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Gravel crunched beneath Morgan’s boots as he dismounted his bike, stashing it in an alley a block from his destination. Why Esotech had a vault down Ritten Street, the middle of the slums, was beyond him. The air reeked of piss and vomit. It was nowhere that any of the suit-wearing automatons in their high-rise offices would ever be seen alive. It was genius, he had to admit, hiding stolen valuables in the last place anyone would think to look.

Morgan snatched a single stone from the ground, placing it in his jeans pocket. He pulled a mobile device out of his jacket and threw up a hand, creating a ripple of magic to mute the space.

“Daph, I’m on site,” he said quietly, prowling down the sidewalk.

“You know how much easier it would be to walk you through a job if you would get a comm implant like the rest of the damn world?” a sassy female scolded over the line.

“Yeah, yeah. You remind me every time. You got a layout for me?”

“Sending it now.”

Morgan switched his phone to speaker and pulled up the files. “I’m a block from the entrance. What do you know?”

“You want the good news or the bad news?”

“Yes,” he snapped.

“Good news is the vault you’re looking for is a straight shot to the back of the building once you’re in.”

He paused for the bad news, knowing she was waiting for him to ask. “And?”

Daphne sighed. “The place has the highest-grade, anti-magic hardware on the market.”

Of course it did. They were hoarding magical artifacts here, making witches their biggest threat. If the rest of the world harbored a distrust of magickind, Esotech was the hypocritical, bigoted voice at the podium, spurning witches across the globe while coveting magic at the same time. “Guards?” he asked curtly.

A manual keyboard clacked away in the background. “Six in rotation, a dozen on-site.”

He chewed his lip, deciding how to get in without blasting the front door open. Even with anti-magic tech, the place wouldn’t withstand an assault, certainly not from him. “Any scheduled deliveries?” he asked, stopping in front of the outer wall of the vault. It was an unassuming place. Passersby likely mistook it for nothing more than a rental storage facility. He leaned against the wall, noting a camera that swiveled at the front gate, and he sidled back.

“One,” Daphne said, “Should be arriving any minute. It’s a Del-u-Lux shipment. Numbers are 5460-65.”

Morgan’s eyes glowed violet, and his leather jacket, jeans, and boots vanished beneath a glamour; A set of boring, tan coveralls with the Del-u-Lux logo on the back and a patch on the chest that read Carl, complete with a tan cap.

“I’m goin’ in. Fell out.” He tapped his phone and shoved it back into his pants. He approached the gate and pressed the buzzer, trying his best to look like a clueless delivery driver, putting his hands in his pockets and bobbing his head.

“Name?” a voice asked through a bit of static.

“Carl, with Del-u-Lux. Got a shipment,” Morgan said with a drawl on his lips.

A moment passed before the voice crackled back, “Don’t have any more shipments on my list tonight. You got a number for me, Carl?”

“5460-65,” he recited. Daphne didn’t give bad info. She was the best damn cipher in the city.

“Uh…” the guard called, “You lot are already here with that one. Your man just came in not five minutes ago.”

“Yeah... right,” Morgan said, trying to pull something out of his ass, “The dit left half the shipment behind. Had to hop in another truck and follow.”

He heard laughter from the speaker. “Sounds about on par for your people. Hold on.”

A minute later the gate slid open with a buzz, and he sighed in relief. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had jobs go sideways and had to rip the place apart before. What he really feared was Daphne’s lecture that came after, so, for her sake, he tried to run a clean gig. For the most part.

He walked casually to the entrance; an open, cement entryway with a bulletproof window built in at the guard post. As he drew closer, he spotted a figure wearing the same outfit he had glamoured. He readied his magic to spell the real driver into agreeing with anything he said. The driver turned to him as he approached, and Morgan’s nostrils flared.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he snarled under his breath.

The driver was about his age—rather the age he appeared to be. He had a dark, scraggy beard that was unevenly trimmed. His brown hair and eyes peeked out from under his hat. He might be considered attractive if Morgan hadn’t entirely loathed the man.

Shane fucking McMillan.

Shane was what the occult community called a spellhound—a dog begging for scraps of power—a common obsessed with magic that stuck his nose into occult business far too frequently, causing problems that witches had to pick up after. And Shane had a penchant for running poorly thought-out jobs, somehow constantly mucking up Morgan’s plans.

“Oh, hey Carl!” Shane said, taking note of the patch on Morgan’s chest, “I was just telling uh... Ferguson here that the crates are too big for the front dock, ya know? About how they’ll only fit in the back.”

The large man behind the desk seemed thoroughly annoyed, and Morgan sympathized. “And I told you that only authorized personnel are permitted in the back loading area.”

Shane flinched at the statement, a grin spreading along his lips as he looked back to Morgan. “Good advice for life too, huh?”

Morgan grimaced at the joke, turning to the guard with a smile. “I’m sure we’re authorized, aren’t we?” he said as his eyes flashed purple.

The guard stared for a moment, blinking. “Um, no, you’re not. Look pal, I’m sure that pretty smile goes a long way with some of the other fellas in the city, but I’m not letting you back there. You can drop your shipment off at the front dock like everyone else and we will handle it.”

Morgan groaned. The guards were warded—hidden markings beneath the skin to repel magic—which meant his only subtle way in just went up in smoke. He might’ve been able to talk his way through the front gate, but getting through any high-security doors was going to take some persuasion magic. He huffed a sigh, pulled a sleek revolver from beneath his glamour, the air rippling again so no one would hear the shot, and fired into the guard’s shoulder, knocking him out of his chair.

Shane leapt back. “What the shit, Morgan? Are you out of your damn mind?”

Morgan grabbed Shane by the front of his shirt. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Shane shrugged, unfazed by his temper at this point in their relationship. “Same as you, probably.”

Morgan growled, reaching for his phone as his glamour vanished. He was five minutes into the job, and he already had to piss Daphne off. The guard stood to his feet, and Shane pulled out a pistol that Morgan immediately knocked from his hand.

“Dude!” Shane yelled.

“Already? Seriously?” Daphne scoffed over the line.

“Guards are warded, had to use a bullet. Should be in momentarily, but things could get messy,” Morgan said, watching the guard poke at their keyboard with a blank face.

Daphne sighed. “I’ll start wiping the cams. No one’s reached out to ECPD yet and it looks like they’ve got a rift in progress tying them up. I’ll block any outgoing calls from the building.”

“You’re a goddess, you know that?” Morgan cooed.

“Uh huh,” she droned, “Is that fucking McMillan I see?”

“Where else would he be but on my last nerve?” Morgan shot the man a glance, Shane immediately preoccupying his eyes with what the guard was doing, looking anywhere but at him.

“Just get your damn book and get out of there. Shoot him if he gets in your way,” Daphne snapped, ending the call.

The building powered down, leaving red emergency lights as the only illumination. Ferguson held out his badge from across the counter and Morgan snatched it, making for the door ahead.

The second he stepped through, three guards came running down a metal-plated hall that was lined with doors from one end to the other. Morgan fired another bullet into the nearest guard’s arm. The guard turned on those behind him, tasing another and dropping them to the ground before wrapping the last one in a choke hold.

“Go home, Shane,” Morgan called over his shoulder.

“What in the hells did you do to them?” Shane asked, following him as the guard with an arm around his throat slumped to the floor.

The guard Morgan had shot stood there in a daze.

Morgan rounded on Shane in the middle of the hall. “Go. Home.”

“I... I can’t,” he stammered as he rubbed the back of his neck, causing his shirt collar to move.

Morgan noticed a series of angry red lines on his skin and snatched the collar to pull it aside.

“Wha- hey!” Shane whined.

An obligation hex. One toe in the opposite direction of the given objective, and he’d drop dead, probably in a painful manner. He shot Shane a look of furious annoyance. “Who the hells did you piss off?”

Shane blushed crimson, mumbling, “Uh... Hawthorne.”

Morgan closed his eyes, inhaling deeply at the name of the head of the Occult Council, a woman who knew far more about him than she let on. “How? How are you still breathing with the shit you pull? Seriously? Hawthorne?” He stalked away from the man, trying not to give a damn.

“I got played, okay? I know I fucked up, just—Morgan, please help me,” Shane called after him in a desperate plea.

Morgan paused, sighing and clenching his eyes tight.

Fuck.

Something in the man’s voice sparked pity in his gut. Pity for a guy who had been nothing but a pain in his ass for years now. Morgan thought hard over a pounding that now echoed through the hall as the guards beyond the locked doors hammered against them.

“If you screw this up-” He turned back to Shane, getting in his face. “If absolutely anything goes wrong because of you, I swear to every single god that ever was or will be, Shane McMillan, I will make that thing on your neck look like a fucking glitter bomb.”

“You’re the boss.” Shane nodded. “Thank you.”

“Shut up.” Morgan moved toward the farthest door, Shane in tow. “There are still two guards in rotation, the rest are locked in these rooms. No killing.” He added as Shane rolled up his sleeves to fiddle with the implants in his arms; a pair of wrist blades that Morgan had only seen him use on one occasion that had ended very bloody.

“Says the guy that shot two of them,” Shane sniped from behind, pulling his sleeves back down.

“They were hex bullets. You think I didn’t try the easy way?” Morgan growled, “I missed their vitals. They’ll do anything I think when I fire, but we’ve got about ten minutes until they get their heads back.”

“Whoa...” Shane whispered, “How does that work?”

Morgan blew a puff of air through his lips. That was a secret he wouldn’t even share with Daphne. He wasn’t about to tell Etna City’s biggest nuisance of a hound.

A shot rang out down the hall, and Morgan reacted on instinct, throwing up a shield of violet light with a thrust of his arm. Pain ripped through his right thigh, and he roared, grabbing Shane to pull him back against the wall.

“Cover me!” he yelled, grasping his leg as red blossomed across his jeans, “Of course they have magic piercing rounds. What stupid common would try to break in here?”

Shane made an indignant noise in his throat somewhere beyond the sound of gunfire, holding a pistol in each hand and firing down the hall while the remaining guards took cover behind the corners. Morgan clenched the muscles in his hand, fingers spread wide above the wound. His palm glowed, drawing the bullet out as more blood poured from his leg. The bullet clattered to the floor, he reshaped his hand into a fist, forcing the skin to knit itself together, and the blood flow ceased.

Morgan turned toward the guards. He threw his hands out on either side of the hall with a growl, and the metal paneling came screeching off, barricading the intersection of the corridor to trap their assailants. His eyes shined bright, and the edges of the metal glowed hot, fusing with the panels on the far wall. Loud thudding filled the space from beyond the barricade as Morgan got to his feet, grabbing Shane’s outstretched hand for balance.

“Hecate’s tits.”Shane gawked at Morgan’s handiwork, scanning his leg and the makeshift barriers.

Morgan gave him a sideways glance at the phrase as he moved toward the door.

“Sorry... if you’re a fan of hers,” Shane muttered.

“Nope. Never got along. She had a habit of showing up as The Crone to scold me.” He grabbed the badge from inside his jacket, ignoring the look of wonder Shane was giving him. “What does Theresa need you to get?”

“Uh... big book. Black leather, purple stone on the front.”

Morgan shut his eyes with a low growl as they reached the door. He swiped the badge, and the lock changed from red to green. “She say why?”

“No. Only that it was important. You know it?” His voice echoed as they stepped into a large storage space with a cement floor.

“Yeah.” Morgan sighed heavily as he scanned the room, both with his eyes and his magic. “It’s mine.”

“Oh. Shit,” Shane whispered, “Wait, like yours yours? Like it’s your-”

“My grimoire.”

Shane eyed him in disbelief. “No way. She said these books are older than dirt, like thousands of years old.”

Morgan remained silent. The last thing he wanted was Shane McMillan having any inkling of who he really was so he could go and sell the information to the highest bidder. Although his alter rune would protect him from almost anyone attaining that knowledge, if he said it outright or confirmed it in any way, his secret became forfeit.

Crates upon crates were stacked throughout the area, lining high shelves that rose to the ceiling. There was so much magic in this room. It was like trying to find a single droplet of water inside a cloud. Shane walked the perimeter, running his hand along the edges of the crates, sending dust into the air.

“You get yourself blown up touching the wrong thing and I am not putting you back together,” Morgan called to him, sparing a glance over his shoulder, “You know what? Touch whatever you like.”

Shane shot him a devious look from across the way, wagging his brows. It wasn’t the first time Shane had tried to flirt with him. The man would probably fuck anything that acknowledged his existence.

Morgan rolled his eyes with a huff, returning to his search. “That will most assuredly end with your body parts scattered across the room.”

Shane turned back to the crates with a snort. Morgan reached out, trying to feel his own power among the energy in the room. If he focused just right, he could almost see the various colors of the spellwork hidden here. Most witches gave off an aura of a dull, white light when they cast, but witches of a certain caliber had an identifying hue, such as his own violet magic.

Many people believed it was an indication of the witch’s heart—colors like his being signs of shadows and secrets, and colors like his apprentice’s golden magic to be a sign of purity and benevolence. Morgan knew better. Even some commons had various auras, but it was silly superstition to think they were anything other than chance and signs of magical affinity. After all, his magic had been violet since he was a boy.

You weren’t that much of an asshole from birth, right?

A hint of familiar power caught his attention for no more than an instant when the sounds of weapons being primed demanded his focus. Morgan whirled back toward the entrance of the vault. While he had been distracted by his search, a team of five hired guns had silently entered the room, all armored in black riot gear marked with the Esotech logo—a creepy eye with a gear in place of the iris—and all with weapons aimed at his chest. Shane took a step forward, pistols drawn, and two of the men turned their sights on him. He growled in his throat, lowering his weapons.

“That one so much as twitches, kill him.” The merc in the center nodded at Shane. While the others all held assault weapons, the one that spoke raised a single handgun ahead of them, the other hand tucked behind their back. “The board would like a word, Fell.”

Morgan crossed his arms, grinning wickedly as he sensed the object they were trying to conceal. “Surely there’s an easier way to contact me than holding something of mine hostage? You are aware that the unlawful possession of a witch’s spell book is subject to severe punishment by the Occult Council, are you not?”

The mercs laughed like morons, casting glances at one another as the man revealed the large leather-bound tome. “You’re trying to tell me this grungy, old thing is rightfully yours? Please. The witches that owned everything in this room have been dead for centuries. You’re just some underworld scum out to gank more power.”

Morgan whispered carefully, spelling his words to reach only Shane, “Hold on to something.”

Shane’s eyes bulged in the corner of Morgan’s vision.

One of the gunmen took a step forward. “He’s using magic! I saw his lips move!”

“Not another word, Fell! You’re coming with us!” Another merc pulled out a pair of cuffs. Iron cuffs meant to bind a witch’s power. “Now move!”

Morgan’s laughter echoed through the vault, menacing and maniacal, causing the mercenaries to back up in fear. “Fucking imbeciles,” he hissed, “How many witches have you met in your pathetic lifetimes?”

Shane quickly tucked his guns into his belt, pacing backward while the men were fixed on Morgan to clutch a nearby support beam.

“I could end you with a singlethought,” Morgan hissed, “I don’t need words.”

The grimoire in the merc’s hand spontaneously wrenched itself free, flying upwards. The Esotech mercenaries stared as the book went soaring, and the air in the room grew thick with its descent—a swell before the storm.

The gunmen yelled to one another in panic. A spray of bullets froze in the air between them and Morgan, his eyes shining violet. His shields may be ineffective, but he could still change the density of the space that separated them. He found the look on their faces wildly satisfying, laughing again as his grimoire halted in midair before him.

It burst open with a snap like lightning, pages flying. Magic that had lingered within his tome for seventeen centuries while he slept—building with every passing year like the flavors of a fine wine left forgotten—pulsed across the room. The mercenaries went careening backward from the blast. Energy crackled from the grimoire in arched bolts, shattering the overhead lights in a shower of sparks.

Time seemed to slow. Morgan’s amusement faded as a voice echoed in his mind; a voice distinctly beyond those in the room.

“Fy cariad…”

Someone was calling to him. Someone whispered in his ear. It was soothing, a sweet melody on the wind. It sparked longing in his chest. It threatened to want him, to love him and make him whole. It was distant; familiar but forgotten. It was a word on the tip of his tongue. It was sand slipping through his fingers.

It was gone.

Morgan came back to himself with a start as the mercenaries shouted from the floor. He snatched the book from the air, snapping the cover shut to tuck it beneath his arm. He wheeled around in the darkness, grabbing Shane by the elbow with one hand as he reached for the stone in his pocket with the other. With a twist of the stone in his palm, the dark vault vanished.

Shane gasped, leaning against the brick wall of the alley where Morgan’s bike was stashed away. “What the hells was that?”

“Short teleport. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it would work. Never taken a common that far before,” Morgan droned as his phone vibrated in his pocket.

“I know how anchors work, Morgan. That’s not what I meant! Wait... what do you mean you weren’t sure it would work?”

Morgan offered him a shrug, answering the call.

“Morgan, what in the seven circles did you do?” Daphne yelled from his phone, “Half the city just lost power!”

Morgan glanced around. It was certainly much darker than it had been. “Oh, shit.”

“Uh, ya think?” Daphne continued yelling, “Get your ass back here, now! Every available squad car in the area is heading for the center of that blast!”

“On my way.”

Morgan lowered the phone to end the call as Daphne shouted, “And bring McMillan! They’re taking anyone they find near that building! Or don’t! Whatever!”

He pocketed the phone and turned to Shane, still breathing heavily against the wall.

Shane took one look at Morgan and leapt away. “Holy fuck! What’s wrong with your eyes?”

Morgan took a step back at the question, touching his fingertips to his face. “What?”

“Dude, they’re black! Like... solid black!”