Page 23 of Impawssible Magic

He falls into step beside me. I catch his scent—warm and wild underneath the more mundane notes of soap and leather. My magic surges toward him before I can stop it, and I feel the crystals in my pocket pulse in response.

“I’ll be nearby.”

“Of course, you will.” I glance at him sideways. “Do you ever actually go home? Sleep? Do tiger things?”

“Tiger things?”

“I don’t know. Prowl. Hunt. Take aggressive naps in sunbeams.”

The sound he makes might be a laugh. Or a cough. Hard to tell with him. “I sleep. When necessary.”

Before I can ask what that means, he steps back. Dissolves into the shadow between two buildings so smoothly that I barely catch the movement.

“Dramatic,” I call after him. “Very intimidating. Ten out of ten exit strategy.”

No response. But I swear I hear another almost-laugh.

I push open the door.

Duskfire Brewery is chaos with a liquor license.

Copper brewing equipment gleams in the back, pipes and vats and contraptions that definitely weren’t designed by anyone with a safety certification. The front is all rustic charm—mismatched stools lining a battered wooden bar, tables scattered without pattern, fairy lights tangling with hop vines that climb the exposed brick walls. A chalkboard menu hangs crooked behind the bar, listing drinks with names like “Liquid Courage,” “Memory Lane Ale,” and “Thursday’s Mistake.”

Several items are crossed out with aggressive slashes. One just says “DON’T” in red chalk.

The place is half full—witches and a few shifters scattered at tables, conversation humming underneath what might be jazz but sounds more like two cats having an argument near a piano. There’s warmth here, despite the chaos. Comfort. The kind of place that becomes familiar after the first visit.

“New blood!”

The shout comes from behind the bar, where a woman with wild dark hair and a grin too wide to be entirely trustworthy is waving a bottle that’s glowing purple.

Zeph Grimwood. Has to be.

She’s smaller than I expected—compact and kinetic, like she’s vibrating at a frequency slightly higher than everyone else. Her clothes are covered in what might be beer stains or magical residue or both. Her eyes are bright with the particular gleam of someone who has never once considered the consequences of their actions.

“You’re the crystal witch!” She vaults over the bar—vaults, legs swinging, and lands with a thud that shakes the floorboards. “Leire, right? Anouk said you might actually show. I bet Sakura five gold you’d bail.”

“Glad I could lose you money?”

“Don’t be. I never win those bets.” She grabs my arm and starts pulling me toward a table in the back corner. “Come, come. The gang’s all here. Well, most of the gang. The interesting parts of the gang.”

The table is occupied.

Anouk sits at one end, elegant even in this chaotic space, a glass of amber liquid in front of her. Sakura is at the other end, looking slightly wild-eyed and clutching a drink that appears to be... smoking?

“Leire!” Sakura’s face lights up. “You came! I was so worried you wouldn’t come. Zeph said you probably wouldn’t. I said you definitely would. I was right. I’m very rarely right about things, so this is exciting.”

“That’s a lot of sentences.” I let Zeph push me into a chair between them. “Also, your drink is on fire.”

“It does that.” Sakura peers at the glass. “It’s fine. Probably. Zeph, is it fine?”

“Define ‘fine.’” Zeph is already back behind the bar, pulling bottles with reckless speed. “In the sense of not being actively toxic? Absolutely. In the sense of not causing mild hallucinations? Results vary. Oh! That reminds me—nobody drink the green stuff tonight. The green stuff is having issues.”

“Issues?” Anouk’s tone is perfectly level, which somehow makes it more alarming.

“It might be sentient now. Still figuring that out. Anyway!” Zeph returns with a tray of drinks, setting one in front of me that sparkles with what look like actual stars. “First round’s on the house. Consider it a welcome-to-the-coven gift.”

I stare at the drink. The stars are definitely moving.