Page 11 of Fang Fatale

The next she isn’t, leaving behind nothing but a chalky afterimage where she stood.

I blink.

I blink again.

The world looks exactly the same, give or take a little more rain.

Even the birds don’t notice.

Well.

Witchery.

Not unusual.

The location is.

Button Cottage sits just inside the borders of the Forbidden Forest, and the last time I checked, its owner was a retired tax auditor with a nervous parrot collection—not a coven annex.

Besides, witchy disappearing acts that polished usually leave a little whiplash in the air. Ozone. Glitter. A faint magical hangover.

This one ripples, yes, but I can't trace a thing beyond the ward's edge.

My brain shrugs and files it under Curiosities, For Now.

Now I'm interested.

Dandy hasn't vanished.

She's crossed a threshold I can't.

The smell of garlic bread stops exactly where the ward begins.

Interesting.

I decide to follow.

I'm not proud of the way I trail her, but after six months of running prowl patrols for Cassian, I've turned not being seen into something resembling a science.

Nature helps.

Rain softens everything—footsteps, voices, the line between here and not-here.

I skirt the edge of Button Cottage and circle behind it, where a mossy stone wall marks the property line. There's a side gate barely hanging on, and beyond it a wedge of garden bursting with feral chives and something that might be thyme... if thyme ever learned to throw elbows.

No sign of Dandy.

But the smell of garlic bread is strong.

So is coffee.

Not just any coffee—the Midnight Espresso blend Cassian imports for the station.

Whatever's happening inside that cottage feels suspiciously cozy.

Which doesn't quite fit my mental image of Birdie Longfellow, Town Recluse Number One.

A flicker of movement catches my eye.