Page 43 of Impawssible Magic

Every time she moves overhead, I track the sound—floorboard creak near the dresser, softer steps toward the bathroom, the groan of bedsprings when she settles. Every time she laughs at something during the day—that sharp, surprised sound like she’s startled by her own amusement—my chest clenches. Every time her scent drifts down from upstairs—warm and sweet and entirely her—I have to grip the edge of the couch to keep from going to her.

Last night was the worst. Another nightmare—her voice saying something that might have been my name or might have been Shadow. I made it halfway to her door again before I caught myself.

She quieted on her own. Neither of us mentioned it this morning.

This isn’t professional. I know it. I’m counting floorboard creaks.

“You’re staring at the ceiling like it kicked your dog.”

I turn my head. Leire is standing at the bottom of the stairs, wrapped in a robe that’s seen better days, hair a tangled mess around her shoulders. No makeup. Shadows under her eyes that match my own. There’s a crease on her cheek from her pillow, and her feet are bare on the cold floor.

She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The thought catches me off guard. I’ve noticed she’s attractive—I’m not blind, and something in me has been very vocal on the subject. But this is different. This is soft-morning-light-and-messy-hair and I want to wake up to this every day for the rest of my life. It’s a dangerous thought. The kind of thought that got me destroyed five years ago.

“The ceiling knows what it did.”

She gives a barely there grin. “Coffee?”

“Already made it.”

She takes the cup I hold out without comment, and we settle into our now-familiar silence while the shop warms up around us.

“I need to go to Thornveil today.” She settles into the chair across from me, one leg tucked beneath her. “Anouk has supplies I ordered. Protection ingredients—I want to strengthen my personal wards.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to shadow me everywhere.”

“Yes. I do.”

She opens her mouth—to argue, probably. I know that look. The stubborn set of her jaw, the flash in her green eyes. But she closes it. Takes a sip of coffee instead, studying me over the rim of her cup. “Fine. But you’re carrying the bags.”

“Wouldn’t dream of making you lift anything heavier than a crystal.”

“I’ll have you know some of my crystals are very heavy.” She’s fighting a smile. “Some of them could definitely be used as weapons. The big smoky quartz in the back? That thing could take out a werewolf.”

“I’ve seen you wield a quartz point. I believe it.”

The smile breaks through. Small, genuine, lighting up her whole face like sunrise over the mountains.

I’m in so much trouble.

Thornveil Apothecary sits in the heart of The Hollow, a narrow building squeezed between Eternal Flame Candles and Second Chances, the consignment shop run by the town’s oldest ghost. The smell hits me the moment we step inside: a hundred herbs layered over each other, sharp and green and ancient. Dried bundles hang from the rafters. Jars line every surface, their contents ranging from mundane (lavender) to questionable (something that’s definitely still moving).

Anouk Darkwater looks up from behind the counter. Dark hair pulled back severely, dark eyes assessing everything in a single glance. She’s the coven leader—has been for eight years—and she carries the authority like a second skin. Most shifters find her intimidating. I find her competent, which is better.

But when she sees Leire, something softens. Just slightly. The sharp edges ease.

“Your order is ready.” She disappears into the back room, returning with a wrapped package tied in twine. “Extra mugwort, as requested. And I added some black salt—you’ll want it for the perimeter work.”

“Thank you.” Leire reaches for her wallet, but Anouk waves her off.

“Consider it a coven gift. We look after our own.” Her gaze flicks to me. Assessing. Knowing. “Though it seems you have additional protection these days.”

I don’t answer. Anouk’s eyebrow rises—she’s known me long enough to read the silence.

We leave with the package tucked under my arm. The afternoon sun filters through the mist, casting everything in soft gold. The streets are busy—market day. Witches haggling over herbs at corner stalls. A selkie selling jewelry near the fountain, her wares catching light in impossible ways. Children running through the crowd, some in half-shifted forms—a wolf pup chasing his human sister, a kitten that’s definitely someone’s familiar yelling instructions from her witch’s shoulder.