Chapter One
Portland was unraveling.
It started slow—reports of strange behavior downtown, random acts of violence, and people collapsing in the streets only to rise again moments later, eyes glazed and teeth bared like animals. At first, the police assumed it was a new drug, some offshoot of a designer high. But then more reports came in. Then video. Then screaming.
Harry Black had been watching it unfold on his television, the soft blue glow of the screen painting shadows across his modest apartment above the Black Armory. His fingers drummed against the armrest of his leather chair. At first, he'd dismissed it as another outbreak—a biological thing, human-made. But then he saw the first clear image of one of the infected.
Foaming at the mouth, eyes feral, veins blackened. Not just rage. This was magic.
And worse—this was familiar.
The name Baron Samedi whispered in the back of Harry's mind like a curse. A Cracher-Mortel. He hadn't seen one in decades, not since the Black Grimoire referenced them with an entire section dedicated to "Necromantic Contagions." This wasn't natural, and it certainly wasn't new.
He flicked the television off with a whispered word and exhaled a slow breath, the scentless smoke from his enchanted cigarette curling toward the ceiling. A magical creation of the Black family, devised in 1346 to mask the aura and scent of magical beings. Illegal now, of course, but Harry didn't particularly care.
He'd kept his distance from Nick Burkhardt for years, satisfied to watch from the shadows. The Grimm was talented, smart, and surrounded by good people. There was no need to intervene. Not yet.
But as the news shifted, Harry leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"Breaking news: A private aircraft has gone down outside of Portland—no confirmed survivors. Witnesses report an explosion mid-flight."
Harry's heart stuttered.
The screen shifted to aerial shots of smoking wreckage in a dense forest, fire crews and ambulances barely visible through the trees. He recognized the plane—had seen Nick board it just hours ago while using a scrying mirror to keep tabs on the growing chaos.
The cigarette slipped from his fingers and smoldered in the ashtray.
"No," he whispered.
He slammed a hand against the wooden table beside him. The impact rattled the tea set and scattered his open grimoire. Magic flared around him unbidden, the runes carved into the old oak floor beginning to glow.
"He's not dead," Harry said, voice trembling as his magic surged unpredictably. A faint silver-blue aura crackled at his fingertips, and the air around him shimmered with restrained power. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles pale, as if holding himself together through sheer will alone. "I'd know if he was."
But the panic wasn't gone. Not completely.
He stood, grabbed his wand-ring from the table, and slipped it onto his finger. It pulsed once—faintly, like it too was anxious.
He crossed the room to the reinforced floor panel, murmured a quick unlocking charm, and descended into the heart of the Black Armory.
Once below, he moved with purpose, flicking switches and opening ancient chests, drawing chalk and silver ink onto the stone slab in the middle of the room. Runes from six different magical languages surrounded a single word in the center—an unusually potent blend that amplified both power and precision, though at the risk of instability if miscast:
Nick.
"Come on, Nick," Harry whispered, voice steady now. "Show me where they took you."
The moment he pressed his palm to the center, the runes surged to life, glowing silver-blue, weaving into the fabric of the world. A ripple of magic tore through the ley lines—an old spell, deep and demanding, long lost to most magical lineages.
And miles away, someone noticed.