shot.

  Marcus leans back in his chair, swirling his drink thoughtfully, his gaze flicking to Cassidy for the briefest moment before returning to me. For the first time, I see a crack in his carefully constructed fa?ade, and I know I’ve hit a nerve.

  Now, the real game begins.

  “Fine,” Marcus starts, his voice tight. “I was robbed. My main warehouse here on Earth. They stole my entire stock of magical ingredients.”

  “How?” I press, my tone sharp.

  Before he can answer, my eyes catch a subtle shift. Cassidy moves, tension rippling through her frame. She knows something. I file that away for later.

  Marcus hesitates, swirling his drink. “That’s what confuses us. A ritual—very advanced. Something not normally seen here on Earth. But… it’s odd.”

  “Odd in what way?” Mattie chimes in, her voice clear and curious. “Like it looks like a complete amateur performed it, but somehow accomplished something impossible?”

  The room goes silent. All eyes turn to her. Even Marcus’s bannermen, who’ve been trying to ignore her presence, glance her way. I resist the urge to groan, giving her a pointed look. Let me do the talking.

  But before I can intervene, Cassidy speaks, her voice cutting through the tension like the first note of a divine symphony. “How familiar are you with rituals, Trainee?”

  Her tone is polite, but the question carries weight—too much weight for Mattie to ignore. My hand twitches toward my pocket where my coin rests, but instead, I pull out a cigar. One of Marcus’s bannermen leans forward with a lighter, eager to curry favor. I shove him away with a wave of my hand and light it myself, letting the act remind everyone in the room who’s in charge.

  Cassidy’s question hangs in the air. Mattie straightens, her back rigid but her voice steady. “I wouldn’t presume to know anything near as much as a Master Summoner like yourself,” she says, “but Master Holmes has taught me a strong foundation in each of the schools of magic.”

  For a moment, I almost smile. She handled that well—too well for her rank. But I catch myself before the wolves in the room can see the crack in my armor. My face remains stony, my expression unreadable.

  I take a long drag from my cigar, blowing the smoke toward the ceiling as I lean back in my throne. “Let’s focus on your warehouse, Marcus,” I say, steering the conversation back before Cassidy can dig deeper.

  Marcus narrows his eyes at me, his lips curving into a smirk. “Very well. As I was saying, the ritual was… peculiar. It required immense power—far more than any practitioner on Earth should have access to. And yet, it was sloppy. The runes were crude, the lines uneven. By all accounts, it should have failed.”

  “But it didn’t,” I finish for him.

  “No,” he admits. “It didn’t.”

  Cassidy shifts again, her golden-pink eyes flicking to Marcus before returning to me. “If I may, Master Holmes,” she says, her voice soft but insistent, “have you considered that perhaps the ritual wasn’t meant to succeed in the way it appears?”

  I turn my gaze to her, the weight of her question sinking in. “Explain.”

  She crosses her arms, her expression thoughtful. “The ritual may have been a distraction—a way to draw attention to the theft without revealing the true purpose. If they have the skill to pull off something so advanced while making it look amateurish, then they have the skill to hide their real goal.”

  The room grows colder, the air thick with unspoken tension. Marcus’s smirk fades, and I see the flicker of unease behind his eyes.

  Mattie leans slightly toward me, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Boss, what if she’s right?”

  “She’s probably right,” I mutter, my voice low enough for only her to catch. I take another drag of my cigar, my thoughts racing.

  I lean forward, fixing Marcus with a hard stare. “Who knew about the contents of the warehouse? Your bannermen? Outside buyers? Who?”

  Marcus hesitates, his jaw tightening. “A select few. Trusted individuals. No one outside my circle.”

  “Clearly, someone wasn’t trustworthy,” I snap, my patience wearing thin. “This wasn’t a random hit, Marcus. Someone targeted you, and I need names.”

  He shifts in his chair, his confidence visibly shaken. “I’ll give you a list,” he says finally, his tone begrudging. “But I want to know what you uncover.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, standing and brushing ash from my coat. “You’ll know. One way or another.”

  As I turn to leave, Cassidy’s voice stops me in my tracks. “Julius.”

  I glance back, meeting her gaze. Her eyes burn with an intensity I haven’t seen in centuries.

  “Be careful,” she says, her words laced with something that sounds dangerously close to concern. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

  I let the words hang in the air for a moment before giving her a curt nod. “Aren’t we all?”

  With that, I stride toward the door, Mattie and Zefpyre falling into step behind me. The air outside the speakeasy is cold and sharp, but it feels cleaner than the tension-filled room we’ve left behind.

  The real work begins now.

  I nearly ran out of the speakeasy, my boots echoing against the pavement as I made my way to the car. Mattie was at my heels, her breath quick with the unspoken questions I could see burning in her eyes. But she knows me well enough to stay silent, at least for now.

  I slide into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel tightly, but I don’t start the car. Instead, I lean back, closing my eyes against the storm swirling in my chest. The faint scent of Dreamer’s Leaf clings to me, mixing with the cold night air that seeps in through the door. I let out a soft, resigned, “What the fuck.”

  Zefpyre, perched in the backseat as usual, breaks the silence. “Julius, I swear I didn’t know she was here. I didn’t know.”

  I exhale sharply, turning my head to glare at him. “What do you know, Zef?”

  Before he can respond, Mattie places her hand on mine, her touch grounding me. “Master,” she says softly, her voice filled with concern, “do you want to talk about it?”

  “You know I hate it when you call me ‘Master.’ It sounds weird.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended.

  She offers me a faint smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Sensei?”

  That gets a huff of amusement out of me, but it’s short-lived. I glance at her, my expression hardening. “Mattie, why did you speak in there? I told you to let me handle it.”

  Her smile falters. “Sorry, Boss Man. I got excited.”

  “You almost showed them our hand.”

  “Would that really be so horrible?” she asks, her tone quiet but insistent.

  “Yes, Mattie. It would.”

  Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue further. After a moment, she asks, “Who was that Master Summoner?”

  I close my eyes, the weight of her question hitting me like a punch to the gut. “Cassidy Brooks,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. It cracks on the last syllable, betraying me.

  Mattie tilts her head, her curiosity evident. “Who is she?”

  “My past,” I say simply, the words clipped, final. I grip the wheel tighter, and with a burst of magic, the car roars to life. I pull out onto the street, heading back toward downtown. The hum of the engine fills the silence, but it’s not enough to drown out the memories clawing at the edges of my mind.

  Mattie breaks the quiet again, her voice cutting through the audiobook I’d started playing to distract myself. “Boss Man, why did we leave? We have so many unanswered questions.”

  I hit the pause button, my fingers brushing against the wheel. “Mattie,” I begin, my tone measured, “one, they don’t have the answers we need. Two, we tipped our hand too early. And three, at least now we know we’re dealing with the same dumbass who pulled off the apartment job.”

  She nods, though I can tell she isn’t satisfied with my explanation. But I don’t have the energy to elaborate—not tonight.

  I press play, letting the audiobook’s romantic prose wash over me, filling the car with a warmth I can’t seem to find within myself. I grip the wheel, my mind fighting to stay with the story, but it’s a losing battle. Cassidy’s golden-pink eyes keep flashing in my mind, her voice echoing in my ears like a melody I can’t forget.

  I try to push her out, bury the memories deep, but it’s no use. She’s always been the one thing I could never fully leave behind.

  The city lights blur around me as I drive, the streets a quiet labyrinth under the early morning sky. For now, all I can do is focus on the road ahead and hope the romance in my ears drowns out the ghosts of my past.

  We pull up to the apartment, and I let the engine idle. Mattie starts to climb out but hesitates when she notices I’m still sitting there, staring ahead.

  “Boss Man?” she asks tentatively. “You coming?”

  I shake my head. “Go inside. I need to run an errand.”

  She frowns, her worry evident. “Are you sure you—”

  Zefpyre hops onto the passenger seat, cutting her off. “As your handler, I must insist that I come with you,” he says, his tone clipped.

  “Fine,” I mutter, “but you’re sitting in the back.”

  Mattie glances between us, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Boss Man, are you going to be safe?”

  I laugh, the sound sharp and humorless. “Trust me, Mattie, I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

  She hesitates, then nods, stepping out and closing the door. I rev the engine, and the Shelby roars to life as I peel away from the curb, leaving her standing in the cold.

  We ride in silence, Zefpyre perched in the backseat, his golden eyes watching me carefully. The city blurs past as I head south, farther and farther from the heart of Chicago, until the streets grow darker and more desolate. We stop just short of the city limits, outside a dive bar whose neon sign flickers faintly, barely visible against the predawn haze.

  The place is a haven for the dregs of the magical world: hedge mages, minor vampires, mutts barely magical enough to even be considered weres. The kind of people who can’t survive under the Order’s scrutiny but are too insignificant to bother erasing.

  The moment I step inside, the stench of Wizard Bang—a rough, dangerous drug that reeks of burnt ozone and decay—hits me. The air is thick with it, the smoky haze making the dimly lit room feel even darker. Conversations die mid-sentence, and every pair of eyes in the bar turns toward me.

  “Well, well, well,” someone sneers, their voice dripping with mockery. “What cat dragged a member of the Order in here?”

  “Better yet,” another pipes up, “a Master Mage at that.”

  My patience snaps. With a flick of my fingers, the room freezes. The patrons—every last one of them except Zefpyre and me—are paralyzed, their bodies locked in place, their mouths still half-open in mid-taunt.

  I step further into the bar, my boots echoing on the stained floorboards. “Now listen closely, you idiots,” I say, my voice low and sharp. “Never, ever call me a mage again. I am a wizard. One of the highest beings of magical practitioners, and you will respect a Master. Are we clear?”

  The only sound is the faint hum of the magic pulsing in the air.

  “Second,” I continue, “I’m not here for your opinions. I’m here to speak with Locke and Jacques.”

  I let the magic loosen just enough for someone to wheeze out a response. “In… the back,” they manage, their voice rasping.

  I nod curtly, releasing the paralysis entirely. The room erupts into gasps and coughing as the patrons scramble back to their drinks and corners, doing their best to avoid my gaze. Zefpyre jumps down from my shoulder and pads silently behind me as I make my way to the back room.

  The tension in the air thickens with every step. Locke and Jacques—two of the most notorious hedge mages in the city—aren’t the kind of people you approach lightly. But I’m not here to play it safe. Not tonight.

  I push open the door to the back room without knocking, the faint scent of spellwork and cheap whiskey greeting me. Inside, Locke leans against a battered table, his wiry frame barely contained in a patched leather jacket. Jacques sits across from him, a hulking brute of a man with scars running down his arms like a roadmap.

  “Holmes,” Locke says, his voice smooth but wary. “What brings the Order’s finest to our humble little establishment?”

  I step inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. “Questions,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “And you’re going to give me answers.”

  Locke smirks, but there’s a nervous edge to it. Jacques shifts uncomfortably, his massive hands flexing at his sides.

  “Answers, huh?” Locke says, tilting his head. “And what makes you think we’ve got what you’re looking for?”

  I take another step forward, my presence filling the room like a storm cloud. “Because if you didn’t, I wouldn’t be wasting my time with you.” I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. “Now, start talking. What do you know about the warehouse job?”

  The room falls silent, the tension so thick it feels like the air itself might shatter. Locke and Jacques exchange a glance, their unease clear. They know something. And I’m going to get it out of them—one way or another.

  Locke nods to Jacques. “Seal the room.”

  Before Jacques can move, I flick my finger, sealing the space myself. A faint shimmer ripples across the walls, the soundproofing spell locking us in. Outside of a fellow Master Wizard, no one on Earth could hear a word of what’s said here.

  Locke coughs, clearly unnerved. “Look, Julius, you have to believe us. We didn’t know he was batshit crazy.”

  “Honestly, Master Holmes,” Jacques rumbles, his voice low and gravelly, “we didn’t.”

  I cross my arms, my gaze heavy on them. “Continue.”

  Locke swallows hard and nods. “This Arcane Ritualist came in here a few weeks back, asking about the location of Lord Lazur’s main warehouse. You see, Lazur owes me some money, so… I was pissed. I gave him the location.”

  “Are you sure he’s an Arcane Ritualist?” I ask, my tone sharp.

  “Yes, Master Wizard,” they both say in unison, their voices quick and defensive.

  Locke holds up his hands. “Julius, I might be a shitty hedge mage, but I know the business. This guy? He’s the real deal. Or, at least, he looks the part.”

  Zefpyre and I exchange a glance, the weight of his words settling heavily between us.

  “Where did he get the materials for the ritual?” I ask, my voice low.

  Locke shifts uncomfortably. “He said he had a mysterious benefactor. Someone supplying him with everything he needed. He even said that if we played our cards right, we could join him—get in on whatever he’s planning.”

  Jacques cuts in, his scarred face grim. “But after the foolishness at the warehouse, we told him to never darken our doorstep again. We want nothing to do with that lunatic.”

  I lean forward, my eyes narrowing. “Name.”

  Locke’s voice drops to a whisper. “Edmund Hastings.”

  The name hangs in the air, heavy with implication.

  “Where can I find him?” I ask, my tone icy.

  “He lives in the Presidential Towers downtown,” Locke replies quickly, as if eager to prove his cooperation.

  I reach into my coat and toss two onyx stones onto the table. They land with a sharp clink, the dark gems catching the dim light of the room. “These were supposed to go to a different idiot,” I say, “but you deserve them more.”

  Locke and Jacques both stare at the stones, their eyes wide with disbelief.

  Next, I pull a small card from my pocket—a simple black rectangle with my name and contact sigil etched in silver—and toss it onto the table. My calling card.

  I lock eyes with both of them, my voice cutting through the thick silence. “Listen to me. This Ritualist is no good. He’s dangerous. Be careful. Call me if you hear anything.”

  I pause, letting the weight of my warning sink in. “And try not to die.”

  Locke nods quickly, his usual bravado completely gone. Jacques looks down at the card, then back up at me, his massive frame tense but respectful.

  I release the seal on the room with a flick of my wrist and turn on my heel, heading for the door. Zefpyre trots silently behind me, his tail swishing as if to punctuate the finality of my words.

  As we step out into the cold night air, I exhale deeply, the icy wind biting at my face. The puzzle pieces are starting to fall into place, but the picture they’re forming is something far darker than I anticipated.

  “Presidential Towers,” I mutter to Zefpyre as we head back to the car. “Let’s pay Edmund Hastings a visit.”

  As we step into the parking lot, the cold biting at my face, Zefpyre darts in front of me, his black fur almost blending into the shadows. His golden eyes fix on mine, sharp and serious.

  “Julius, wait,” he says, his tone unusually stern. “If Edmund Hastings really is an Arcane Ritualist, you can’t face him alone.”

  I stop, my hand resting on the car door, and glare at him. “I don’t need backup. I’m more than capable of handling—”

  “Enough of the bravado,” Zefpyre snaps, his tail lashing. “You know as well as I do that even a Master Wizard shouldn’t face an Arcane Ritualist unprepared. Not alone. Not when he’s working with unknown benefactors. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

  The weight of his words hits me harder than I’d like to admit. I grind my teeth, resisting the urge to argue. “Fine,” I mutter. “You’re right. Let’s get Mattie and head to the office. We’ll gather backup.”

  Zefpyre nods, his expression softening just slightly. “Good. For once, you’re thinking like someone who wants to live past sunrise.”

  I shoot him a glare but climb into the car, starting the engine. The Shelby roars to life, its growl cutting through the quiet night as we speed off toward the apartment. The streets blur past, my mind racing with possibilities. Hastings isn’t just some hedge mage fumbling with rituals. If Locke and Jacques are right, he’s the real deal—or at least close enough to be dangerous. And if he has benefactors with the resources to supply him with rare ingredients, this isn’t just a petty theft case anymore.

  By the time we pull up to the apartment, I’ve made up my mind. We’re playing this smart. No more rushing in.

  Mattie is waiting by the window, her silhouette outlined by the glow of the streetlights. As we step inside, she looks up, her brow furrowed with concern.

  “Boss Man?” she asks cautiously. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re heading to the office,” I say, grabbing my trench coat from the chair. “We need reinforcements.”

  Her eyes widen slightly. “For the Ritualist? You think he’s that dangerous?”

  “I know he’s that dangerous,” I reply, my tone firm. “And I’m not taking any chances.”

  Zefpyre pads over to his Magical Cat Castle, jumping onto one of the higher perches. “For once, Julius is being reasonable. Mark it on your calendar, Trainee.”

  I ignore him, turning back to Mattie. “Get your coat. We leave in five.”

  She nods, grabbing her things with surprising urgency. For all her youth and inexperience, she’s starting to understand the gravity of what we’re dealing with.

  As we head back out to the car, I glance up at the sky, the stars barely visible through the city’s light pollution. The night feels heavier than usual, the air thick with the kind of tension that makes my skin crawl.

  “Let’s go,” I say, climbing into the driver’s seat. The engine roars as I pull out onto the street, the tires screeching against the pavement.

  This time, we’re ready. Or at least, we will be.