Page 11 of Impawssible Magic

I stand frozen in the middle of the bridge, my reflection rippling in the dark water below. Every muscle locked. Every instinct screaming contradictory demands.

The beast inside me roars so loud, I’m afraid I’ve shifted without meaning to. But my hands are still hands, my body still human-shaped. Just barely.

I start walking again, faster, nearly running.

My feet pound against the cobblestones as I put distance between myself and Moonthread Square. The mist swirls in my wake, disturbed by my passage, and I swear I can still smell her—herbs and sweetness, clinging to my senses like a brand.

But my tiger doesn’t care about logic. Doesn’t care about walls or control or the very good reasons I have for staying away. He knows what he knows, with the certainty of instinct that has nothing to do with reason.

I don’t stop moving until I reach my cabin on the edge of tiger territory. It’s sparse—bare walls, simple furniture, nothing that could hold memories. Nothing that could hurt.

I built it that way on purpose. After everything, I’d needed a place with no echoes—the ghost of a woman’s laugh in a doorway, a garden I couldn’t bring myself to let die. Some things you don’t survive unchanged. The only answer is to build something new and bare and entirely yours.

I stand in the doorway, breathing hard, the pull toward the square—toward her—so strong, it takes physical effort to resist.

I step inside and close the door.

The silence wraps around me, familiar and cold. Outside, the mist thickens as dawn approaches, turning from silver to gray to something that looked almost gold, if you caught it at the right angle.

I don’t look.

Instead, I strip off my clothes and stand under water cold enough to shock. Let the chill drive out the heat that’s been building since I first caught her scent. Force my body back under the control that has kept me alive, kept me sane, for five years.

The charm witch is an assignment. Caius gave me orders. I’ve assessed. She’s not a threat.

I dry off, dress in clean clothes, lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Count my breaths. Force my mind to empty.

But when I finally sleep, I dream of copper hair and frightened eyes and the sound of a bell ringing in the darkness.

And when I wake, something deep in my chest is still restless.

THREE

LEIRE

Dawn comes too early.

I’ve been awake for hours anyway, staring at the ceiling, listening to the mist press against my windows.

I drag myself out of bed as the first light seeps through the curtains, pull on yesterday’s clothes, and pad downstairs to start the day. Coffee first. Then I’ll open the shop, pretend everything is fine, and try not to think about mysterious silhouettes or bells ringing in the night.

The stairs creak under my feet. Familiar sounds. Safe sounds.

Then I reach the bottom, and everything stops.

My crystals.

They’ve been moved.

I stand frozen in the doorway, pulse spiking, my magic surging instinctively toward the wards. They’re intact. Undisturbed. No sign of forced entry, no residue of hostile magic, no indication that anyone crossed my threshold during the night.

But someone was here.

The amethyst cluster I positioned by the east window now sits in the center of my main display case. The rose quartz has been relocated to the front counter, arranged in a perfect circle with five smaller stones I don’t even remember putting out. The citrine—my abundance stone, my good luck charm—lies on its side near the door, pointing outward like an accusation.

My selenite wands have been grouped in a configuration that makes no sense from an energy perspective but forms a deliberate pattern when viewed from above. The smoky quartz cluster—my most expensive piece, the one that took a month to attune—has been rotated exactly forty-five degrees from its original position.

And in the middle of the floor, drawn in what looks like salt, is a symbol I don’t recognize.