Page 19 of Impawssible Magic

The crystal doesn’t respond. Obviously. It’s a crystal.

But she nods like she’s heard it. “Fine. We’ll try the south window. But if you complain about the afternoon glare, I’m putting you in storage.”

She turns—and freezes.

Three nights of watching her through windows. Three nights of telling myself the pull I felt was nothing. All of it gone the moment she turned around and looked at me.

Those eyes. Forest deep and fire bright, with an edge that says she’s already assessing how much of a threat I pose.

The answer: considerable.

“The shop doesn’t open until—” She stops. Looks me over with the kind of thorough assessment that would make some men uncomfortable.

I am not some men. I let her look.

She stares at me. “You.”

“Me?”

“Who are you?”

“Aslan Nexis.” I don’t offer my hand. Touching her right now would be a mistake. “Protection Network. I’ve been assigned to keep you alive.”

“My what?”

“Liaison. Given the recent incidents at your shop⁠—”

“What incidents?” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You mean the creepy crystal rearrangement and the dead bird delivery? That’s just Tuesday around here. Last week a ghost tried to sell me insurance. Mistvale is weird.”

“The rearrangement wasn’t random. That symbol has some type of meaning.”

Her expression flickers. Fear, quickly buried. “The Protection Network has opinions about my interior decorating?”

“The Protection Network has concerns about your safety.”

We stare at each other. The air between us crackles with more than her unstable magic.

She crosses her arms. “I have conditions.”

“Name them.”

“You don’t interfere with my business. You don’t scare off my customers—what few I have. And you don’t make assumptions about what I need based on what happened before.”

Before. The familiar. The betrayal.

“Agreed.”

She blinks. “Just like that?”

“I’m not here to make your life harder. Just to make sure you keep living it.”

Her expression turns softer for just a moment. Then the armor comes back up.

“Fine. We have a deal.” She reaches for a scrap of paper and scribbles. “My phone number. In case of emergency or if you decide to upgrade from lurking to actually communicating like a normal person.”

I take the paper. Our fingers brush.

The spark that jumps between us is definitely not professional.