Chapter 1: The Coven's Worst Witch

The tremor in Evelyn's hands had nothing to do with the cold October rain pelting the windows of the Sanctum's disciplinary chamber. She sat rigidly in the uncomfortable wooden chair, her grey eyes fixed on the polished mahogany table before her, while purple sparks danced unbidden between her fingers like angry fireflies.

"Sergeant Reed." Elder Thorne's voice carried the weight of centuries, though his appearance suggested a man barely past fifty. His silver hair was pulled back in an immaculate ponytail, and his dark robes seemed to absorb the lamplight. "Do you understand why you've been summoned?"

Because I'm the Coven's greatest disappointment, Evelyn thought bitterly, but she kept her mouth shut. The purple electricity crackling around her knuckles intensified, and she quickly clenched her fists, forcing the chaotic energy to subside.

"The incident at Morrison Park," she said flatly. "Sir."

Elder Thorne's lips curved into what might charitably be called a smile. "Incident. An interesting choice of words for what witnesses described as 'a localized lightning storm that turned three oak trees to charcoal.'"

Evelyn's jaw tightened. The memory was a blur of panic and power—the jogger who'd collapsed, the crowd that had gathered, the way her PTSD had triggered when someone's phone camera flash went off like muzzle flare. One moment she'd been trying to help, the next she was drowning in memories of Kandahar and her magic had exploded outward like a grenade.

"I was trying to help," she said through gritted teeth. "The man was having a heart attack—"

"And instead of using a simple healing cantrip, you nearly exposed our entire community." Thorne stood, his movements fluid despite his apparent age. "Tell me, how many memory wipes did it require to cover your... enthusiasm?"

The number sat in Evelyn's throat like a stone. Forty-three. Forty-three minds that had to be scrubbed clean because she couldn't keep her chaos magic on a leash.

"The cleanup crew worked through the night," Thorne continued, beginning to pace behind her chair. "Do you have any idea what that costs the Coven? The resources? The risk?"

About as much as the therapy you won't let me get, she thought, but what she said was, "No excuse, sir."

"No, there isn't." Thorne moved back into her field of vision, and something in his expression had shifted. There was a calculated coldness there that made the hair on Evelyn's neck stand up. "Which is why I'm giving you an opportunity to redeem yourself."

Evelyn's stomach dropped. In her five years with the Boston Coven, 'opportunities' from Elder Thorne usually meant being sent to do the jobs no one else wanted—or couldn't survive.

"There's been a disturbance at the Mercy General free clinic," Thorne said, returning to his seat. From a folder on the table, he withdrew a single photograph. "A young woman was found in the basement storage room. Apparent suicide."

The photo showed a girl who couldn't have been older than twenty, hanging from a pipe in what looked like a maintenance area. But even in the grainy image, Evelyn could see something was wrong. The girl's eyes were wide open, staring, and her mouth was frozen in a silent scream.

"Mundane authorities are calling it death by asphyxiation," Thorne continued. "But our sources indicate there may be... supernatural elements involved. Nothing major, you understand. Probably just residual psychic trauma from an untrained sensitive. The kind of thing a first-year apprentice could handle."

The insult was clear, but Evelyn was more focused on the photograph. She'd seen enough death in Afghanistan to recognize the difference between despair and terror. This girl hadn't killed herself—she'd died afraid.

"What's the real story?" she asked.

Thorne's eyebrows rose slightly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You don't send me on milk runs, sir. If this was routine, you'd give it to one of your golden children." Evelyn gestured toward the door, beyond which lay the Sanctum's training halls where more favored Coven members practiced their perfect, controlled magic. "So what aren't you telling me?"

For a moment, something flickered across Thorne's face—surprise, perhaps, or approval. Then the cold mask returned.

"Perhaps your military experience hasn't been entirely wasted," he said. "Very well. The clinic is run by a Dr. Alistair Finch. Our records show no magical registration, but there have been... anomalies in the area. Small things. Healing that happens too quickly. Patients recovering from injuries that should have left them crippled."

"You think he's practicing without a license."

"I think he bears investigation. Your job is to determine if this death is connected to unauthorized magical activity, and if so, to... discourage it."

Evelyn studied the photograph again. The girl's terror was palpable, even in death. This wasn't about unauthorized healing magic.

"When do I leave?"

"Now." Thorne slid a set of car keys across the table. "The clinic is in Southie. Dr. Finch should be starting his evening rounds soon."

Evelyn pocketed the keys and stood. As she reached the door, Thorne's voice stopped her.

"Sergeant Reed." She turned back to find him watching her with those calculating eyes. "Try not to destroy anything this time. We're running low on memory wipe specialists."

---

The rain had intensified by the time Evelyn pulled up outside the Mercy General free clinic. The building was a converted brownstone wedged between a laundromat and a convenience store with bars on its windows. A simple sign reading "Free Medical Care - Walk-ins Welcome" hung beside the entrance.

Evelyn sat in the borrowed Coven sedan for a moment, watching the building. Her hands were trembling again, and she pressed them against her thighs to stop the motion. The purple sparks were back, dancing just under her skin like caged lightning.

Get it together, Reed, she told herself. Simple job. In and out.

But as she approached the clinic's entrance, every instinct she'd honed in two tours overseas was screaming warnings. The building felt wrong somehow, like the air itself was holding its breath.

The front door was unlocked despite the late hour. Evelyn pushed it open and stepped into a small waiting room lined with mismatched chairs and educational posters about nutrition and basic healthcare. A reception desk sat empty, computer screen dark.

"Hello?" she called. "Dr. Finch?"

No answer. But from somewhere deeper in the building came the sound of voices—one calm and professional, the other high and distressed.

Evelyn followed the sound down a narrow hallway lined with examination room doors. The voices were coming from behind a door marked "Storage - Authorized Personnel Only."

She pressed her ear to the wood. The distressed voice was female, young, speaking rapidly in what sounded like panic. The other voice—presumably Dr. Finch—was trying to calm her down.

"—can't make them stop," the girl was saying. "They keep whispering, telling me things, showing me things I don't want to see—"

"It's going to be all right," came the reply, and Evelyn felt a chill run down her spine. The voice was cultured, educated, but there was something underneath it. Something that made her hand instinctively move toward the combat knife she still carried from her military days. "Just breathe. Tell me what you're seeing."

"Shadows with teeth," the girl whispered. "They're coming through the walls, and they're hungry, and they want—oh God, they want to crawl inside my head and make me—"

The girl's voice cut off with a gurgle that made Evelyn's blood freeze. She grabbed the door handle, found it unlocked, and burst through.

The storage room was larger than she'd expected, stretching back into darkness between tall metal shelves lined with medical supplies. At the far end, illuminated by a single hanging bulb, stood a man in a white doctor's coat.

Dr. Alistair Finch was tall and lean, with carefully styled blonde hair and wire-rimmed glasses that caught the light. He looked exactly like what casting would order for "handsome doctor" except for two things: the girl hanging lifeless from a pipe behind him, and the fact that his eyes were glowing with a soft, predatory golden light.

"I'm sorry," he said, turning toward Evelyn with what seemed like genuine regret. "You shouldn't have seen this."

Evelyn's magic responded to her spike of adrenaline, purple electricity crackling up her arms. "Step away from her. Now."

Dr. Finch raised his hands, but his movement was too fluid, too controlled. "I know how this looks, but I didn't kill her. I was trying to help when—"

"When what?" Evelyn demanded, advancing slowly. The girl's body swayed slightly in the air, and she could see now what the photograph hadn't captured clearly—the expression of absolute terror frozen on her face, and something else. Her eyes were completely black, as if something had burned out the light inside them.

"When they found her," Dr. Finch said quietly. "The things she was seeing. They weren't hallucinations."

A sound echoed through the storage room—a wet, sliding noise like something massive dragging itself across concrete. It came from everywhere and nowhere, seeming to seep from the walls themselves.

Evelyn spun, trying to locate the source, but saw only shadows that seemed too deep, too dark for the weak light to explain. Her magic surged, painting the room in flickering purple radiance.

"Dr. Finch," she said slowly, not taking her eyes off the shifting darkness, "what exactly do you do in this clinic?"

When he answered, his voice had changed. It was deeper now, with an edge that raised every hair on her body.

"I try to save people from things like this."

The shadows moved.