He hesitated for a moment, then drew the shotgun from its back scabbard, and racked the slide. She notes the traces of magic that linger on the weapon. Enchanted, but not of her own making…but his. An eyebrow rose, "Where did you get that? And what are you doing with that?"
"Self-crafted and tested. And… protection?" he answered, staring at the living water in the silvered basin.
"'I'm scrying! Not summoning!" she protested.
"And things can come through the visual medium," he said, "And.. things have. Remember?"
"That's why I'm using water instead of a mirror!" She sighed, "It's less accurate, but nothing can come through." Her hands wove intricate patterns over the still waters of the basin.
He shrugged, "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather be prepared, than dead." Then smiles, gently, almost indulgently, "I've got someone, that I love, that I want to - have to - protect."
"Fine," she smiles, a slight blush tinged her cheeks.
The sense of warmth, of a quiet laughter radiated through, complete with a thought that came from neither of them, "A blossoming new love. How…magical."
"Shut up Neroghan!" they chorused. There was good natured laughter, something felt, not heard or seen. But warm and approving. It faded smoothly into the background, respectfully distant yet still close at hand, as warm and protective as Liam himself.
Seraphine pulled out a silver dagger, its blade so fine it seemed to catch the light oddly, and sliced the tip of her finger. A single drop of blood hit the water, sending ripples outward as the liquid darkened, shifting from clear to something deeper, swirling with silver veins of light.
"Let's see," she murmured, "what we can see."
The bowl sat upon a velvet cloth embroidered with protective runes, its surface trembling faintly as though it already knew what was coming. When her blood struck the water, the ripples were perfect circles within circles, folding into one another like layered glyphs.
The water grew viscous, darkening to a deep obsidian black that caught the light like polished stone. Thin veins of silver light laced through the darkness, drifting and curving like constellations in a starless void. The bowl gave off a faint hum, resonant and low, as if acknowledging her request and offering.
Slowly, the surface shifted from liquid to mirror, its sheen glasslike and unnaturally smooth. A shape began to rise within the depths, distorted at first, blurred as though seen through smoke. Ashen grays, muted blues, and faint glimmers of fire fade through each other before resolving into an image.
The image rippled when Seraphine blinked, but steadied again as her will bore down on it. The faint scent of iron from her blood hung in the air, mingling with something ozone-rich, like a storm about to break.
A whisper impossible to tell if it came from the water or from something beyond brushed against the edges of hearing, urging her to look deeper, warning her of the cost. Her palms hovered over the surface. She closed her eyes and whispered Liam's name, then the vague impressions of the women who'd passed briefly through his life. She didn't need their names. The magic would know.
The scene appeared not atop the water, but within it, like a window sunk into a bottomless well. As her concentration sharpened, additional details swam into focus: An alley slick with rain. Street lights burning in the mists. A woman was sitting in a cafe, scrolling her phone, completely unaware that she was being magically spied on.
The first pull came fast, dragging her breath shallow. The water darkened, then stilled, then opened upon a warm apartment, a kitchen cluttered with mugs and plants. She was humming—off-key, cheerful. Seraphine could hear it, just barely, like the echo of something half-remembered. Her heart clenched, but she steadied herself. Alive. Safe.
Then another, scrolling through her phone, legs tucked under a blanket, some romantic comedy flickering in the background. Seraphine felt nothing from her, just static and mild disinterest. Alive.
Another flickered into view. Arguing on a phone, shouted words but indistinct. Seraphine could taste something bitter in her mouth, like over-steeped tea and adrenaline. Her hands curled against her thighs. Alive. But frayed. Stress.
Next, a woman sitting in a bar. Laughter all around her, but she was frozen with eyes wide, lips parted, like she'd just remembered something terrible. Seraphine leaned in, could she see her? But then the image dissolved.
She swallowed hard. Her heartbeat was in her ears now. Then the fifth one. She didn't see her. She felt cold. So cold it clawed up her spine like ice water dumped down her back. Then copper. Thick. Sticking to her tongue like blood you couldn't spit out. The image took shape slowly: fluorescent lights, sterile blue curtains, the edge of a metal table.
And then a woman's face.
Blank. Still. Skin waxy and pale. Eyes closed—not peacefully, but like something had slammed shut inside her. She had been cut, slashed…no… runes. Cut into flesh. Branded. Marked. Pacted. Yes? No? The woman she could see turned her head, burned out eyes turning to stare into Seraphine's, screaming without seeing, without lips, without tongue or teeth, or a mouth: "Help! Me!"
The voice screamed into her mind, agony lanced from every cell in her body. She choked.
Her hands slipped against the basin's edge. She smashed her hand into the water, shattering the image. The room tilted. She gasped, dragging herself backward, away from the bowl. Her stomach twisted violently. She doubled over, gagged once, then vomited onto the floor beside the still hovering silver bowl.
The taste wouldn't leave her. The vines at the edge of the room twitched, recoiling like they could feel it too. She wiped her mouth with a shaking hand, throat raw, eyes stinging.
The bile burned her throat, the copper sting still coating her tongue. Seraphine stayed curled forward on one hand, the other pressed flat to the floor as if she could force the world to stop spinning by sheer will. Her breath came in sharp, broken gasps.
The ritual space pulsed once in warning, in protest and perhaps grief and the lights dimmed. Seraphine shuddered and shook. Boots on wood. A sharp intake of breath.
Then his arms were around her. Warm, solid, anchoring. One arm under her knees, the other braced across her back as he half-cradled, half-dragged her from the ritual space still shimmering with fading magic.
"Sera. Hey - Sera. I've got you," he said lowly, voice rough with panic he barely held back.
She tried to speak, tried to tell him she was fine, but the second she opened her mouth the sob choked her again—raw, soundless, bitter. Her head dropped against his chest, cheek pressed to the rough fabric of his shirt, and for a moment she just let herself be held.
His hand moved up to the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, grounding her. He just held her. She would tell when she could, when she was ready. She couldn't say it out loud. Not until the shaking stopped. Not until her stomach stopped turning over the way that girl's face did in her mind.
But she managed to whisper words against his collarbone, "One more," she croaked, "Dead. and maybe pacted." And that was enough to make Liam go still. Like a man who just heard the gun cock, but hadn't yet seen where it was aimed. She bit her lip, "She rejected… changed her mind… or lacked conviction. The Dumps." She glanced at Liam, who was watching her carefully. "Looks like you're not a serial killer after all." she smiled weakly,
Liam exhaled, "You do realize that if I was a serial killer, Neroghan would have killed me a long time ago?" He ran a hand through his hair.
Because 'unlucky' didn't explain why Isla had agreed to such a thing: Willingly agreed to a pact to share her flesh with a demon. She had died at his hand, the demon vanquished, and her soul, or whatever was left of it, dissipated.
The branch erupted from the floor directly behind it, sprouting shoots and tendrils that spread out to catch and cradle Seraphine before she could hit the floor. A warm glow filled the fresh growth, soothing the cold, warming her from within.
He carefully placed a cup of tea in her hands. Neroghan, grew a chair out of the floor. Lima murmured his thanks and slid into the seat next to her. He carefully placed a hand upon her thigh. She didn't push him away.
Her hands trembled, icy-smoke coming from her fingers that were wrapped around her steaming mug. He recognized the mug, "When did you get that back from my apartment?" It was a transparent attempt to change the topic. She recognized it and was grateful for it
"You didn't think I'd leave my favorite mug in your war factory of an apartment did you?"
"Well," he shrugged, "It would add a touch of you, meaning class and chaos to my apartment."
She grinned, "That's why you're living here five nights a week."
"Three," he corrected, "It's only been three nights this week."
"Liam," she said carefully, "You haven't been home in a week." He smirked at her, "Prove it? Really? You've done laundry here! Twice! Neroghan puts your boots by the door!" she glared at the wall, almost accusing. The walls trembled, in mild amusement. Crisis averted - for now.
She half burrowed, half snuggled into his side," he smiled at a memory, "You remember that time I told you you could sleep in my lap as a cat?"
She giggled, "Yes, and that was the day you learned that even as a Maine Coon, I'm still the same weight." Unnoticed, his fingers danced across the keypad of his phone, sending a message to a contact. She snuggled into his side, there was a shimmer of magic and a majestic jet black maine coone was suddenly burrowing into his side.
His phone vibrated. He ignored it. He wrapped an arm around the cat, and it purred in contentment. Her eyes slid close as he scratched her behind her ears. "Sleep, love. I will watch over you." She did.
Hours later, Liam was seated on the worn leather couch in Seraphine's apartment, his back pressed against the cushions, eyes flicking toward the flickering candlelight that cast shadows against the shelves of vials, dried herbs, and half-melted wax. The sharp scent of burning incense curled through Seraphine's shop, mixing with the faint tang of old paper and herbs hanging from the rafters.
The scent of magic lingered—something floral, something burnt, something old. He didn't know if it was deliberate or just what happened when Seraphine worked in a space long enough. She muttered something under her breath, words slipping between the veil of the ordinary and the arcane.
His phone chirped, he checked it, "I have a location."
"One minute." she called from the next room, "I'm coming with you."
He already had one boot on when her words percolated through his brain, "You're…what?"
She came out of her bedroom, magic whispering behind her. This was the Seraphine he had known from years ago, when they first met, when she actively hunted whatever lurked in the darkness. His trained eyes could see the magic of runes and enchantments layered into every seam and stitch of her clothes.
The bow and quiver that hung from her back would seem antiquated to many, but he'd seen her shoot the wings off a crow at thirty meters. The crow in question had been a demonic shapeshifter, and had taken a third arrow through the eye when the enchanted arrows had forced it to change forms to avoid falling to its death.
"Should we inform them.. The Guild… that you're coming out of retirement?"
"No need," she grinned, "I'm not coming out of retirement. I'm taking a consultancy."
He blinked, "Please don't! The paperwork I'll have to fill out…"
She grinned, "Would you prefer a bodyguard contract?"
He ran his hand through his hair, with a frustrated sigh, "Fine. Fine! Consultancy," he agreed. The front door opened as she approached, and as she strode past him, he lingered for a moment to enjoy the view.
"You coming?!" she called from half way down the stairs, "Or am I doing this on my own, again?!"
"Again? What do you mean again?!" He grabbed his car keys and trotted out after her. Neroghan shut the door and locked it with a sigh and grumbled about the quirks of demi humans, half bloods and demons.