Morning light hit like a hangover.
The kind that made you regret every single life choice including, but not limited to, getting involved with mysterious mechanics who knew way too much about magic.
Callum was already outside, sleeves rolled up, steam curling from the hood of the tow truck. I leaned against the doorway of his workshop, nursing a cup of coffee that tasted like regret and burnt beans.
"Truck survived," he said without looking up. "Can't say the same for your alibi."
I squinted at him. "You've been dying to say that, haven't you?"
"Since about three a.m.," he admitted with a grin. "So… you gonna tell me what that was last night?"
"Define that," I said, pretending not to notice the faint blue glow flickering around my fingertips.
"The part where the air cracked like a live wire and you nearly summoned a small thunder god," he said flatly.
"Ah. That."
He straightened, wiping grease from his hands. "You're not just some bartender, Tilly. You've got something chasing you I saw the sigils on your wrist."
My stomach did a neat little nosedive. I tugged my sleeve down. "You don't know what you saw."
"I know exactly what I saw," he said quietly. "And I know what happens when magic like that goes unchecked."
That made me look up. "What does happen?"
He hesitated, eyes darkening. "People disappear."
For a heartbeat, neither of us breathed. Then, outside, something clattered too deliberate, too close. Callum's head snapped toward the sound.
"Stay here," he muttered, reaching for the wrench like it was a weapon.
"Yeah, no," I said, setting down my coffee. "If something's coming for me, I'm not hiding behind a guy with a glorified crowbar."
He glanced at me half exasperated, half impressed. "You're impossible."
"And you're wasting time."
We stepped out into the bright, wrecked morning. The storm had left puddles that reflected the world like broken glass and in one of them, a shadow moved that didn't belong to either of us.