I really shouldn’t have expected my plan to survive contact with the enemy.

Or my luck to hold.

At least I’d been right about one thing—they wanted me to stop poking around. Nadali had decided interference required correction.

I’d just assumed the correction would glow.

Instead, it carried brass knuckles.

Guess he didn’t think I was dangerous enough to warrant the big guns.

That stung a little.

Four armed thugs. Magical reserves running low. My back inches from the Wizard-Mobile.

I flexed my fingers once and let my shoulders loosen.

I was really hoping Nadali was wrong.

The thugs didn’t say anything.

I suspected they weren’t paid to talk. Or think.

Shame. I enjoy banter. Banter buys time. Time buys plans.

Tire Iron Tim—because I name my problems, it helps—came in first.

I would love to tell you I moved with calm resolve and disciplined martial grace.

I did not.

I scrambled sideways like a raccoon avoiding traffic. The tire iron whistled past my head and detonated the Wizard-Mobile’s side mirror instead.

Plastic exploded.

Glass tinkled to the asphalt.

“Hey! Watch the van!” I snapped, because apparently property damage offends me more than attempted murder.

My hand found the lightning rod.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the rod is an excellent magical focus.

But more importantly?

It’s an iron-and-copper baton.

And when you’re low on magic and being ganged up on by four men who look like they eat scrap metal and excrete construction materials, that matters.

Tire Iron Tim recovered fast. Two-handed grip. Overhead strike coming down like he meant to split kindling.

I stepped inside his reach.

That part at least was deliberate.

I swung low and hard.

The rod connected with the back of his knee.

There’s a very specific sound when iron meets joint at speed.

It’s not cinematic.

It’s ugly.

Tim folded with a grunt that suggested his evening plans had just been canceled indefinitely.

One down.

Three very motivated idiots to go.

It dawned on me, as Tire Iron Tim collapsed into a pile of regret, that he’d been the sacrificial lamb.

He rushed.

He swung.

He went down.

And while I’d like to pretend that was tactical brilliance, it was really just opportunism with decent timing.

The other three?

Brass Knuckle Bob.

Two-by-Four Tom.

And Ned the Knife.

Yes, I name my attackers. It helps me focus. Also, if I survive, I like to remember who to bill for emotional damages.

They did not rush in one at a time.

They fanned.

That’s when I knew they weren’t just random idiots pulled off a sidewalk. Someone had at least told them, “Don’t be stupid.”

Brass Knuckle Bob shifted left, shoulders tight, eyes locked on my hands.

Two-by-Four Tom angled right, weapon low, ready to swing horizontal instead of vertical this time.

Ned the Knife?

Ned hung back.

Which is exactly what you never want the knife guy to do.

A fair fight is dangerous enough.

Three-to-one odds?

Those are the kind of numbers that end up on hospital paperwork.

I adjusted my grip on the lightning rod and felt the faint hum of the glyphs in my pockets.

Paper shields against elementals.

Absolutely useless against idiots with bad decision-making skills.

I did the math.

I did not like the projected outcomes.

I didn’t have much magic left.

What I did have on me was mostly tuned for ghosts, spirits, fae, the usual “ethereal nuisance with attitude” category of problems. I don’t make a habit of carrying anti-personnel enchantments. That’s how you end up explaining yourself in court—mundane or magical.

The lightning rod gave me reach.

Reach mattered.

Against three men who looked like they’d done this before, reach might mean half a damn.

I kept one eye on the trio and one on Tire Iron Tim, who was groaning and clutching his knee but not out of the fight. Adrenaline is a miracle drug. So is stubbornness. I had no illusions about how fast he might get back up.

Brass Knuckle Bob rolled his shoulders.

Two-by-Four Tom adjusted his grip.

Ned the Knife stayed loose, blade low, patient.

Knife guys are always patient.

I shifted my stance, rod angled forward, tip slightly down. Not fencing. Not baseball. Somewhere in between.

“You boys waiting for something?” I asked, tightening my grip.

In my head, it sounded cool.

In reality, it probably sounded like a man who very much did not want to be facing three armed professionals in a parking lot.

Bob grinned first.

Then they moved.

Then I moved.

Or rather, my hand did.

I didn’t have much juice left, but I didn’t need overwhelming force. I needed disruption. Seconds. Confusion.

I wasn’t going to win this fight.

And I’m not arrogant enough to pretend otherwise.

Daze. Disorient. Disarm. Run.

That was the plan now.

My left hand snapped up in a tight, economical gesture. No flourish. No chanting. Just a clipped syllable of power—utility magic, not combat-grade. The kind of thing you use to find keys in the dark.

I repurposed it.

The air in front of them detonated in a sudden white flash—brighter than a camera strobe, sharper than headlights.

Brass Knuckle Bob flinched hard.

Two-by-Four Tom recoiled, eyes squeezing shut.

Ned cursed and jerked his head aside.

Not blinded.

Just startled.

That was enough.

I stepped in before the afterimage faded and swung low.

The rod cracked against Two-by-Four Tom’s fingers.

Wood clattered to asphalt.

Tom howled and stumbled back, clutching his hand.

Good.

One weapon down.

Which left two.

Bob recovered fast—too fast—and lunged, brass knuckles aimed straight for my face.

I barely got the rod up in time.

Metal rang against metal.

The impact rattled up my arm like a live wire.

And Ned?

Ned finally committed.

Knife coming in from my blind side.

And that’s when things got bad.

I am, regrettably, stupid enough to fight without armor.

Fortunately, magic has a long and deeply paranoid history of wards against being disemboweled.

Most of mine are tuned for claws. Fangs. The icy, invasive touch of things that crawl out of graves with unfinished business.

But claws and fangs?

They overlap nicely with knives.

Ned’s blade came in fast—low, efficient, aimed for my ribs.

I felt it hit.

There’s a very specific sensation when steel meets warded air. Not resistance. Not quite. More like the blade hesitating, dragging through something thicker than it should be.

The ward flared—subtle, invisible, but I felt the drain as it caught the strike.

Instead of plunging into my side, the knife bit shallow.

Pain bloomed hot and immediate.

But it wasn’t the deep, catastrophic kind.

Not the kind that spills you open and leaves you trying to remember how lungs work while your blood negotiates its exit strategy.

Ned had meant to gut me.

He got a flesh wound.

I staggered anyway. Because shallow still hurts like hell.

And because three-on-one means someone is always mid-swing while you’re congratulating yourself for not dying.

Bob’s brass knuckles clipped my shoulder as I twisted.

Something popped.

Not broken.

But loudly unhappy.

I gritted my teeth.

I pivoted and snapped my free hand toward Ned, bleeding what little magic I had left into the gesture.

Not a battlefield curse. Not something that rots bones or twists fate.

Just a compact little ball of bad luck.

It struck him square in the chest and sank in—latent, waiting for a trigger.

Bob came in again.

I lashed out with a boot aimed for the breadbasket, but he pulled back instinctively. My foot sliced through air.

Tom was already reaching for the dropped two-by-four.

Tim was forcing himself upright, rage and adrenaline overriding the fact that I’d tried to fold his leg like cheap furniture.

My window was closing.

Fast.

I jammed my left hand into my coat pocket and found the telekinetic wand.

Suddenly, I was very glad I’d paid through the nose for it.

I shoved what remained of my reserves into the wand and thrust it toward the van.

The door exploded open with telekinetic force.

Hard.

Tim was halfway up and perfectly positioned to have a very bad evening.

The van door caught him clean in the side of the head.

There’s a hollow, meaty sound when skull meets steel with enthusiasm.

Tim dropped again—this time with fewer teeth and less ambition.

I didn’t admire the work.

I ran.

Ned moved to intercept.

Under normal circumstances, charging the knife guy is how you become a cautionary tale.

But under normal circumstances, Ned wouldn’t have a bad luck hex sitting on his sternum like an unpaid debt.

I took the gamble.

He lunged.

And that’s when his luck ran out.

As an aside—because my brain does this even mid-brawl—I almost wished they had guns.

Weird, I know.

But hear me out.

Hexes work far better on complex systems.

The more moving parts something has, the more places bad luck can wedge itself.

Guns? Beautifully vulnerable. Springs. Pins. Pressure. Alignment. Timing. A dozen tiny mechanical promises that all have to go right at once.

I can make a firearm sputter, jam, misalign, or backfire with alarming efficiency.

A knife?

It’s a sharpened piece of metal.

At best, I dull the edge. Maybe make the grip slip.

Not inspiring.

That’s why I hexed Ned, not the blade.

People have more vectors.

Balance. Vision. Grip. Footing. Muscle memory. Timing.

The universe has options when it comes to ruining a person’s day.

And right on cue—

As Tim went down from the van door, his leg jerked outward in a spasm of pain and poor dental fortune.

Directly into Ned’s path.

Ned lunged.

His boot caught Tim’s ankle.

Momentum did the rest.

He pitched forward, knife arm flailing, and instead of gutting me, he slammed shoulder-first into the asphalt with a curse and a spray of gravel.

The blade skittered out of his hand and clanged uselessly under the van.

Bad luck isn’t dramatic.

It’s inconvenient.

And inconvenient at the wrong moment is devastating.

I didn’t waste the gift.

I stepped past him and ran.

Not that I ran far.

I ran far enough.

I dove into the Wizard-Mobile and yanked the door shut just as Brass Knuckle Bob reached me.

His fist connected with the driver’s side window.

CRACK.

The sound was loud, sharp, final.

A spiderweb of fractures bloomed across the glass inches from my face.

“Oh come on!” I snapped. “I have to pay to fix that!”

Bob snarled and hit it again.

The window held—barely. Safety glass flexing under strain, cracks deepening like frost patterns.

Tom recovered behind him, two-by-four back in hand.

Ned was scrambling to his feet, knife somewhere under the van and temper rising.

Key.

Key!

Why is it always the key when you need it most?

I jammed it into the ignition and twisted.

The engine coughed.

Not now.

“Don’t you dare,” I muttered at the van like it had emotional context.

Bob’s third punch dented the frame.

The engine caught.

Bless internal combustion.

I slammed the transmission into drive and stomped the gas.

The Wizard-Mobile lurched forward.

Bob barely cleared the hood, slapping metal as I surged past.

Tom swung the two-by-four in a last desperate arc and clipped the rear panel with a hollow thud.

Then I was out of the parking space and tearing toward the exit.

In the rearview—what was left of it—I saw them regrouping.

Not panicking.

Not scattering.

Watching.

That was worse.

Because it meant this wasn’t random.

This was a message.

And I’d just declined to receive it.

I drove.

Fast at first.

Then just fast enough.

When the adrenaline began to thin, the inventory started.

Shoulder—bruised.

Ribs—angry but intact.

Side—

Yeah.

That one.

I glanced down and saw it properly for the first time. My shirt and coat were stained dark, blood seeping through fabric in a way that always looks worse than it is.

Thankfully, it was worse-looking.

Not worse.

A flesh wound.

A shallow slice that still burned like hell.

My warding amulet had done its job. It had turned what should have been a deep, invasive puncture into something survivable.

I let out a long breath and pulled over once I was confident four men on foot weren’t going to materialize out of the night like a low-budget horror sequel.

Engine idling.

Street quiet.

I peeled off my jacket and shirt with a hiss between my teeth.

The cut was red, angry, but not catastrophic.

“It’s not that bad,” I muttered.

This is something people say right before realizing it is, in fact, that bad.

But in this case?

It genuinely could have been worse.

I reached into the dash compartment and pulled out a plastic pop bottle—label long since removed and replaced with careful warding sigils.

Emergency potion storage.

You don’t survive long in my line of work without keeping a few unpleasant surprises within arm’s reach.

The liquid inside was a murky green-brown sludge that looked like regret in fluid form.

Yarrow.

St. John’s Wort.

Comfrey.

Medicinal as hell.

Excellent for knitting flesh, staunching bleeding, and discouraging infection.

It also tasted like someone had boiled a meadow and then filtered it through despair.

I twisted the cap off.

“No whining,” I told myself.

Then I took a long pull.

It was vile.

It burned on the way down and then bloomed warm in my gut, spreading outward with a slow, deliberate hum.

The cut tingled.

Then throbbed.

Then began to knit.

Not instantly. Not dramatically.

But steadily.

I leaned back against the seat, breathing through the aftertaste.

Alive.

Stung.

But alive.

Nadali had sent a message.

And I’d survived the punctuation.

Now I needed to decide how I was going to answer it.

It was almost peaceful for a moment.

Painful.

But peaceful.

The potion was doing its slow, unpleasant miracle. My side throbbed in rhythm with my pulse, the bleeding tapering off under the herbal hum settling into my system.

I allowed myself three precious seconds of relief.

Then headlights stabbed through the dark.

Bright. Direct.

I squinted into them as a sedan rolled around the corner.

For one irrational heartbeat I told myself—

No.

It can’t be.

Maybe it was just someone taking a wrong turn.

Maybe it was a couple arguing.

Maybe it was literally anyone else.

The sedan didn’t slow.

Didn’t hesitate.

It angled.

Straight toward me.

My luck?

In rare, exquisite form tonight.

The car accelerated.

And I suddenly had a strong suspicion that four irate men with a professional interest in kneecaps were not finished delivering their message.

“Of course,” I muttered, twisting the key and slamming the van back into gear.

Because apparently the universe had decided I had not yet learned my lesson about parking lot optimism.

Let me tell you something about the Wizard-Mobile.

It is a 1986 Chevy Astro.

It was not engineered for agility.

It was not engineered for speed.

It was engineered to transport drywall, soccer equipment, or in my case, a suspicious volume of magical paraphernalia.

It is, however, large enough for a kick-ass mural.

Which is the primary reason I bought it.

But in that moment, aesthetics were not going to save me.

The sedan gunned its engine.

I could hear it over my own.

I said a brief, heartfelt prayer to whatever minor deities preside over vans, poor decisions, and vehicular combat.

Then I floored it.

The Astro responded with all the enthusiasm of a middle-aged dog being asked to fetch.

It moved.

Eventually.

The sedan did not “eventually.”

It lunged.

Shirtless. Bleeding. Half-healed. I gripped the wheel and felt the potion still humming through my system as headlights flooded my rearview.

They weren’t trying to scare me.

They were lining up a hit.

Take me off the road.

Drag me out.

Finish the punctuation.

The van rattled as I pushed it harder than its design specifications would recommend.

“Come on, come on,” I muttered, coaxing decades-old engineering into heroism.

The sedan closed distance.

And that’s when I realized—

This wasn’t going to be a clean getaway.

This was going to be a chase.

A chase.

That was not what I wanted.

I felt like a bull—

No. Bulls have horns.

Something softer. Less equipped.

A pig.

Yes. A lumbering, overfed pig being pursued by a very motivated cougar.

“Fantastic,” I muttered.

Thump.

The Wizard-Mobile lurched as the sedan kissed my rear bumper with violent intent.

The whole van shuddered.

I tightened my grip on the wheel and prayed that 1980s American steel was thicker than modern sedan enthusiasm.

If I couldn’t pull a miracle out of my trilby—and I was fresh out of miracles—then this was a durability contest.

I was not the lithe predator.

I was not the fleet-footed prey.

I was industrial livestock in a muraled brick.

The sedan hit me again.

Harder.

The bumper screamed.

“Okay,” I hissed. “We’re not doing that.”

I checked the road ahead.

Straight stretch.

Light traffic.

Streetlights.

Options?

Limited.

Magic?

Minimal.

Which meant this was about weight, angles, and nerve.

The sedan surged again, angling for a side swipe.

And I made a decision that future-me was absolutely going to complain about.

Toronto.

Somewhere between nine and “definitely later than nine.”

The kind of hour where side streets are mostly empty but not quite abandoned. Enough traffic to be inconvenient. Not enough to be helpful.

The sedan pulled up alongside me.

Close.

Too close.

I glanced over just long enough to confirm it.

They were moving to pass.

I almost smiled.

I could see the play.

Get ahead. Brake check me. Tap the bumper. Force a spin or stall. Box me in.

It wasn’t a bad plan.

If I had been faster.

If I had been panicking.

If I had still been thinking like prey.

But speed can make people arrogant.

And arrogance makes people predictable.

So I did something deeply counterintuitive.

I slowed down.

Not dramatically. Not enough to scream “trap.”

Just enough.

Enough to let the sedan feel superior.

Enough to let the driver think the old Astro was wheezing its last.

They surged ahead, engine growling, confident.

That was my moment.

The instant their rear quarter cleared my front bumper, I cranked the wheel hard and cut down a narrow side street without signaling.

The van protested.

Loudly.

Tires squealed.

The rear fishtailed for half a heartbeat before catching.

And as I disappeared into the dark grid of residential roads, I couldn’t help myself.

“So long, suckers!” I yelled, adrenaline making me braver than I had been five seconds ago.

In the rearview—what was left of it—headlights overshot the intersection.

Too fast to react.

By the time they corrected?

I was already gone.

“Tortoise and the hare, baby,” I said triumphantly, patting the dash like the Wizard-Mobile and I were co-conspirators instead of a man and his mechanically anxious brick.

From there, I leaned into my natural habitat.

Traffic.

Glorious, infuriating, sprawling Toronto gridlock.

I merged back into thicker streets, ducked through lanes, let red lights and congestion swallow me. They wouldn’t try anything bold surrounded by civilians and brake lights. Not with city police cruising nearby. Not with the risk of drawing RCMP attention if things escalated too loudly.

Mob tactics rely on shadows.

Not honking commuters.

The adrenaline finally began to ebb as I settled into the flow of cars. My hands were still tight on the wheel, but my breathing evened out. I lifted the bottle again and finished the rest of the potion with a grimace.

Warmth spread through my side.

The cut tightened.

Pain dulled from sharp to manageable.

Home.

That was the objective now.

Blackwell Manor.

Wards layered into brick and beam. Tools within reach. Time to think instead of react.

Because this wasn’t over.

Nadali knew I knew.

He knew I’d connected him to Bailey’s shop.

And that meant escalation was still on the table.

Would he target Bailey again?

It seemed inefficient.

Unnecessary.

But I wasn’t ready to rule it out.

Nadali didn’t strike me as an honorable kind of dirtbag.

And men who build protection rackets rarely respect lines once they’ve started crossing them.