I take a long drag of my cigar as I ease the car down Lake Shore Drive, the sun glinting off Lake Michigan to my right. The Kid’s sitting next to me, practicing her finger casting. Her lips move with silent incantations, her hands tracing intricate patterns in the air. My handler, Zefpyre, is presumably asleep in the back seat, though with him, who can tell?

  Dispatch sent me to a potential disturbance on the far northwest side, up in Lincolnwood. I’m taking my sweet time. It’s a rare chance to enjoy my stories without interruption, and I’ll be damned if I rush to save someone from their own magical stupidity.

  The Kid knows the drill—no talking while the car is moving. My stories are sacred. But of course, some idiot in the next lane isn’t paying attention, likely glued to their phone, and nearly clips me. I honk, flip them the bird, and briefly consider what curse would make their day worse. A boil that grows teeth? Perhaps their brakes refusing to work at inconvenient times?

  Before I can land on a decision, a low, droll voice drifts up from the back seat.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and you better not do it. It would violate Section 13, Subsection A, Provision 12 of the Accords.”

  I sigh, the moment ruined. “You have no idea what I was thinking, and I wasn’t going to do anything.”

  Mattie chimes in. “Boss Man, you get this little look in your eye when you’re considering dooming a mortal existence for all eternity. I find it endearing, but I think everyone else finds it scary. Possibly even creepy.”

  Before I can retort, Zefpyre, cheerful as ever. “That was actually quite eloquent, Zefpyre. Well done.”

  I scowl. “No one asked you, Kid. Don’t you have spellwork to master?”

  The car falls blissfully silent again. Mattie shifts from finger casting to full incantations, muttering words of power under her breath. I catch the flicker of a rune forming in her palm and allow myself a small, smug grin. As long as she’s mad at me, she’ll focus on her magic.

  I glance out the window at the sunlight dancing on the lake. For a moment, I let myself remember the beauty of the Other Realm—the kind of beauty Chicago, for all its charm, could never hope to match.

  Chicago has its perks, though. Thanks to the Waystone, one of the largest in the universe, the city isn’t the mana-dead wasteland the rest of Earth is. The faint trickle of ambient mana allows magical creatures and practitioners to thrive here, which is why the Order of the Magi keeps such a strong presence. It’s also why I was banished here.

  The Order—a collective of magical misfits and creatures tasked with protecting Earth from magical crimes—claims to be the planet’s shield. Personally, I think they’re just here because they can’t hack it in the Other Realm. Me? I don’t get a choice. I’m magically compelled to play nice, solve crimes, and keep the mortals blissfully unaware of the world of magic.

  Solving magical crimes isn’t hard. Cast a few spells, wave my fingers around, and presto—a poor excuse for a practitioner guilty as charged. It’s almost insulting, really. If I didn’t have to do this job, I wouldn’t. But the alternative? The Underworld. And trust me, the lake is more inviting.

  The car rumbles to a halt in the middle of the street, and I leave it there, idling. Someone’s going to be mad about it, but I’m not here to care. Let ‘em try towing it—I’ll deal with the fallout later. I could shrink the car, slip it into my coat pocket, but that feels like too much effort for what’s sure to be a short stop.

  “Oy,” I bark at Mattie as I step out, adjusting my trench coat against the Chicago chill. “Eyes open. Ears to the ground.”

  She rolls her eyes, a theatrical gesture I’ve come to expect. “Yeah, yeah. Got it.”

  Zefpyre stirs from the back seat, his voice a low drawl. “You know, Julius, you really should be walking her through the proper steps. Training her up, making her a proper wizard.”

  I stop short, turning just enough to throw him a glare. “First off, I’m the Master Wizard here. Second, no one asked you. And third, she’ll learn more by observing until we know what we’re dealing with. Teaching her now, before we’ve even cased the scene, is a waste of time.”

  Zefpyre lets out a faint hum of disapproval but stays quiet—for now. We climb the narrow stairs leading to the apartment, the stale smell of fried food from the convenience store below following us all the way up. “Mary Jane’s Munchies,” the sign had read. The kind of place that sold everything from late-night snacks to regrets.

  The second-floor apartment is swarming with CPD. Walkie-talkies crackle with static, and officers move through the space like they’re looking for something they don’t really want to find. Detective Waldo Murphy waits for us just inside the doorway, his perpetually disheveled suit fitting right in with the scene.

  As soon as I step over the threshold, the air hits me like a punch to the gut. The tang of used mana clings to everything, a sharp ozone smell laced with something sweet—blueberries, maybe. A lot of magic’s been cast here, and not the good kind.

  Murphy opens his mouth to speak, but I raise a hand. “Stop.”

  I turn to Mattie. “First impressions,” I bark.

  She hesitates for a moment, then speaks. “Magic’s been cast here. A lot of it. Either we’re looking at multiple practitioners, one extremely powerful but sloppy practitioner, or ritual magic.”

  “Good,” I reply. “We can rule out a powerful practitioner. My senses would’ve gone haywire if anyone close to my league were within city limits.” She nods, her confidence building.

  Zefpyre pads silently around the room, tail twitching. He knows the drill—when I’m in instructing mode, he keeps quiet unless we’ve missed something important.

  Mattie closes her eyes, taking a moment to stretch her magical senses. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier. “Definitely ritual magic. I can smell magic chalk and powdered crystal in the air.”

  “Go on,” I prompt.

  She frowns, her focus narrowing. “There’s… another plane. A darker one. Possibly the Underworld.”

  I nod. “Hmm. You need to refine that skill.”

  Finally, I look to Murphy. “What’ve we got?”

  He gestures toward the bedroom. “Eight dead. One of them’s the apartment’s owner—Caroline Goode. Some kind of smut writer, according to the patrol officer.”

  I stop short, my jaw tightening. “She didn’t write smut. They’re passionate love stories,” I say, each word dripping with menace.

  Mattie stifles a snicker behind me, but a sharp glance shuts her up. Murphy, caught off guard, clears his throat. “Uh… did you know the victim?”

  Zefpyre snorts, tail flicking. “Know her? He’s read every book she’s ever written and insists on forcing her drivel on the rest of us. It’s torture.”

  I ignore him. “Who are the other bodies?”

  Murphy adjusts his tie, looking uncomfortable. “We’re still waiting on IDs for most of them, but three appear to be former lovers of Ms. Goode.”

  I nod, already moving to inspect the bodies. From my coat, I pull out a notebook and cast a quick spell. My fountain pen springs to life, sketching the scene and taking notes as I snap on latex gloves.

  “Kid,” I say, crouching by the ritual circle, “what do you see?”

  She steps forward, her eyes darting across the symbols etched into the floor. “It’s the Symbol of Infinite Balance. A very powerful symbol, which explains why it took the passion of seven lovers to power it. Caroline was likely the Pillar of Love at the center.”

  “And?”

  “There’s enough crystal dust here to channel ten more rituals this size. Either the caster doesn’t know what they’re doing, or they were hoping to summon something much more powerful from the Underworld.”

  Murphy’s voice breaks in, a nervous squeak. “So… the summon was successful?”

  “Obviously,” I snap, annoyance thick in my tone. “Zef, call Williams. We need him here.”

  Zefpyre clears his throat, his voice laced with indignation. “I’d appreciate it if you referred to me by my proper title—Deputy Adapt Commissioner—or at least the name my mother gave me, Zefpyre.”

  “And why can’t Mattie do it?” he adds. “This seems like the perfect task for a trainee.”

  “I need her assessing the scene,” I reply, not bothering to mask my irritation. “Remember, she’s supposed to be learning.”

  The cat fixes me with a judgmental glare—the kind only a cat can manage—and I sigh. It’s going to be a long night.

  As Zefpyre saunters out of the room, tail high with self-satisfaction, Mattie tilts her head and asks, “Why does he get to talk back to you?”

  I sigh, taking another drag from my cigar. “Because, technically speaking, that annoying, walking, talking ball of black fur is the boss.” I pause, scanning the room and locking eyes with every mortal in sight. My voice drops to a low growl. “And if anyone ever repeats what I just said, I promise I’ll break the Accords.”

  The room goes still. Detectives suddenly find their notebooks fascinating, and officers shift their attention to their radios. Mattie, of course, just grins like the cat would.

  “Boss Man, there’s something I don’t get,” she starts, her tone cautious. “This is a very complex ritual, which suggests the caster knows what they’re doing. But the mistakes they made are just so…”

  She pauses, her face scrunching as she gropes for the right word. I roll my eyes. “Mattie, the word you’re looking for is ‘dumbass.’ This is the work of a dumbass in way over their head.”

  Her nose wrinkles in defiance. “Noooo. I was thinking of the word ‘neophyte.’”

  Detective Murphy blurts out, “Amateurish, maybe?”

  Mattie snaps her fingers, a tiny spark of magic flickering in the air. “Exactly, Waldo! That’s what I meant.”

  I stop mid-drag and give her a sharp look. She raises her hands placatingly. “I know, I know. No leaking magic. I’m sorry.”

  “Back to the scene, Mattie,” I say curtly, motioning for her to continue.

  “Well, if we’re dealing with a dumbass amateur, then there must be someone else pulling the strings. Someone who’s the brains of the operation.”

  I shake my head. “Not necessarily. Don’t jump to conclusions unless you’ve got evidence to back it up.”

  She nods, though I can see her mind is still racing. “But there’s at least a source of information—someone or something gave him this ritual.”

  “Carry on,” I mutter, waving my hand.

  Mattie straightens, the teacher’s pet eager to prove herself. “Infinite Balance. For every Pillar, there’s something of equal importance in the Underworld. So… what’s the opposite of Love? Hate?”

  “No, Mattie.” I flick ash from my cigar, my voice sharp. “Only fools think the opposite of Love is Hate. You can’t have Hate without Love.”

  Murphy pipes up, scratching his head. “Then what’s the opposite of Love?”

  “Detest,” I say flatly.

  Mattie squints at me, confused. “Isn’t that just another word for Hate?”

  “Not when it comes to magic.” I lean closer, my tone serious. “The meaning and emotion behind magic are everything. Hate is tied to passion—intense, burning, undeniable. Detest, though? It’s cold, unfeeling. It’s the absence of everything that makes Love powerful. And that difference is crucial in magic.”

  The room falls silent. I glance around, letting the question hang in the air. “What would someone summon that represents the Pillar of Detest?”

  No one answers. I don’t expect them to. I already have my suspicions, but I’m keeping those to myself for now.

  “Next steps?” I ask, breaking the silence.

  Mattie jumps in, eager as ever. “This is where we cast a containment field, follow it up with a detection spell, and then a tracking spell.” She finishes with a satisfied nod.

  I turn, letting the silence hang before giving her a tight smile. “Wrong.”

  Her nose scrunches, confused. “Oh… wait. We need Williams here first.”

  “Bingo.” I take another long drag from my cigar, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “But even then, you’re still wrong. I’ll be asking you this question again after Williams gets here with his findings.”

  She opens her mouth, ready to protest, but closes it just as quickly, determination replacing confusion. I smile faintly. She’ll get there—eventually.

  I pace the scene, my notepad sketching every detail, labeling each item with precision. Pictures lie, skewed by the photographer’s perspective. My sketches? They’re perfect. Unbiased. My scene, my truth.

  I cast a few simple spells as I wait for Williams. Something about this place gnaws at me. Mattie’s right—this ritual is leagues beyond what most Earth practitioners could ever dream of, and yet here it is, laid bare in all its complexity. But then there are the mistakes, glaring ones that stick out like broken fingers. The bodies aren’t laid properly, the timing of the killings is off, and the order? All wrong.

  Whoever did this was a hair’s breadth away from catastrophic failure. And yet… it worked. Maybe not as well as they’d hoped, but the chances of this patchwork mess leading to even partial success? Nearly impossible. It’s as if the mistakes were deliberate, but why?

  I stop at the center of the ritual. My gaze lands on her. Caroline Goode. The only mortal I actually liked. What am I supposed to do without her stories? The only thing on this barren rock that makes life tolerable. I shove the thought down. Sentimentality won’t solve this.

  Outside, I hear the squeal of tires and the clatter of a van door sliding open. Williams. “He’s here,” I call to Mattie.

  She’s still working the scene in her own way, taking her time with each body. There’s a question in her eyes, something not sitting right, but she doesn’t ask it. Not yet.

  The heavy footsteps of Khari Williams echo up the stairs. The man carries his cases like they’re nothing, each packed with tools and potions that no crime scene tech should ever be without. Williams is a Warlock—practical magic, rooted in potions, artifacts, and tools. And in my not-so-humble opinion, the only crime tech worth his salt. I don’t touch a case until I’ve heard his report.

  Some say I use him as an excuse to drag my feet. Maybe they’re right. And maybe I don’t care. Let her Royal Majesty come down from the Other Realm to rewrite my directives if she’s got a problem with my methods. Until then, I’ll work how I damn well please.

  Williams enters the room, his presence commanding without trying. Mattie snaps to attention, rattling off the scene’s details. Facts only—no conjecture, no theories. She knows the rules. As she speaks, I nod. Every day, she gets better. Still has a lot to learn, but she’s at least theoretically competent. I’ll take it.

  I settle into a high-backed chair and pull out my book. Her Lady’s Mysteries, by none other than Caroline Goode. The irony isn’t lost on me. I catch Detective Murphy smirking in my peripheral vision. One sharp look, and he scurries off like a guilty kid caught sneaking cookies.

  Williams wastes no time. His tools hum and whir to life as he sets to work, collecting samples and running tests I couldn’t explain if I tried. Warlocks are practical to a fault, their magic grounded in science, alchemy, and precision.

  My magic? It’s wondrous. Every spell I cast boils down to three things: emotion, intent, and willpower. The words, the runes, the incantations—they’re just scaffolding, guides to help me focus my magic into what I need.

  That’s the difference between an Adept and a Master. Adepts lean on the guides, rely on them to shape their magic. Masters? We don’t need them. Emotion, intent, and willpower are enough to weave any spell we desire.

  Not that I don’t use guides. When I do, it’s to craft spells with precision and power. But make no mistake—I’m a Master for a reason. And if I have to remind someone why, they’re not walking out of here to tell anyone about it.

  I’m halfway through a chapter when I hear it—the throat clear. Williams’s signature, indicating his findings are ready. Reluctantly, I close my book and slide it into one of the many pockets of my coat. Rising to my feet, I walk over to him and give a curt nod. No need for pleasantries; Williams doesn’t expect them.

  He gets straight to the point. “Victims were killed last night, exactly at midnight. The ritual coincided with the visibility of the Comet Shoemaker in the night sky. It likely served as a celestial aid to the ritual.”

  I cross my arms, motioning for him to continue.

  “The sequence of deaths is specific. Upper left victim was killed first, then bottom right, bottom left, top right, center bottom, top, and finally, the centerpiece. Each was killed with a different weapon, most likely something symbolic of the love they felt for the central figure. The ritual included a trapping function—most likely, it was very painful.”

  Williams adjusts one of his instruments, its faint hum underscoring his next words. “The deaths were sloppy. The practitioner is almost certainly new to killing. We also found traces of celestial gold, powdered obsidian, and rose petals.”

  “Expensive,” I mutter, running a hand over my beard.

  Williams nods. “That’s not the alarming part. The summoning resulted in a lesser demon.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You sure it’s not a greater imp?”

  He glances at his artifact again, then meets my gaze. “It’s a demon, without a doubt, Master Wizard.”

  I swallow hard at that. Williams doesn’t use my title lightly. If he’s serious enough to say it, then this is bad. Very bad. I turn sharply. “Kid! Thoughts?”

  Mattie snaps to attention, her earlier hesitation gone. “From the report, each killing was meant to emulate a crime of passion. But it still doesn’t add up. The practitioner kept adding more power to the ritual when they should have had more than enough from the base components.”

  “What does that tell us?” I ask, staring her down.

  She hesitates, thinking before responding. “That the practitioner didn’t know the name of the being they were calling to this plane.”

  “Exactly,” I say, my voice sharp. “Which is why I called him a dumbass. What else?”

  Mattie’s brows knit together as she considers. “This was an insanely expensive ritual—celestial gold and powdered obsidian don’t come cheap. And he didn’t even bother to collect the leftover materials. That means either he doesn’t know their value, or…” She trails off, unsure.

  “Or he has more than he’ll ever need,” she finishes, glancing at me nervously.

  I shake my head. “You’re guessing again, Kid. Stop that. What’s the more likely reason for overusing materials?”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Before Mattie can respond, Detective Murphy speaks up. “He’s nervous. Wants to make sure the ritual succeeds.”

  I snap my fingers. “Correct. Overkill as a safety net.” I turn back to Mattie, leveling her with a look. “What’s the answer to my earlier question?”

  Mattie pauses, then says with more certainty, “We need to consult a ritualist.”

  I nod. “Let’s grab the cat and move on.”

  Turning to Williams, I ask, “Can you collect any mana signatures left behind?”

  He nods without looking up, already engrossed in his instruments, which whirl and spark with quiet precision.

  Satisfied, I flick my cigar butt into the kitchen. An officer stiffens, her lips parting to complain, but her partner grabs her arm, shaking his head. Smart man.

  I chuckle, the sound low and dry, as my boots echo against the floorboards. “Let’s go,” I call, heading for the stairs. The case is just getting started, and I already don’t like where it’s going.

  Zefpyre is already at the car, waiting with that smug look only a cat can manage. I always know where he is—his power radiates like a beacon in the night. It’s comforting, in a way, though I’d never admit it. As the second most powerful being on Earth, his presence is impossible to ignore.

  I stop short of the car, deciding to step into the convenience store instead. Seven people died upstairs last night, but you’d never guess it from the cheery hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft rock playing on the radio. Dealing with stupidity is hungry work, and after seeing that ritual, I’m starving.

  I grab a bag of Fun Rings, sour gummy worms, dark chocolate caramel pretzels, and a jug of mint iced tea. The guy at the register eyes me nervously as he rings it all up. “Uh, dude… you with the cops or something?”

  I pull a cigar from my case, light it with a snap of my fingers, and take a long drag. “Something like that.”

  “Umm, dude, you, like, totally can’t smoke that in here. I’m, like, absolutely not a narc or anything, but, uh, the cops are here.”

  “Just ring me up, kid,” I reply, letting smoke curl lazily from my lips.

  He grumbles, stuffs my snacks into a bag, and starts to give me the total, but I toss two hundred-dollar bills onto the counter before he can finish. I grab my bag and walk out without waiting for change.

  Outside, a line of cars stretches down both sides of the street, drivers honking and shouting as they try to maneuver around my car: a 1970 Shelby Mustang, matte black with blue racing stripes. Zefpyre is already in the passenger seat, Mattie waiting by the door. As we climb in, she leans forward.

  “You get me anything?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

  “You’ve got money,” I reply, tossing the bag onto the seat. “Why didn’t you get yourself something?”

  “Because your snacks are more filling.” She grins.

  I laugh and toss the gummy worms at her. She catches them, tears the bag open, and starts munching. Then, she looks at me, clearly building up to a question. I pause my audiobook and glance over. “Go ahead. Ask.”

  She hesitates, then says, “Just to make sure my math is right… that ritual should’ve been powerful enough to summon a Greater Demon.”

  I sigh, long and deep. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. Not because I wanted her ignorant—I just wanted her blissfully unaware of what that meant.

  From the back seat, Zefpyre’s voice cuts in. “That can’t be right, Julius.”

  I scoff. “Adap calling him by his rank, she’s almost right, but her math’s wrong.”

  Zefpyre is already at the car, waiting with that smug look only a cat can manage. I always know where he is—his power radiates like a beacon in the night. It’s comforting, in a way, though I’d never admit it. As the second most powerful being on Earth, his presence is impossible to ignore.

  I stop short of the car, deciding to step into the convenience store instead. Seven people died upstairs last night, but you’d never guess it from the cheery hum of the fluorescent lights and the soft rock playing on the radio. Dealing with stupidity is hungry work, and after seeing that ritual, I’m starving.

  I grab a bag of Fun Rings, sour gummy worms, dark chocolate caramel pretzels, and a jug of mint iced tea. The guy at the register eyes me nervously as he rings it all up. “Uh, dude… you with the cops or something?”

  I pull a cigar from my case, light it with a snap of my fingers, and take a long drag. “Something like that.”

  “Umm, dude, you, like, totally can’t smoke that in here. I’m, like, absolutely not a narc or anything, but, uh, the cops are here.”

  “Just ring me up, kid,” I reply, letting smoke curl lazily from my lips.

  He grumbles, stuffs my snacks into a bag, and starts to give me the total, but I toss two hundred-dollar bills onto the counter before he can finish. I grab my bag and walk out without waiting for change.

  Outside, a line of cars stretches down both sides of the street, drivers honking and shouting as they try to maneuver around my car: a 1970 Shelby Mustang, matte black with blue racing stripes. Zefpyre is already in the passenger seat, Mattie waiting by the door. As we climb in, she leans forward.

  “You get me anything?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

  “You’ve got money,” I reply, tossing the bag onto the seat. “Why didn’t you get yourself something?”

  “Because your snacks are more filling.” She grins.

  I laugh and toss the gummy worms at her. She catches them, tears the bag open, and starts munching. Then, she looks at me, clearly building up to a question. I pause my audiobook and glance over. “Go ahead. Ask.”

  She hesitates, then says, “Just to make sure my math is right… that ritual should’ve been powerful enough to summon a Greater Demon.”

  I sigh, long and deep. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. Not because I wanted her ignorant—I just wanted her blissfully unaware of what that meant.

  From the back seat, Zefpyre’s voice cuts in. “That can’t be right, Julius.”

  I scoff. “Adapt, she’s almost right, but her math’s wrong.”

  Zefpyre exhales in relief. Even he knows the implications of a Greater Demon. They’re one step below Master Demons, and even then, they’re powerhouses capable of repelling entire invading armies in the Underworld. Could I handle one? Sure. But it’d take more effort than I’d ever want to expend, and it’d cost me more than I’m willing to admit.

  “How far off was I?” Mattie asks softly.

  I glance at her, my tone serious. “You’re not entirely wrong, but you forgot about the Principle of Compounding Magical Forces. That ritual could’ve summoned a Master Demon—or worse.”

  She stiffens. “Worse?”

  “Not everything in the Underworld is a demon,” I reply, my voice lowering. “There are beings down there I wouldn’t name here. That ritual, if done right, could’ve summoned one of them.”

  The car falls silent. I pull to the side of the road, casting a quick barrier spell to block traffic. Drivers shout obscenities, their voices muffled by the magic, but I don’t care.

  “Mattie, look at me,” I say, my tone firm. “I hope you took note of every mistake in that ritual. While you’re a wizard in training and will never waste your time with a ritual—”

  Zefpyre coughs pointedly. I ignore him.

  “—I refuse to let you cast such wasteful magic. I’ll find you a ritual tutor to ensure you understand the basics.”

  I drop the barrier, put the car back in drive, and head for the suburbs. Only one person on this magically inept planet is worth consulting about a ritual this complex: Zach Westwood. He runs a ritualist shop out of the basement of Woodfield Mall, of all places. The kind of guy who knows everything but charges like he knows even more.

  I let the road hum under the wheels as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and violet. Mattie munches on gummy worms beside me, and Zefpyre sits silently, probably thinking of some sarcastic remark for later. I press play on my audiobook, Caroline Goode’s Her Lady’s Mysteries, and let her words drown out the unease clawing at the back of my mind.

  We turn onto Golf Road in Schaumburg, Illinois, the street stretching ahead into the kind of darkness only the suburbs can conjure on a winter’s night. It’s the pitch-black that swallows everything, save for the dim orange glow of far-off streetlights.

  The mall looms up ahead, a hulking silhouette against the inky sky. I pull into the empty parking lot, the sound of tires crunching over frozen gravel echoing in the stillness. It’s a ghost town. Not a single car, not a single light, save for the faint glow of the mall’s emergency signs.

  Mattie glances around nervously. “The mall’s closed.”

  “Not to us,” I reply, killing the engine. The three of us step out into the bitter cold, our breaths fogging in the air.

  Zefpyre follows close behind, tail swishing in irritation. “It really is cold out here,” he grumbles.

  “Then use your elemental magic to warm yourself,” I reply without looking back.

  Zefpyre sniffs indignantly. “Now, Julius, while I give you a modicum of leniency for your blatant overuse of magic, I, as a government administrator, will not stoop to your level. This is Earth, and we should do as the mortals do.”

  “Huh,” I say, shrugging. “Well, mortal cats don’t talk.”

  Mattie laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the cold. I feel Zefpyre’s frustration prickling behind me as he struggles to find a comeback. He doesn’t.

  We approach the glass doors at the mall’s entrance. Mattie tugs at them. “Locked,” she says, annoyed.

  “Move over,” I mutter, brushing past her. With a flick of my wrist, a glowing purple portal blooms where the doors were. The edges ripple faintly, like water disturbed by an unseen breeze.

  Mattie stares at it. “You have to teach me that spell.”

  “You’re a wizard trainee. You should already know this spell,” I reply, stepping through the portal.

  Zefpyre, ever the bureaucrat, pipes up as he follows. “He’s right, you know. It’s in the handbook. Section Portal Magic, Subsection Dimensional Planes.”

  My coat flares dramatically in the portal’s wind as I step through without comment, letting the glow swallow me whole.

  The three of us emerge into the mall’s basement, which is nothing like the mundane world above. It’s alive with color and noise, a stark contrast to the icy silence outside. The Magical Bazaar sprawls before us—a maze of stalls, carts, and permanent shops crammed together like a magical black market gone legitimate.

  The air is thick with the scent of burnt herbs, alchemical potions, and something suspiciously like cinnamon buns. Creatures of all kinds bustle about, bartering for wares that range from slightly useful to utterly nonsensical. This place is a clearinghouse for magical junk sold to practitioners who barely know what they’re doing.

  Mattie’s eyes widen as she takes it all in. “This place is amazing,” she whispers.

  I snort. “This place is a dumping ground for fools and their money.”

  Zefpyre sniffs, his tail flicking. “And yet, it’s where we find the specialists you can’t do without.”

  I grunt in reply, my eyes scanning the Bazaar. Somewhere in this chaos is Zach Westwood, the only ritualist on this magically inept planet worth talking to.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, leading the way through the winding stalls, the hum of bartering voices blending with the clink of potions and the crackle of stray magic.

  Every step we take through the Bazaar is a test of patience. The place is a cacophony of shouted deals, clinking potions, and the occasional magical misfire. Everywhere I look, someone’s hawking junk—poorly enchanted trinkets, watered-down potions, and runes so sloppy they’d fizzle before the ink dried. I can’t help but itch to quiz Mattie on every mistake I see, but the look on her face tells me she already sees the flaws. Good. She’s learning.

  The problem is, we’re not moving fast enough. People are shoving their goods in our faces, desperate for a sale, and my patience is paper-thin. Finally, I’ve had enough. With a deep breath, I release a fraction of my Master Wizard aura.

  The effect is immediate. The chatter dies, the air grows heavy, and every head in the Bazaar turns toward me. Practitioners cower, magical creatures slink back into the shadows, and even the glowing signs over the stalls seem to dim. For once, the chaos is still.

  Zefpyre hisses beside me, his tail lashing angrily. “Julius, you fool!”

  “What?” I growl. “These idiots needed to get out of my way. We’re here on official business.”

  Mattie stands frozen, pale as a ghost. Her teeth chatter as she forces out, “I hate when you do that.”

  I glance at her, irritated. “You need to grow accustomed to this. You’re the only one dreaming of going back to the Other Realm, and trust me—a Master flaring their aura is a normal occurrence there.”

  Zefpyre hisses again, louder this time. “But not here! This is Earth, and you need to reign yourself in before I issue you a citation.”

  I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Isn’t it past 5 PM? I’ve never known you to work late.”

  “There’s a first time for everything, Banished TZ19201119514. Don’t test me.” His voice is cold, and for once, I take him seriously.

  I glare at him, my eyes narrowing. “Don’t call me that,” I mutter, swishing my coat dramatically as I turn on my heel. I stomp off toward Westwood’s shop, ignoring the way the Bazaar seems to hold its collective breath until I’m gone.

  The shop’s sign reads Organized Spells. I groan audibly, the name alone enough to set my teeth on edge. It’s a clear giveaway: the man behind this operation has only a rudimentary grasp of what rituals truly are.

  Through the window, I spot him sitting behind the desk—a man barely worth the air he breathes. His power level is intermediate, maybe a journeyman at best, three or four ranks below me. And that’s as far as he’ll ever go. I can see the block in his mana core, the result of a weak foundation and poor understanding. His potential was snuffed out before it could truly ignite.

  I glance at Mattie briefly, scanning her core out of habit. I know in my mind that none of his mistakes linger in her training, but I have to check. Satisfied, I mask my momentary pause and push the door open. The bell jingles, its cheerful tone grating on my nerves.

  Inside, Westwood launches into his sales pitch, clearly rehearsed and worn from overuse. “Welcome to Organized Spells, where we sell ritual frameworks, materials, guides, and—for the right price—we even assist. How can I hel—” His words catch in his throat as his eyes land on me. The over-the-top showmanship evaporates in an instant.

  “Oh. It’s you. What do you want?”

  I step forward, keeping my voice even. “Well, Westwood, surprisingly, I need your help.”

  “Payment up front,” he snaps, crossing his arms.

  “You don’t even know what I need,” I growl.

  “If you’re here, it’s Order business,” he retorts. “And I hate getting involved with the Magical Gestapo.”

  My anger flares, but before I can respond, Mattie cuts in. “Journeyman Westwood,” she says smoothly, her tone polite but firm.

  I blink, caught off guard. She recognized his rank? Impressive.

  Mattie continues, “We need your expertise on a very advanced ritual. Seven people were killed, and more deaths are likely to follow. Your insights would be invaluable.”

  Westwood relaxes slightly, though the tension doesn’t fully leave his shoulders. “Fine,” he mutters. “I’ll help—but I require one dragonstone as payment.”

  My patience snaps, but I rein it in. “Now, Zach, are you—”

  He cuts me off with a smirk. “A dragonstone is a fitting payment for a Master Wizard’s request. If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to call a Ritualist of a higher rank. I hear you’ve got connections to the Other Realm.”

  Zefpyre meows loudly, leaping in front of me with his fur bristling, ready to cast a shield spell. Mattie turns to me, her voice steady but concerned. “Master, are you okay?”

  I grit my teeth, forcing my anger down. “Trainee Mattie, I’m fine. I’m not going to harm this idiot.”

  Zefpyre glances back at me warily, clearly unconvinced. I ignore him.

  Fixing my gaze on Westwood, I speak slowly, my tone laced with menace. “I’ll give you two onyx gems. Nothing more.”

  He hesitates, his smirk faltering. Finally, he shrugs. “Fine,” he says, clearly not eager to test my patience further. “Show me the ritual.”

  Before I can stop her, Mattie pulls her notebook from her bag, flips to her notes, and hands it to him directly.

  My jaw tightens as Westwood takes the book, flipping it open with no regard for protocol. I nearly shout at her for the breach, but the damage is done. I settle for glaring at her as Westwood begins to read.

  Zach flips through Mattie’s notebook, his brow furrowing. “Hmm. Interesting symbol…” he murmurs.

  I nearly facepalm as he reaches for a reference book from his shelf, flipping through its pages like an amateur. “Ah, here it is. Infinite Balance,” he announces, as though he’s made some grand discovery.

  I glance at Mattie, trying to convey with my eyes just how ridiculous this is. A competent Ritualist should have recognized that symbol immediately. She catches my look and gives a subtle nod, her lips pressed tightly together.

  Zach continues examining the notes, oblivious. “Huh. This has a lot of power behind it. Oh my, oh my…” He stops abruptly, his eyes widening. “Lesser demon.” He snaps the notebook shut with a theatrical thud, extending his hand. “Gemstones, please.”

  “Oh, no, no, no,” I say, my tone sharp. “We have questions.”

  His hand hovers in the air as he glares at me. “Ask away.”

  “Do you know anyone who might be looking to summon a Pillar of Detest?”

  “Obviously not,” he snaps, his annoyance matching my own. “If I did, I would have turned them in to the Order. I’m not suicidal.”

  I’m mildly surprised he even understands the magnitude of the ritual, given that he had to look up the symbol in the first place. “Fine. Do you know anyone who’s purchased unusually large quantities of celestial gold or powdered onyx?”

  Zach sighs and pulls out a battered ledger, thumbing through the pages. “There are a few ritualists who buy those ingredients regularly,” he says slowly, “but nowhere near the quantities needed for a ritual of this scale.”

  His voice falters, and I see the tension in his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. He’s holding something back.

  Zefpyre meows loudly, his golden eyes fixed on Zach, but it’s Mattie who cuts through the silence. “What are you holding back?” she asks, her voice sharper than I expected.

  Zach flinches, his face pale. “There… there might have been a burglary,” he stammers.

  My teeth grind together as I lean in. “A burglary?”

  He nods quickly, his voice barely above a whisper. “A Warlock may or may not have been robbed.”

  “Which Warlock?” I ask, my tone ice-cold.

  Zach squeaks, “Lord Lazur.”

  The room falls silent as the weight of his words sinks in. Zefpyre and I exchange a look, the kind that needs no words. Mattie opens her mouth to ask a question, but I raise a hand to stop her.

  With a wave of my other hand, I cast a few spells, the air around Zach growing thick with magical energy. His face drains of what little color he had left.

  “If you want to keep living as you currently are,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous, “you’d better tell us everything you know.”

  Zach shifts uncomfortably, a weak grin spreading across his face. “I’m guessing you’ve heard of Lord Lazur.”

  Mattie sighs loudly, her frustration palpable. “Obviously. Everyone has. He’s a Royal from the Other Realm, probably the most powerful Warlock on Earth.” Her tone is sharp, cutting through Zach’s attempted levity.

  “Well, yes, exactly!” Zach says, his grin faltering under her glare. “But he’s also the largest supplier of magical ingredients.”

  The three of us exchange annoyed looks. “Obviously,” I mutter, waving my hand to urge him along. He flinches at the motion, the building magic in the air clearly making him nervous.

  “So… about a week ago,” he stammers, “his main warehouse on Earth was robbed. It’s located somewhere in southern Illinois—prime location for controlling ambient mana. Really nice place, actually. Been there a few times myself.”

  I cut him off, my voice low and sharp. “The robbery.”

  “Right, right,” Zach says, wincing. “So, apparently, after it happened, he contacts me. Says there’ll be some delays with my usual orders. I tried to negotiate a discount—no dice, of course. Anyway, through the grapevine, I hear that a ritual was used to steal everything from the warehouse. Really intricate work, from what I gather.”

  He hesitates, and I narrow my eyes. “Go on.”

  “Well… I was asked to provide my mana signature, to, uh, clear me as a suspect. That’s where my involvement ended. Didn’t hear another word after that.”

  I nod, absorbing the information. His story is useful, but his delivery? Painfully inefficient. With a flick of my hand, I dismiss the magical energy surrounding him, not leaving even a trace behind—something only a Master Wizard can do. Zach exhales in relief, the tension in the room easing.

  Without another word, I turn on my heel and head for the door. I have no intention of trudging back to the entrance, so I open a portal right there. The air ripples with violet energy as the gateway materializes.

  “Hey! No portal magic in the Bazaar!” someone shouts from behind me, but I’ve already stepped through. Their protests are cut off as the portal snaps shut behind me, leaving them to grumble to themselves.

  Back at the car, I slide into the driver’s seat and wait, watching the shadowed shapes of Mattie and Zefpyre as they make their way through the dim parking lot. The engine hums softly, the heater doing its best to combat the chill outside. I lean back, drumming my fingers against the wheel, my mind turning over everything we’ve learned.

  The night’s far from over.

  As Mattie and Zefpyre climb into the car, Zefpyre speaks up, his tone unusually serious. “Julius, I swear, the Order has received no official word of this.”

  My anger flares again, hot and sharp. “You and I both know that anything dealing with the Royals needs to pass through my desk!”

  Zefpyre sighs, his tail flicking in irritation. “You’re right, Julius. And I’m sure if there were information at the Order on this matter, we would have informed you.”

  I grit my teeth, gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary. Mattie, clearly sensing the tension, speaks up hesitantly. “Is this about… your thing? You know, the thing that got you sent here?”

  I roll my eyes, exhaling a long stream of smoke from my cigar. “No, Mattie. This has nothing to do with that. I am—or I should say, was—a Royal. A long time ago. It’s not important.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh…” she squeaks, shrinking back in her seat.

  I glance at her, softening my tone just slightly. “Mattie, where would you go next?”

  She hesitates, then ventures cautiously, “To the office? To see if there are any missing reports or someone who might know about the info?”

  “Bingo.” I snap my fingers.

  In an instant, the world blurs around us. The car, along with the three of us, teleports with a sharp crack of magic. The next moment, we’re sitting on the corner of State and Jackson, directly in front of the Order of Magi’s Chicago Office. The ancient, ivy-covered building looks as out of place as we do, squatting amidst the city’s modern steel and glass skyscrapers.

  Zefpyre’s scream pierces the night. “NOW, JULIUS AZRAEL HOLMES, this is a clear violation of the use of magic! It is unwarranted, and worse, in plain possible view of mortals!”

  I ignore him, stepping out of the car with a casual air. The faint hum of residual teleportation magic lingers in the air, but I know it’ll fade before anyone takes notice. Mortals might have seen a flicker, but they’ll write it off as a trick of the light—or maybe a headache. It doesn’t matter.

  “Relax, Zef,” I say, gesturing toward the grand entrance of the building. “We’ve got work to do.”