Sorry about your pants.
I stare at the note until the words blur, then sharpen again.
Below that, in smaller letters:
Also sorry about the public magical orgasm. That part seems legally important to include. I'll replace the jeans. Please don't throw any more candles unless they're the ugly ones.
I make a sound against my will. It's almost a laugh. It hurts on the way out.
The note should make me angrier. It does, a little. Soren making a joke out of it is infuriating, but it's also not dismissal. It's Soren crawling toward apology in the only way his body knows how, sideways and bleeding and armed with terrible handwriting. Ira left food because food is structure. Cain left clothes because covering me is the closest he can get to saying he knows I didn't choose to be seen.
None of it fixes what happened.
It doesn't give me back the moment in aisle three. It doesn't undo the customer's stare or the awful, helpless pulse of mybody finishing without permission. It doesn't make the bond safer just because everyone is sorry.
But it does something.
24
Soren
DetectiveHugoentersmyshop like he's walking into a crime scene that hasn't happened yet, but he's already mourning the victims.
He's wearing that beige trench coat, the one that makes him look like a weary noir protagonist who lost his cigarettes and then took personal responsibility for the weather. He clutches a manila folder against his chest as if it's a shield against the biting plants and the general aura of impending doom I cultivate with care and excellent lighting. He looks like a man who's forgotten the taste of coffee that wasn't served in a Styrofoam cup, and whose only relationship with sleep is a series of brief, unfulfilling negotiations.
"Soren," he says, and the way he says it makes my skin itch. It's too soft. It's a verbal sigh. It's the sound of a man who's definitely written something embarrassing about my hair in the privacy of his own head and then hated himself for it. He says my name like it's a health hazard he's decided he's willing to contract.
"Detective," I snap, not looking up from the jar of pickled mandrake roots I'm currently organizing. The roots keep pressing their little pale fingers against the glass as if they can escape through persistence and poor manners. I'm wearing a silk robe that cost more than his monthly salary, and my hair is a deliberate masterpiece of calculated disarray. "You look like you've been personally victimized by a paperwork mountain. Or is it just the crushing weight of your own sincerity? Honestly, Hugo, the badge is crooked. It's ruining the aesthetic of my morning, and I haven't even had my third espresso."
Hugo flinches, just a little, but he doesn't leave. He never leaves. His crush is a persistent, low-grade fever he refuses to treat with common sense. He sets the folder on the counter, careful not to touch the puddle of shimmering, iridescent sap leaking from a nearby shelf. He knows the sap has a tendency to bond with human skin and turn it glassy if left too long, yet his eyes still flick to my hands with an expression that can only be described as hopelessly doomed.
"I need you to look at these," he says, his voice gravelly and tired. "The department won't touch them. They're calling them unexplained cardiac events, but the crime scene photos don't match the reports. Not even close. The medical examiner is looking at three different bodies and saying natural causes, Soren. In a twenty-four-hour period. Same zip code."
From the corner of my eye, I see Aven leaning against the far end of the counter. He's been working the front for three days, and he's already better at it than I ever was, which I'm pretending not to resent with the maturity of a man who absolutely resents it. He doesn't sneer at the tourists who want love potions that are actually just hibiscus tea and glitter. He smiles thinly, overcharges them, and somehow makes the whole process look like a public service instead of a slow spiritual death.
I hate him a little. Lovingly.
"Homework from the murder office?" Aven asks, his voice light but edged with that sarcasm he uses when he's watching too closely. He's polishing a brass scale, the rhythmic swish of his cloth almost gentle under the tension Hugo dragged in with him. "Did you bring enough for the whole class, or is Soren the only one allowed to see the gore? Because I've had a very long morning involving a woman who wanted a curse for her neighbor's cat, and I could use a distraction with actual stakes."
"It isn't gore," Hugo says, turning slightly toward him. He looks even more exhausted under the shop's flickering amber lights. "That's the problem. It's too clean. It's... clinical."
Cain, who's been pretending to care about a book in the velvet armchair near the window, stops turning the page. His attention moves to Hugo with polite, terrifying suspicion, his gaze lingering near the detective's throat for one fractional second before returning to the folder. Cain doesn't like humans in the inner sanctum, especially not ones who look at me like they're trying to memorize my soul.
Ira stands behind the counter, a massive, silent wall of tactical muscle. He doesn't say anything, but one shift of his weight makes the floorboards complain, and Hugo's shoulders tighten as if his body has only just realized how close the exit is and how far away safety has become. Ira doesn't have a crush. Ira has a target acquisition list, and Hugo is currently hovering near the top.
I snatch the folder and flip it open before the room can get any more aggressively masculine about one tired detective and his bad coat. My heart does a weird, jagged little dance in my chest as I look at the first photo. It's a man in his late twenties, slumped over a kitchen table with one hand still wrapped around a mug.
No blood. No struggle. No signs of the messy, frantic energy that usually follows a supernatural attack. When a ghoul rips someone open, there's an echo of terror left in the walls. When a vampire feeds, there's a biological trace, a hunger-mark, something the body remembers even after the predator is gone.
This has none of that. The kitchen is ordinary in the worst way: plate in the sink, chair angled slightly away from the table, pale morning light cutting through cheap blinds. There should be residue. Fear. Pain. Spirit-fray. Some bruise in the air where a life ended and didn't know how to leave all at once.
Instead, the photograph feels scrubbed.
I flip to the second victim, an older woman found in her garden. She's still holding her pruning shears. There's soil under her nails and no sign she raised a hand to defend herself. The third is a young woman in bed, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, hair falling across her face as if she turned in her sleep and simply never finished the movement. Three different rooms. Three different bodies. The same horrible absence.
"What am I looking for, Hugo?" I ask, my voice losing some of its bratty edge before I can stop it. "Because if you're looking for a monster with teeth, you're in the wrong shop. Predators leave a trail. Spilled essence, torn auras, ozone, rot, appetite. This isn't appetite."
"Look at the second page." Hugo leans over the counter, and I can smell cheap aftershave, old paper, and fear he's trying to file into something useful. "The residual readings. The techs said the equipment malfunctioned, but I saw the needles. They flatlined. Not just around the bodies. The rooms. Ambient magic, background radiation, whatever your people keep telling us we're imagining. Gone."
