I sat slouched in my chair, a hand-rolled cigar smoldering between my fingers. The haze of Dreamer’s Leaf curled around me, but it wasn’t enough to dull the nagging thoughts clawing at the back of my mind.

  “Fuck my life,” I muttered, rubbing my temples with my free hand. It had been days since the ordeal at the Presidential Towers, and the thought of it still made my stomach churn.

  How the hell had four Master-ranked practitioners, an Adept Fire Elemental, and the entire damn Order all managed to forget about the lesser demon? Not once, not twice, but repeatedly. It didn’t make sense—none of it did. Someone, or something, far more powerful than anything we’d faced was pulling the strings. And this? This wasn’t about some half-rate Ritualist fumbling with Arcane Magic. That idiot had barely been able to channel power beyond novice-level sorcery.

  I took one last drag of my cigar before snuffing it out in the ashtray, the embers hissing like they shared my frustration. This needed to be handled carefully. Quietly. Too many loose threads dangled from this case, and pulling the wrong one could unravel everything.

  Pushing myself up, I made my way to the kitchen. Mattie stood by the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced ease. She was humming something tuneless under her breath, a stark contrast to the weight in my chest.

  “Boss Man,” she said as I walked in, her back to me. “Was that all too easy?”

  I leaned against the counter, crossing my arms. “I think so,” I admitted, my tone flat. “But the question is why.”

  An idea struck me like a bolt of lightning. “Mattie,” I said, my voice sharper now. “What did we forget about?”

  Her hand froze mid-flip, and understanding dawned on her face. “The lesser demon,” she said quietly, setting the spatula down.

  “Exactly.” I nodded, my eyes narrowing. “It’s still out there, somewhere in the shadows. And I promise you, it’s gaining power.”

  Her expression shifted, a mix of concern and determination crossing her features. “What do we do?”

  I stared out the window, watching the city below wake up to another day, blissfully unaware of the growing storm. “We prepare,” I said, my voice low. “Because this isn’t over—not by a long shot.”

  For the first time ever, I found myself sitting in the Order’s hall, ready for roll call. The weight of the room pressed down on me like I’d walked into my own funeral. Gabriel strode in, his usual calm authority radiating around him—until he saw me. His polished stride faltered, and for a brief, glorious moment, he looked like he might trip.

  “Julius?” he asked, his voice cautious, as though I were an apparition. “Is there… something wrong?”

  “Nope,” I said casually, leaning back in my chair. “Just here to do my job.”

  Gabriel blinked at me, mouthing my words silently as if I’d spoken in tongues. The disbelief on his face was priceless, and I had to bite back a smirk. Members of the Order started filtering into the room, each one catching sight of me and freezing mid-step like they’d just spotted a cursed ghost. The stares ranged from confusion to outright terror, and honestly? It was a little flattering.

  Zefpyre padded up beside me, his tail flicking lazily. “Told you, Julius. You needed to come to these,” he said, his tone dripping with smug satisfaction.

  I glanced down at him. “And I don’t see you going to roll call.”

  “I’m your handler; plus you are my ride,” Zef retorted with a meow of indignation. “I don’t need to attend.”

  “And you can teleport, Fire Elementalist,” I shot back, my voice dry.

  Zef muttered something under his breath about unnecessary use of magic and various statutes in the Accords, but I ignored him. My attention drifted back to Gabriel, who was still staring at me like I might burst into flames at any moment.

  With visible effort, Gabriel composed himself and started roll call, his voice cutting through the awkward silence. He rattled off names, assigning cases and responsibilities, but his gaze kept flicking back to me, clearly trying to piece together why I was there.

  When he finally reached me, he hesitated before handing me a thin case jacket. “We’ve got a sensitive possible,” he said, his voice low.

  I took the jacket without looking at it and immediately handed it to Mattie, who was sitting beside me. Gabriel raised an eyebrow at the move but didn’t comment.

  “Oh, and Julius?” he said, lowering his voice further. “My boss wanted you to know—you did good with the Ritualist.”

  I stood, slipping my hands into my coat pockets. “That’s what you think,” I said, my voice flat and unreadable. “Mattie, let’s roll out.”

  Mattie scrambled to her feet, already flipping through the case file as she followed me toward the exit. I walked past Annabeth at the front desk, her glare sharp enough to cut through stone.

  “Morning, Annabeth,” I said with a faint smirk.

  “Holmes,” she snapped, her voice as frosty as her glare.

  I chuckled softly, pushing the door open and stepping into the chaos of the day. Whatever this case was, it couldn’t be worse than the questions still swirling in my mind about the Ritualist—and the demon still lurking in the shadows.

  As I approach the car, Mattie is already sitting in the passenger seat, flipping through the case file. She looks up as I get in, her brow furrowed.

  “Hey, Boss Man,” she starts, her voice hesitant. “I know this address.”

  I buckle in and give her a nod to continue, already feeling a knot tighten in my stomach.

  “It’s the Other Realm Bookshop,” she says, her tone cautious.

  I pause, my hand hovering over the ignition. “Wait… Gus’s place?”

  “Yeah,” is all she says, her voice heavy with unspoken concern.

  Without another word, I slam my foot on the gas, and the car roars to life. Tires screech as I floor it, weaving through the streets with reckless precision. The case file lies forgotten on Mattie’s lap as I focus entirely on the road ahead.

  Uptown isn’t far, but it feels like miles as I push the Shelby to its limits. Gus’s place isn’t just a bookstore. It’s a sanctuary, a neutral ground for magical beings. If something’s gone wrong there… well, it’s not just any case. It’s personal.

  Mattie clutches the door handle as we take a corner a little too fast, but she doesn’t say a word. She knows better than to try to slow me down.

  As we speed toward the Other Realm Bookshop, my mind races with possibilities, none of them good. Whatever’s waiting for us at Gus’s, it won’t be simple. And it sure as hell won’t be clean.

  The Shelby screeches to a halt in front of the Other Realm Bookshop, the smell of burnt rubber lingering in the cold air. The scene is already buzzing with activity. Detective Murphy is standing on the curb, clipboard in hand, looking annoyed but focused. And somehow, against all odds, Williams beat us here.

  “Williams?” I call out, stepping out of the car, my tone sharp with surprise.

  The Warlock-turned-investigator looks up, his hands clutching one of his signature instruments. “I saw the address on the murder board and headed here right away,” he explains, as if it’s obvious.

  I nod in acknowledgment, turning my attention to Murphy. “What’ve we got?”

  Murphy glances at his notes before speaking. “Three victims. All killed somewhere else, then brought here. No signs of a struggle on-site.”

  “Gus?” I ask, my chest tightening slightly.

  Williams cuts in, “Gus is fine. He’s shaken up but unharmed.”

  I exhale slowly, relief washing over me for a moment before the tension creeps back in. Nothing about this feels right.

  Reaching into my coat pocket, I pull out my gloves and notebook. The familiar weight of them grounds me as I activate a spell with a quick flick of my fingers. The enchanted notebook begins to hum faintly, its pages flipping on their own as my spellwork takes over, jotting down everything I observe.

  “Alright,” I say, slipping on the gloves. “Let’s see what the hell we’re dealing with.”

  The four of us walk inside. The air is heavy, tinged with the faint metallic scent of residual magic and something darker, more acrid. Gus’s shop, usually a cozy haven of magical books and artifacts, feels eerily still, the usual hum of ambient magic muted as if holding its breath.

  I glance back at Mattie, who’s already scanning the room with her magical senses. “Stay sharp, Kid. This place is crawling with secrets, and I don’t want us missing any of them.”

  Murphy nods toward the back of the store. “The bodies are in the storage room. Williams and I did a preliminary sweep, but we didn’t touch anything.”

  “Good,” I reply. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  As we step deeper into the shop, the oppressive weight of the scene begins to settle on us. This isn’t just a crime—it’s a message. And I have a sinking feeling it’s one meant for me.

  As we weave through the aisles of the bookstore, the familiar scent of old paper and ink mingles with the unsettling tang of magic that lingers in the air. I keep my pace deliberate, the hum of my enchanted notebook filling the silence as it continues to scribble notes on its own.

  “Kid,” I bark over my shoulder, “thoughts?”

  Mattie’s already scanning the room, her fingers brushing against the edges of her wand as she sharpens her magical senses. She doesn’t hesitate. “There’s only a faint trace of magic here, most likely residual from the books themselves. Whoever did this wasn’t messy—there’s no trail of blood. The killer was clean.”

  I glance back at her, raising an eyebrow. “But?”

  She pauses, her brow furrowing as she focuses on the magic in the air. Then, her eyes widen slightly. “But they forgot something,” she says confidently.

  I smile, turning to face her fully. “Go on.”

  Mattie straightens, her voice steady as she continues. “Someone’s been practicing Necromancy.”

  “Bingo, Kid,” I say, my grin widening. “And that’s exactly what’s going to trip them up.”

  Murphy, trailing behind us, lets out a low whistle. “Necromancy? You don’t see that every day.”

  “No, you don’t,” I reply, my voice sharp. “And when you do, it’s never clean.”

  Williams glances up from his instruments, his expression grim. “Any idea what they were trying to achieve?”

  I shake my head. “Not yet. But Necromancy leaves fingerprints, and our little amateur forgot to wear gloves.”

  Turning back to Mattie, I nod toward the storage room. “Let’s see if our friend left anything else behind.”

  With that, we press on, the weight of what we’re about to uncover growing heavier with each step.

  The moment we step into the storage room, the air thickens with the cloying, oppressive weight of Necromancy. It clings to everything like a dense fog, choking the room with its dark energy. I glance at Mattie and see the disgust on her face. She’s not wrong to feel that way, but she doesn’t yet understand the nuances.

  “Necromancy isn’t inherently bad magic,” I say aloud, more for Mattie’s benefit than anyone else’s. “It’s just… addictive. Insanely addictive. And it forces practitioners to violate the fundamental laws of magic, which always leads to chaos and destruction.”

  Her expression shifts slightly, but the revulsion lingers. I don’t blame her. The room reeks of death, decay, and magic warped into something twisted and unnatural. It’s a smell that clings to your soul if you’re not careful.

  I exhale, steadying myself as I look around. The scene is brutal, but I’ve seen worse. After all, I performed Necromancy against Edmund less than two weeks ago. The irony isn’t lost on me.

  “Williams,” I bark, breaking the silence.

  He steps forward, his tools already whirring to life as he crouches by the first body. “This man here—Jon Taylor. A rudimentary potion maker. He was killed first. His soul was forcibly extracted, then his blood and organs were removed from his body. Very sloppy work.”

  We move to the next body. The sight is no easier to stomach.

  “This is Simon,” Williams continues. “An Intermediate Spell Singer. He was killed second, but he was tortured first. His soul was ripped out after prolonged pain, and, like Jon, his blood and organs were taken.”

  My jaw tightens. It’s becoming clear this wasn’t random.

  We reach the final body, and even Williams hesitates for a moment before speaking. “Lastly, we have Jeff Timbs. An enchanter at Journeyman rank. His torture was… worse. Almost barbaric.” He shakes his head, his voice dropping. “His soul was taken, and his blood and organs removed.”

  “Silver dollars,” Mattie whispers, pointing to the coins placed neatly over each of their eyes.

  “Shit,” I mutter, stepping back. My mind races. “Is Chiron here?”

  As if summoned by the mere mention of his name, an icy breeze sweeps through the room. The temperature drops sharply, and the faint, unmistakable scent of death fills the air. In the distance, I hear the rhythmic, haunting sound of a paddle cutting through water.

  The room falls silent, every breath held as the presence grows stronger. Then, from the shadows, the ferryman steps forward, his skeletal figure cloaked in the tattered robes of his eternal duty.

  “Julius Azrael Holmes,” Chiron intones, his voice as cold as the Styx itself. “You called for me.”

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing myself to meet his empty gaze. “We’ve got souls that shouldn’t be missing. And I think you already know who’s responsible.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Chiron,” I snap, my voice a growl as the oppressive weight of his presence presses on the room. “I need details. Who killed these men?”

  The ferryman’s skeletal form remains unnervingly still, and when he speaks, his words are deliberate, slow, like ice cracking under pressure. “I can give you no answers. Their souls have been paid for.”

  The words slam into me like a freight train. “Paid for?” I repeat, the edges of my voice sharp enough to cut. “What do you mean they’ve been paid for?”

  Chiron’s bony hand extends, a long finger pointing toward the silver coins on the victims’ eyes. “They have been paid for. And under the Seal of Confession, I cannot divulge the information you seek.”

  Anger flares in my chest, so hot and fast that I can feel the magic in my veins crackling, begging for release. “Seal of Confession?!” I shout, the words echoing off the walls. “What. Confession?! Are you saying I could go on a soul-ripping spree and as long as I ‘pay for the souls,’ there’s nothing you and your boss would do about it?!”

  Chiron tilts his head, the eerie sound of bones creaking filling the silence. He seems to consider my words for a moment before replying. “Not exactly,” he says with infuriating calm. “You must also be a true believer.”

  “Oh, goodie!” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Let me just make sure my membership card is still valid!”

  Mattie winces at my tone, but I don’t care. My fists are clenched, and my magic is barely restrained, the air around me pulsing with frustration. “What can you tell us, Chiron?”

  The ferryman pauses, and for the first time, he lets loose a smile. It’s not just any smile—it’s the kind of grin that would haunt your nightmares, sinister and cold, promising nothing good.

  “That we will be seeing a lot of each other over the next week,” he says, his voice filled with grim certainty.

  Before I can demand more, his form begins to dissolve, fading into the shadows like smoke on the wind. The faint sound of his paddle cutting through water lingers for just a moment longer before silence falls, heavier than ever.

  I stand there, fists still clenched, staring at the spot where he disappeared. “Fucking fantastic,” I mutter under my breath. “As if this case couldn’t get any worse.”

  Mattie walks over to me, her face set with determination. “Look,” she says carefully, “Chiron did give us a lead to work with.”

  I feel the fire bubbling just under my skin and almost bite her head off, but I force myself to pause. “Explain,” I snap, though my voice is sharper than I intend.

  “The killers have to be true believers,” she continues. “And I doubt there are many people who fit that category—even in the magical community.”

  I open my mouth, a sarcastic retort already forming, but I stop myself short. She’s got a point. A damn good one.

  “Damn, Kid,” I say, scratching my beard thoughtfully. “You might actually be onto something.”

  “Williams,” I bark, and before I even finish, he’s already moving. Within seconds, a sheet of paper is in my hand, each victim’s address neatly listed. Say what you will about Williams—he’s efficient.

  “Detective,” I call over to Murphy, who’s leaning against a shelf, looking weary but alert. “I need a full accounting of everything Gus has in inventory—everything. Even the secret stuff. Leave no stone unturned.”

  Murphy straightens up, giving me a skeptical look. “Are you sure? There’s no sign of a robbery.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “It’s better we check now,” I say firmly, “than get screwed later when we realize something’s missing.”

  Murphy sighs but nods. “Alright. I’ll get my team on it.”

  Satisfied, I turn to Mattie. “Let’s roll out.”

  She grins, already heading for the door. As we step outside, I glance up at the fading light of the day, my thoughts racing. True believers, secret inventory, and stolen lives—it’s all connected. And somewhere in this tangled web is the answer we need.

  Mattie sits next to me in the car, her hands fidgeting with the edge of the case file. I can see the question bubbling just under the surface, written all over her face. I sigh and reach over to pause my story. This has been happening way too much lately—me pausing my stories, me caring about these cases. I’m starting to care way too much. That’s dangerous.

  “What’s on your mind, small fry?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

  She hesitates for a moment, then blurts it out. “Okay, so… this is the second time we haven’t followed the usual routine. We didn’t cast any tracking magic.” She glances at me, her eyes sharp. “I thought you said every idiot crime can be solved with a simple tracking spell and that any effort past that was a waste of your ‘precious mental acumen.’”

  I bark out a laugh, more genuine than I expect. “Normally, you’re right, Kid. Tracking spells are efficient, and I hate wasting effort. But this isn’t a normal case.”

  She frowns, tilting her head. “Why not? I mean, wouldn’t a tracking spell work here?”

  I shake my head, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Not with Necromancy magic. The mana signature would reflect the souls it used, not the caster. A tracking spell would most likely lead us right back to the victims’ homes instead of to our killer. It’s a dead-end, pun fully intended.”

  Mattie nods, taking that in. “Okay, that makes sense. But—”

  “There’s always a ‘but,’ isn’t there?” I cut in, smirking.

  “But,” she presses on, ignoring me, “you said you hate wasting effort. And yet here we are, digging deeper. You’re asking more questions, following more leads. Why? You always act like unanswered questions don’t bother you.”

  My smirk falters for a second. I glance at her before looking back at the road. “Since when do you think that?”

  “Since… forever?” she says, her brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

  I let out a long breath, my fingers drumming against the wheel. “Since the world stopped making sense,” I mutter.

  From the back seat, Zefpyre lets out a low, rumbling laugh. “That was poetic, Boss Man. Almost as if you’re—dare I say it—starting to care.”

  Zefpyre, lounging lazily in the back seat, lets out a low chuckle. “That’s rich, coming from you, Julius. You live to make the world more complicated.”

  I snort, shaking my head as I turn my attention back to the road. “Don’t you have some statutes to cite or naps to take, Zef?”

  “I’m pacing myself,” Zefpyre says smugly, his tail flicking with amusement.

  “Shut up, furball,” I snap, but there’s no real heat behind it.

  Mattie stifles a laugh, but I catch her grin out of the corner of my eye. “Well, at least you’re consistent,” she says.

  Mattie grins, but the question lingers in the air between us. I glance at her again and sigh. “Look, Kid, it’s not just about solving the case. It’s about what doesn’t add up. When things stop making sense, that’s when things get dangerous. I don’t like dangerous surprises.”

  She nods again, her grin fading into a thoughtful expression. “So, what’s the plan?”

  I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, my thoughts already racing ahead. “The plan is to stop this from spiraling further out of control. And the first step is figuring out exactly what kind of ‘believer’ we’re dealing with.”

  “Damn straight,” I reply, turning the story back on, the hum of the narration filling the air as we drive into the growing night.

  The city stretches out before us, a kaleidoscope of lights and shadows. The sun has dipped low enough to cast long, lazy shadows across the streets, and the faint hum of life in Chicago fills the air—a mix of engines, distant laughter, and the occasional blare of a horn. The Shelby purrs beneath me as I keep the speed steady, cruising along Lake Shore Drive.

  Mattie stares out the window, her chin resting on her hand, the glow of the skyline reflecting in her wide, curious eyes. Zefpyre is curled up in the backseat, pretending to nap but probably listening to every word, waiting for an opportunity to correct me about some regulation or statute.

  The audiobook hums along softly in the background, a soothing counterpoint to the rhythmic cadence of tires on asphalt. It’s a romance, naturally, something light and fluffy. A stark contrast to the dark tangles we’re currently unraveling. But for now, it works. The world feels… manageable.

  “I get why you like this drive,” Mattie says suddenly, her voice soft, almost hesitant.

  I glance at her briefly before turning my eyes back to the road. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “It’s peaceful,” she says simply. “Feels like the city’s holding its breath, waiting for something big. But for now, it’s just… quiet.”

  I smile faintly at that. “Not bad, Small Fry. You’re starting to get it.”

  The car glides along the edge of Lake Michigan, the water shimmering in the dim light like a sheet of liquid silver. Mattie leans forward slightly, her gaze locked on the waves. “You miss it, don’t you?”

  “What, the water?” I ask, feigning ignorance.

  “No,” she says, turning to look at me. “The Other Realm. Magic everywhere, no need to hide who you are.”

  I grip the wheel a little tighter, but my voice stays light. “Not as much as you’d think. The Other Realm’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

  She frowns but doesn’t press further, sensing the weight behind my words. Instead, she leans back in her seat, letting the quiet fill the space between us again.

  We pass through the heart of downtown, the towering buildings rising like silent guardians around us. The city feels alive, pulsing with its own kind of magic—a different kind than I’m used to, but no less potent. It’s in the neon signs, the glowing streetlights, the way people move like they’re all part of a vast, intricate spell.

  For a moment, I let myself enjoy it. The calm before the storm. The rhythm of the city, the hum of the audiobook, the steady breathing of my two companions—it’s a rare kind of peace, and I know it won’t last.

  But for now, it’s enough.

  I pull out Williams’s calling card and activate it with a flick of magic. The line hums to life instantly. “Williams,” he says briskly.

  “We need a full tech team here at the first vic’s house,” I say, my tone sharp and to the point. “Bag it, tag it, and organize it. Every inch of this place needs a second set of eyes.”

  There’s a pause, then Williams replies, “On it. ETA, twenty minutes.”

  I pocket the card and glance over at Mattie, who’s watching me with an incredulous expression. “Since when do you want a tech team involved?” she asks, crossing her arms. “I thought you said you could fart a magic spell that’s more useful than anything they could do.”

  I pause, giving her a dry look. “Normally, you’re right. But this place… something’s off. And I’d like a few more eyes on these potions. There’s something here that isn’t adding up.”

  Before Mattie can respond, Zefpyre chimes in from his perch near the window. “According to Statute 1914, subsection E, all scenes of significant magical importance must be investigated by an authorized crime scene unit.”

  I ignore him completely, my focus locked on a particular potion sitting in the corner of the room. The liquid shimmers in the dim light, golden with flecks of deep red swirling through it. My brow furrows as I step closer, careful not to disturb the intricate setup surrounding it.

  Mattie follows my gaze. “What is that?” she asks, her voice tinged with curiosity and a little apprehension.

  “Liquid gold,” I say softly. “Mixed with… blood.”

  Her eyes widen. “That’s not a normal potion, is it?”

  “No,” I reply, my voice grim. “It’s not. And whoever brewed it knew exactly what they were doing.”

  I crouch to examine the setup more closely, my mind racing. This wasn’t just some amateur experiment gone wrong. This was deliberate. Precise. Dangerous.

  “Mattie,” I say, my tone low but firm. “Don’t touch anything.”

  She nods, the gravity of my words sinking in. This was no ordinary murder scene. Whatever secrets this townhouse holds, they’re darker and more intricate than we imagined. And I have a sinking feeling we’ve only scratched the surface.

  Mattie and I barely make it through the first few rooms in the basement level. She groans loudly, slumping against a shelf filled with jars of suspiciously glowing liquids. “How fucking big is this house?”

  I grunt in response, jonesing for a smoke but wary of igniting anything in what feels like a massive chemical petri dish. “I have no clue, Small Fry,” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’m gonna take a walkabout. Maybe stumble on something useful—or at least a balcony where I can light up.”

  I weave through the rooms, each one stuffed with potion setups, bubbling cauldrons, and shelves upon shelves of ingredients in every conceivable form. The sheer scale of it is mind-boggling. Every inch of space is utilized, and all of it shows a meticulous dedication to the craft.

  “All this work done by such a weak-rank practitioner,” I whisper to myself. “Interesting. Maybe power isn’t everything.” I chuckle softly, shaking my head. That’s when I see it—the glimmer of sunlight through a glass door. My heart skips a beat.

  “Mother fucker,” I mutter, a grin spreading across my face. “Hell yes, a balcony.”

  I make a beeline for the door, practically throwing it open, ready to bask in the fresh air and light up. But as I step through, the grin fades. My breath catches in my throat.

  Instead of a balcony, I find myself walking into an entirely different plane of existence—a pocket dimension. A vast greenhouse stretches out before me, lush and verdant. The air hums with ambient mana, and the plants seem to pulse with life. Some are glowing faintly, others writhing as if they have minds of their own. It’s breathtaking and unsettling all at once.

  “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” I let out, the word dragging as the enormity of what I’m looking at hits me.

  I pull out Pendragon’s calling card and activate it, already grinning at the thought of how much this is going to annoy him.

  The line connects with a crackle, and Gabriel’s voice comes through, dripping with irritation. “What do you want, Holmes? And when did you start doing your job? You’re creating an annoying amount of paperwork for me.”

  I laugh, savoring his exasperation. “Guess what, Boss Man? I need all auxiliary staff on-site. We’ve got a massive pocket universe here, and it’s a damn magical greenhouse. I need it bagged, tagged, and organized.”

  The silence on the other end is palpable. Then, a heavy sigh. “You’re serious.”

  “As a heart attack,” I reply, smirking. “And before you try weaseling out of this, remember my rank, Gabriel. You can’t deny me without a damn good reason.”

  I click off the card before he can respond, still chuckling as I pocket it. If nothing else, I’ve just guaranteed Gabriel’s day is as irritating as mine. Small victories.

  Walking through the vast pocket dimension is like stepping into another world. A forest of rare herbs, plants, and trees stretches out before me, with crystal-clear ponds scattered throughout. The air is thick with magic, the hum of latent energy from each plant and tree palpable. This isn’t just a greenhouse—it’s a treasure trove. Between the house and this pocket dimension, Jon Taylor had amassed enough potions and ingredients to supply the entire Earth’s magical community for years.

  I shake my head in disbelief, muttering to myself, “This man was sitting on a gold mine.”

  But there’s no time to admire the scenery. I need answers, and for that, I need Williams. Making my way out, I step back into the townhouse, now a flurry of activity. Lab techs swarm the place, diligently bagging, tagging, and cataloging everything. Exactly what I asked for.

  “OY!” I bark, pointing at the nearest tech. She jumps, turning to face me. “You there—what’s your name?”

  “Mia, sir,” she stammers.

  “Don’t care,” I reply bluntly. “I need a full report ASAP. Every ingredient, every potion, every single item in that mosh pit of magical scientific wonder cataloged and detailed.”

  “Yes, sir,” she nods quickly, her eyes wide.

  I start to walk away, then pause, turning back to her. “Also, where the fuck is Williams?”

  “Top level, sir,” she says, pointing toward the staircase. “With Lady Mattie.”

  I freeze, giving her a sharp look. “Don’t call her Lady Mattie. That title has meaning.”

  She stammers, flustered. “So sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”

  I cut her off with a raised hand. “Don’t worry, I know it’s confusing with us Banished. But trust me, you don’t want her to hear you call her that.”

  She nods quickly, muttering another apology, but I’m already moving. Two more flights of stairs and I’m dodging and weaving through techs doing their jobs. The air grows heavier with each step, the mix of potions and lingering necromantic energy pressing down like a storm cloud.

  Finally, I reach the top level, stepping into a room that’s less chaotic but no less tense. Williams is there, his usual array of gadgets spread out in meticulous order. Mattie stands beside him, arms crossed, deep in thought. Zefpyre is perched on a desk, watching the activity with his ever-present air of disdain. And then there’s Pendragon, his flaming wings faintly flickering as he scans the room with sharp, calculating eyes.

  “Lovely gathering,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm as I step into the room. “Now someone tell me we’ve found something useful.”

  Pendragon and Williams exchange a look, then step aside, revealing a collection of ingredients and artifacts spread out on a long table. My jaw nearly hits the floor.

  “Holy fuck in all the Plains,” I breathe, taking a step closer. “We hit the motherfucking mother load. Is that… Dragonsheart Bane? Mandrake Root? And—no way—that’s Immortal Snare, isn’t it?”

  Williams doesn’t even look up, casually confirming, “Yup.”

  I spin to Gabriel, who’s staring at me like I just set fire to his favorite manuscript. “What the fuck did you just stumble upon?” he demands.

  “Look, Pendragon,” I say, throwing up my hands in mock surrender. “You act like I organized this unicorn shit! I didn’t set this up. I just walked into it.”

  Gabriel’s wings twitch, his annoyance radiating off him like heat from a forge. “Holmes,” he growls, “all I know is, you start doing your damn job, and suddenly the world starts falling apart. Maybe if you went back to phoning it in, I could have some peace.”

  I turn on him, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Ooooooh, sorry, Pendragon. I didn’t realize you and the Knights of the Round Table needed a little nappy-nap. You’ve been yelling at me for years to get my shit together. Well, buddy, here it is. And for the record? I didn’t ask for this bullshit.”

  Without missing a beat, I raise my voice to the entire room. “Now, can someone please tell me if I can light up a smoke without blowing us all to Kingdom fucking come?!”

  A chorus of “Yes!” echoes through the room, and I waste no time pulling out my cigar. With a snap of my fingers, it’s lit, and I take a long, glorious drag.

  “Thank all the Lords on the Infinite Plains,” I mutter, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Finally, something’s going right.”

  Gabriel, meanwhile, is stewing, his wings twitching like he’s fighting the urge to launch himself at me. “We are not done, Holmes,” he says, his voice cold and sharp. “Not even close to being fucking done.”

  I blow out another puff of smoke, watching it curl lazily into the air. “Oh, I know, Pendragon. I’m just getting warmed up.”

  I turn my focus to Williams, deciding to let my ongoing battle with Pendragon simmer for another day. “Alright, Williams,” I say, blowing out a stream of smoke, “what do you got for me?”

  Williams sighs deeply, his shoulders sagging in a way that makes even me concerned. “Holmes,” he says, rubbing his temples, “for once in my one hundred and twenty years on the job for the Order, I am at a loss for words.”

  Mattie, standing nearby, gasps audibly. “One hundred and twenty years?” she mouths silently, her wide eyes darting between us. I ignore her entirely, keeping my attention on Williams.

  “Alright,” I say, leaning against a counter. “Let’s start with square one. Maybe we can work this out together.”

  Williams nods slowly, collecting his thoughts. “Square one, then. Jon was a known agent in the community. Hell, we’re in the same bowling league. But clearly, I didn’t know him as well as I thought. Never would’ve guessed he had all this in his home. I guess you really don’t know what secrets people are hiding.”

  “Clearly,” I mutter, gesturing for him to continue.

  “From my rough estimate, there are about 10,000 active projects here,” Williams begins, his tone turning clinical. “All in various states of potion formation. Nothing groundbreaking—Jon wasn’t a particularly powerful practitioner. At best, his potions were… acceptable quality.”

  I nod. “So what’s the weird part?”

  Williams gestures around the room. “The quantity. This isn’t some hobby or small business. It would take him centuries to sell off this level of goods. And no one in the Other Realms would buy from him—they’ve got access to far better products.”

  “So that leaves us with two options,” I say, rubbing my beard thoughtfully. “He either figured out a way to store the potions indefinitely while maintaining potency, or he’s got one hell of a buyer.”

  “Exactly,” Williams says, his voice firm. “Now, the bottom floor is all enhancement potions—strength, mana boosts, the usual. The second level is health potions. The third level is utility potions. Very valuable stuff. Honestly, it breaks my heart to see them all destined for evidence lockers.”

  I snort at that, shaking my head. “Yeah, real tragedy. What about this floor?”

  Williams hesitates, his expression darkening. “This is where I hit a wall. The potions on this floor? Insanely valuable. We’re talking Premier-tier gemstones for trade—easily.”

  He picks up a delicate pink vial from the counter, holding it up to the light. “Take this, for example. Love Potion Number 9. Even in poor quality, this stuff goes for one Alexandrite per vial.”

  I whistle low, impressed. “Alright, what about the Dragonsheart Bane? What’s that for?”

  Williams’s expression grows more serious. He swallows hard and turns to Gabriel, who has been quietly brooding in the corner. “That’s why I called over the Grand Chancellor.”

  I shoot Gabriel a sharp look. “Oh no. Please don’t tell me this ties into your people.” My finger jabs toward the ceiling.

  Gabriel glares at me, his wings twitching. “Thank God, no,” he says, his voice tight. “This isn’t about the angels. This deals with the other half of my family.”

  I blink, then smirk. “Ahhhh, the Pendragons. How is dear old Arthur, anyway?”

  Gabriel twitches again, clearly restraining himself. It takes every ounce of his composure not to lash out.

  “So,” I press, ignoring his irritation, “what exactly was good ol’ Jonny Boy putting together?”

  The room falls silent, the air thick with tension. Gabriel finally speaks, his voice low. “These ingredients… they’re for a racial transformation potion.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What kind of transformation?”

  Gabriel hesitates before delivering the bombshell. “Dragon transformation.”

  The words hang in the air, heavy and ominous. My cigar nearly slips from my fingers. “Wait,” I say slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. “You mean… the potion created by…”

  I stop myself short, unwilling to say the name aloud. It’s a name that hasn’t been spoken in centuries for good reason. The room grows even quieter as the weight of this revelation settles over us.

  I nod at Williams, my expression firm. “I trust your team, Williams. Don’t let me down.”

  Before I can say another word, Zefpyre scoffs loudly from his perch. I shoot him a glare that could cut steel. “Not. A. Word. Fuzz brain.”

  Zefpyre flicks his tail in mock indignation, but thankfully, he doesn’t respond. “Mattie,” I call out, already heading toward the door. “Car. We’re off to the second victim’s place.”

  Without a word, Mattie takes off for the stairs, Zef following closely behind, his small form bounding after her. I linger for a moment, turning back to Gabriel, who’s still standing there, his fiery golden wings flickering faintly as his eyes scan the room.

  “What are your thoughts on this?” I ask him, lighting another cigar.

  He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I need to call my many-greats-grandmother. This is far out of my pay grade.”

  “Keep me in the loop,” I say with a nod.

  Gabriel’s gaze sharpens as he looks at me. “Holmes, she’s going to want to talk to you.”

  “Fine,” I grumble, already regretting the decision. “Give her my calling card.”

  Gabriel doesn’t move, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he speaks, his tone softer than I expected. “And look… sorry about the family jabs. If I’d known it was concerning him, I wouldn’t have made so many jokes.”

  I wave it off, but before I can respond, Gabriel delivers his own jab. “Whatever, Julius. At least I’m not the black sheep of my family, unlike you.”

  I freeze for a split second, then lock eyes with him, my dark purple gaze meeting his fiery golden one. For a moment, it feels like the entire room is holding its breath. Finally, I speak, my voice low and steady. “Look, I know there’s a lot of beef between us. But I’ve got a feeling we’re going to have to work closely on this one.”

  Gabriel’s face hardens, and he steps forward, jabbing a finger into my chest. “Fine. But once we rule out the Grand Sorcerer’s involvement, we’re back to working solo. Got it?”

  Before I can answer, a great pillar of celestial fire falls from the heavens, engulfing Gabriel in blinding light. And just like that, he’s gone.

  I groan, already feeling the heat left behind from his dramatic exit. I glance at my cigar, now burned to a stub, and scream into the empty room. “You owe me a cigar, asshole!”

  Knowing full well he can’t hear me, I take out another cigar, light it with a flick of my thumb, and head for the car. This day just keeps getting better.