Liam had spent years walking through the city's backstreets, but none had ever smelled quite like this—damp and ancient, like the breath of something sleeping beneath the surface. It curled at the edge of recognition.
Most people would miss the alley, a narrow slash between towering brick buildings where grime blurred the upper windows like cataracts. The air here was thick—not with exhaust or fried food, but with the scent of old soil and something older still. There was damp earth beneath his boots, the kind that stayed cool no matter how hot the pavement was just beyond the alley's mouth.
The walls of the buildings were covered in ivy, though it wasn't the bright green kind that clung to garden fences—this ivy was dark as bruised night, and in the half-light, it pulsed—slow and measured, as if the alley itself had a heartbeat.
The witch's shop was wedged at the alley's end, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't looking for it. The wooden door was dark mahogany, its carvings etched so deeply they caught the dim light in twisting shadows. The longer he stared, the more certain he was that the swirls weren't just designs but something watching—something waiting. Above the frame, a rusted iron sign hung by a single chain, swaying slightly even though there was no breeze. Seraphine's Curiosities & Remedies.
Liam pushed the door open, and the moment he stepped inside, he was hit with the scent of old books, dried herbs, and something faintly electric—like the air before a storm. The shop was dimly lit, mostly by flickering candlelight and the occasional glimmer of enchanted sigils floating lazily in the air. Shelves lined every available inch of space, crammed with glass bottles filled with shifting liquids, skulls of creatures he didn't recognize, and strange trinkets that hummed with quiet power. A large, ancient-looking wooden counter stretched across the far end of the room, behind which stood the witch, watching him with a smirk.
"Rough night?" she asked, chin propped on one hand.
Liam leaned his weight on the counter, voice dry. "You could say that."
Lips twitching, she said, "You look like hell."
Liam narrowed his eyes, but couldn't stop the twitch of a smile. "Thanks."
She leaned on the counter, golden-brown skin catching the candlelight in a way that made her look carved from something ancient and unyielding. Hazel eyes gleamed, shifting between sharp amusement and quiet calculation. A dark curl slipped over her shoulder, lazy and deliberate, like it had all the time in the world. But there was something different about seeing her here, in her own space, where the very air around her seemed to hum with magic.
She was barefoot. His gaze snagged on the unexpected intimacy of bare feet against wood, grounding the magic around her in something achingly human. Her toes were curling slightly against the floorboards—rounding her otherworldliness in something that somehow fit her. She leaned forward, watching him. She had an easy grace to her, like a predator at rest—calm, but aware of everything around her.
"Let me guess," she continued, amusement curling in her voice. "You're here to renegotiate." A ripple passed through her chest, sharp and unwelcome, as if unseen fingers had tightened around her heart.
Liam folded his arms, a sharp breath slipping between clenched teeth. "I don't know what you did, but ever since that little touch of magic, that night at the Bar? It's like I've got a neon 'Do Not Approach' sign stapled to my forehead."
She laughed, light but edged with mischief. "Magic?" she echoed. "Oh, Liam. This one's all you."
He scoffed, but something about the words scraped at a nerve. Maybe it wasn't magic. Maybe it was just him—a pattern he couldn't break. But then again, this was magic he was dealing with. He narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
She pushed off the counter and walked around it, moving past him with a scent like wildflowers and rain-soaked earth. "Follow me."
The back of the shop was even stranger than the front. Thick velvet curtains separated it from the main space, and as she swept them aside, Liam was met with a room that felt... warmer. Cozy, even. There was a fireplace, the flames within burning with unnatural hues of blue and silver. A large, overstuffed couch sat in the middle, surrounded by low wooden tables covered in books, tarot decks, and loose crystals. The walls were lined with more shelves, though these held fewer potions and more personal items—photographs in delicate silver frames, a few well-worn notebooks. A shredded leather jacket that looked far too modern to belong in a witch's home hung from a hook by a closet - probably one of his.
A Roomba was roomba'ing softly across the floor, weaving between table legs and books that hadn't made it back to shelves. Balanced on top of it was a shallow clay bowl, and within that, a bound bundle of lavender, garden sage, pine, and lemon balm. The herbal scent trailed in its wake — fresh, resinous, soothing — a slow-moving charm of cleansing and calm.
He frowned at the paused screens—both the TV and the computer screens. "Tell me that's not a Netflix subscription," he said under his breath, as the Roomba weaved between his legs, its cleansing journey complete, seeking its docking station.
She grinned. "It is. And I do have a business TikTok account. And a favorite takeout place that delivers the best dumpling takeout in town. You should try it with me."
"I hate everything about this." He muttered, dragging a look around the room.
She plopped onto the couch, "About magic? About my home? Or something else?" She stretched her legs out in front of her. "Sit," she said, patting the space beside her. "Let's talk about… the problem."
"Our problem," countered Liam, "you made a bargain with an intoxicated…" he paused. He almost said fool, but the word felt too sharp—too close to something true. The pause said more than the words. She felt the thrum in that split second, that his heart beat was now in sync with the magic in the room - her magic.
"Idiot?" she suggested helpfully.
Liam hesitated, then sighed, "You made a bargain with a drunk guy who didn't know better." He lowered himself into the couch, a faint shimmer traced the veins in his forearms, like silver dew catching first light. It pulsed once, matching the steady, ancient lullaby of old rites. Liam tugged his sleeve down, but Seraphine's eyes followed the motion, a knowing flicker crossing her face.
Though he kept a careful distance between them, the couch was a deceptively soft trap laid in velvet, the kind that threatened to swallow him whole if he relaxed too much. The air smelled different here—like burning sage and something sweeter, like honey and cloves. Like Seraphine.
She tilted her head, studying him. "You're sabotaging yourself," she said finally.
The words struck him not like an accusation, but like recognition. Liam scoffed. "I'm not."
She arched an eyebrow. "Aren't you?"
The silence stretched, tight and suspended.
Liam stared at the carpet. A dozen retorts died in his throat, none of them honest. His chest rose, then stuttered—like the words had caught somewhere between breath and bone. He glanced away, eyes fixed on the worn edge of the carpet. Part of him wanted to argue just to avoid what came next—the part where he had to mean it. Where trying meant failing was possible.
Every time he got close to someone new, every time he even considered taking the next step, that instinct kicked in, made him hesitate. He'd brush off messages, make excuses, or—on more than one occasion—completely ghost a potential date. It wasn't a tactical withdrawal, it was a retreat before they could get too close.
Alcohol had left him bound in a bargain without an exit clause. Seraphine could have offered one, but then she'd had a few drinks before this mess even started. What made it better or worse was that Magic itself had taken an interest, and now, both were trapped in a bargain neither fully understood.
He tried again to mount some sort of defense, but nothing came. The witch's gaze softened. "You got hurt, badly." she murmured. "I took away the pain of your loss, but magic isn't mercy. We were both… intoxicated. Magic, it's made a choice of its own, and now we're both bound to consequences neither of us bargained for. I'm trying to figure out what those are."
Liam let out a slow breath, the air shuddering as it left him, and sagged into the couch as if his bones had given up holding him together. "So what do you suggest, oh wise and powerful Witch of the Wilds?"
Her grin returned. "Lessons."
He blinked. "Lessons," he echoed warily.
"Magic has rules, Liam," she said, tilting her head. "So does connection." She nodded, shifting to sit cross-legged. He stared at her,searching for the trick—or the catch—but there was none. Just her, sitting in the flickering firelight, offering something he hadn't even realized he needed, or rather, didn't want to acknowledge that he required.
Liam exhaled through his teeth, jaw tight. "Please tell me this isn't going to cost me? Say… my second born?"
Something flickered in her eyes—humor, and maybe something older that broke out in a laugh. She shook her head. "Tempting, but no. We are already bound by bargain, I'd rather not add another to the mix. Our lives are about to get complicated before this gets any better."
"That's surprisingly merciful of you," Liam muttered.
She shrugged. "Even I have limits. And your life is entertaining enough."
He frowned. "Then what's the catch?"
"No catch," she said easily. "You just have to do the work."
Liam stared at the bundle of herbs still smoldering in its bowl, fingers curling slightly against his thigh. His shoulders sank, breath shallow—like he was already bracing for a fight he knew he couldn't win. His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. He leaned back, elbows braced on his knees, like he was settling into something he didn't trust to hold him. This was either the best idea he'd ever had or the start of a disaster he wouldn't walk away from unscathed.
Some part of the bargain had already started threading their lives together—quietly, relentlessly. Magic didn't just take; it rewrote. And once certain threads were spun, neither of them could pull free without unraveling something deeper.
Liam dragged a hand down his face, fingers leaving pale streaks across his skin. He stared at the lines like they might spell out an answer, but they faded too fast. "This is going to be a nightmare, isn't it?"
She smirked. "Oh, absolutely."
And just like that, they had a deal atop a bargain. Liam didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned by that. His next breath came out slow, deliberate—as if the words tasted like rust before he let them go. "...Fine," he muttered. "Fine. Let's do the damn lessons."
Magic was at work now, and she was both cause and effect. Liam was still the catalyst, and would emerge better, and so should she in due time. For now, she'd have to wait—on Liam's schedule. And therein lay her problem. She could bend storms, but not time—not his. For now, she'd wait, though the Magic already knew what she didn't say.
Neither spoke. The air between them felt charged, like dust hanging still in a room just before the wind returns, leaving a space that felt… different.
"Some time soon," he said agreeably. He glanced around her apartment, "I don't suppose you have any dinner plans?"
When would he decide that the time was right? Tomorrow? Next week? Next year? Even five years was within the possibilities of the Nine Realms. This was Liam. Liam Duskwood. The only Hunter alive who could empty the Troll Bar just by walking in with a weapon drawn. Goddess knows, he's wrecked it more times than a cat has lived! And they kept letting him back in because they were that scared of him.
She grinned, "Dumpling take out. I was just about to order, and I was hoping someone might join me." She hesitated, "Neroghan won't mind," and flashed him the mischievous cat-got-the-cream smile he loved and mistrusted in equal measure. "He actually kinda likes you."
He dipped his head in a half-nod, the corners of his mouth twitching before he buried the smile in a rough cough, "You pick the food. I'll pick something to watch?"
"No Supernatural," she called from behind her laptop screen. He blinked, had she teleported over there when he wasn't looking. There was a pause. "Or Buffy!"
He leaned back into the cushions, and something in the room exhaled with him—an invisible presence easing into stillness. Just beneath the collar of his shirt, a sigil shimmered, then faded like ink in water. "Course not," he said smoothly as he browsed through the offerings on Netflix before coming to a stop on John Wick Chapter 2. "John Wick?"
"Chapter 2" she agreed, punching in their order on her phone with a flourish and a smile.
As the screen began to play, a moment passed—quiet, unassuming—until her hand brushed his on the couch. Not deliberate, but not quite accidental either. Warmth bloomed at the point of contact, a shimmer trailing up the back of his hand like a phantom echo.
Tendrils of magic danced from their barely touching hands, back and forth—just once—before sinking back beneath their respective skin. Neither of them moved. "This isn't over," she said without looking at him. Her voice was soft, almost swallowed by the room's hush.
Liam didn't answer, but the way his jaw clenched said enough. Not even close.