“You’re worth the learning curve.”
THIRTY-FOUR
JUNIE
The attack came at sunset.
Junie had been at her brewing station, working on a batch of healing salve for the clinic. Simple work. Mindless. The kind of task that let her hands move while her thoughts wandered to Leo—to the way he’d kissed her goodbye that morning, thorough and unhurried. To the way his hands had lingered on her waist, reluctant to let go. To the promise in his eyes that saidlater.
She’d caught herself humming while she worked. Humming—an old song her grandmother used to sing, one she hadn’t thought about in years. The realization had startled her enough that she’d nearly knocked over a beaker.
When had she become someone who hummed?
She was happy now. Not the performative happiness she’d perfected over years of deflection—the quick jokes, the easy smiles, the relentless energy that kept everyone entertained and no one looking too closely. This was different. Quieter. Real. Leo had walked into her life with his expensive suits and his controlled expressions and somehow found his way into that empty space and filled it.
Grandmother,I think I understand now what you meant about the scary ones being worth it.
They didn’t have later, though. Not yet. Victor was still out there. The trap had been set at Piprick’s shop, but ten days had passed with no movement. Everyone was on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Leo had been tense all week, the predator pacing beneath his skin. Junie had felt it every time they touched—the restless energy, the need to hunt, to act.
In the end, he’d never taken the bait. Victor had gone straight for Moonrise Mixology instead—the strongest ley line intersection, and the witch who sat on top of it.
The shoe dropped at 6:47 p.m.
Glimmer noticed first. The snake’s scales shifted from content amber to warning purple in the span of a heartbeat, her body going rigid around Junie’s neck. A low hiss escaped her, tongue flicking out to taste the air.
“What is it?” Junie set down her stirring rod, reaching up to stroke Glimmer’s head. “What do you?—”
The bay window exploded inward.
Glass sprayed across the shop floor, glittering shards catching the last of the daylight. Her rotating potion display—the one she’d enchanted to change colors with the lunar cycle, her pride and joy—was destroyed in an instant. Through the jagged opening came four shapes—lean, tawny, moving with coordinated precision. Jackals. Victor’s sabotage team. They shifted mid-leap, landing on human feet but keeping the predator’s grace, the hunter’s focus.
Junie’s grandmother had always said that fear was energy waiting to be redirected.
She grabbed the nearest vial from her brewing station. Combat potion—fast-acting, brutal, designed for exactly this scenario. She’d been making them for weeks, stockpiling them in every corner of the shop. The liquid hit the lead jackal in theface, and he screamed as his skin erupted in blisters, clawing at his eyes.
One down. Three to go.
She dove behind her largest cauldron as the other three spread out, flanking her. Professional. Coordinated. They’d done this before.
“Ms. Reed.” The voice came from the shattered window—smooth, cultured, completely calm. “I’d hoped we could do this civilly.”
Victor Sable stepped through the broken glass with the casual elegance of a man entering a cocktail party. He was exactly as Leo had described: lean and angular, with clever golden-brown eyes and a smile that didn’t reach them. Even in the chaos of the attack, his suit was immaculate, not a hair out of place.
“Civilly?” Junie grabbed another vial—this one a smoke bomb. “You destroyed my window. Again. Do you have any idea how much custom glass costs?”
Victor’s smile widened. “Add it to my tab.”
He nodded to his remaining jackals. They moved.
Junie fought dirty.
She’d never been trained for combat—not like Leo, not like the shifters. But she’d grown up in a town full of predators, and her grandmother had taught her that a clever witch was worth a dozen brute-force fighters.
The smoke bomb filled the shop with thick, acrid fog. Junie could see through it—an adaptation charm woven into her contacts—but the jackals couldn’t. She moved through the hazelike a ghost, grabbing vials and hurling them with practiced accuracy.
A confusion potion hit one jackal square in the chest. He stumbled, suddenly unable to remember which direction was forward. A paralysis draught caught another in the throat, locking his muscles mid-lunge. He hit the floor like a felled tree.
Two down. One jackal still mobile. Plus Victor.
