Page 9 of Mane Brew

“And meanwhile, she was coordinating an organization dedicated to destroying witch-shifter partnerships.”

“Meanwhile.” Zeph pushes off from the doorframe and moves to stand beside me at the workbench. Too close. Her shoulder nearly brushes mine, and the scent of her magic—hops and wildflowers and living heat—floods my awareness in ways I refuse to acknowledge. “What I don’t understand is why me. Why my brewery.”

“Your magic is transformative.” The words come out more clinical than intended. Professional. Detached. “Brewing magic works with living processes—fermentation, growth, change. It’s inherently unpredictable.”

“Thank you for noticing.”

I turn back to the ingredient jars, forcing my attention to the task at hand. “Transformative magic is difficult to weaponize because of that unpredictability. But if someone wanted to test destabilization techniques—to learn how to disrupt living magic specifically—your brewery would be an ideal laboratory.”

“A laboratory.” She’s quiet for a moment. “They used me as a test subject.”

“Possibly.” I pull down another jar—labeled in her chaotic handwriting that I can’t quite decipher. “The hallucinations were a side effect. Whatever they were trying to accomplish, visions of pre-Severing history weren’t the primary goal.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the visions weren’t targeted. Everyone who drank the beer experienced the same thing. If the Preservers wanted to show people a specific message, they would have been more selective.” I turn the jar in my hands, examining the contents. “They were testing delivery mechanisms. Learning how your magic responds to interference.”

“So they can do worse later.”

“So they can do more precise work later.” I set the jar down and make a note on my clipboard. “This was reconnaissance. The real attack hasn’t happened yet.”

She doesn’t respond immediately. When I look up, she’s staring at the copper tanks with an expression I can’t quite categorize. Not fear—Zeph Grimwood doesn’t seem capable of fear. Determination, maybe, wrapped in frustration.

“My magic’s been unstable since Havoc died.” The admission comes out quiet, stripped of her usual volume. “I’ve been telling everyone it’s intentional experimentation, but the truth is, I can’t always control what the brews do. If someone wanted to exploit that⁠—”

“They’d have an opportunity.”

Her head snaps toward me. “That’s surprisingly diplomatic phrasing.”

“I’m not here to be diplomatic. I’m here to document the threat and develop countermeasures.” I hold her gaze, refusing to look away. “Your magic being unstable doesn’t make this your fault. It makes you a target. Those are very different things.”

The defensive edge in her expression softens, just slightly.

“That almost sounded like reassurance.”

“It was observation. The reassurance is implied.”

She laughs—a short, surprised sound. Her eyes catch the light, shifting between amber and green—a tell I file away before I can stop myself.

We work in uncomfortable proximity for the next two hours.

She won’t let me examine her ingredient stores alone—insists on being present for every jar, every vial, every chaotically labeled container. Her organizational system defies all logic. Ingredients grouped by color in some sections, by harvest moon phase in others, by what she calls “vibrational compatibility” in still others. Despite my earlier effort to assist her, it was to no avail.

“This makes no sense.”

“It makes perfect sense to me.”

“That’s not a recommendation.”

She snorts. “Your filing system probably has a filing system. Doesn’t mean it’s the only way to organize things.”

“My filing system is logical. Yours is—” I search for a professional term and fail to find one. “—intuitive.”

“Intuitive.” She considers the word, rolling it around like she’s tasting it. “I’ll take that.”

“That wasn’t⁠—”

“A compliment. I know.” She reaches past me to grab a jar from the top shelf, her arm brushing against my shoulder. The contact is brief, incidental, and I refuse to acknowledge how it makes my skin feel like it’s been touched by fire. “This one’s the black cohosh. I keep it next to the moonflower because they don’t like being separated.”