The Wizard-Mobile pulled hard into the dirt lot beside Ozzy’s curio shop.

Which, when you consider that the Wizard-Mobile does everything heavy and hard, was less dramatic than it sounds.

There was no sleek handbrake turn. No cinematic spray of gravel worthy of an action movie. Just the groaning protest of old suspension, a rattle through the frame, and the distinct impression that the van disapproved of being asked to move with urgency again so soon.

The van door flew open.

Or at least, it would have if it hadn’t stuck halfway like a sulking teenager.

I yanked on the handle, got nowhere, muttered something uncharitable, then put my shoulder into it. The door finally gave with a metallic groan that sounded deeply offended.

Bertrum, perched on the dash, offered helpfully, “If we survive this, you need to buy WD-40.”

“Noted,” I grumbled, wrenching the door the rest of the way open. “Thank you for your mechanical insight.”

I stepped out onto the gravel and squinted into the afternoon sunlight.

You know—like a proper movie cowboy.

Probably would have looked cooler if I wasn’t standing in a dusty lot beside a cluttered curio shop wedged between a pawn broker and something that used to be a laundromat.

Still.

It helped the morale.

I adjusted my hat, reached into my coat, and wrapped my hand around the familiar weight of the lightning rod.

Bertrum fluttered down to my shoulder and fixed the shop’s front door with a narrow, suspicious stare.

“Nothing appears broken,” he observed. “Which suggests either the pendulum was incorrect…”

He paused.

“…or we have arrived early, and probability has yet to catch up with us.”

I exhaled slowly, eyes scanning the street, the windows, the shadows where trouble liked to linger.

“Let’s hope it’s the second one,” I muttered.

Because if probability was catching up—

It usually did so all at once.

We were almost at the door when Bertrum snapped his head around and let out a sharp croak.

“Behind!”

I turned.

And felt my stomach drop.

One of the elementals stood across the lot beside the Wizard-Mobile.

Fedora. Trench coat. Human enough at a glance.

Up close?

Wrong.

“—No. No no no—” I stammered, the words coming out with the exact same useless urgency you use when trying to stop a cat from knocking something off a shelf.

It was about as effective.

The elemental crouched, massive hands gripping the rear wheel.

Then it twisted.

There is a sound metal makes when it is forced to do something it was never meant to do.

It’s not a snap.

Not a break.

It’s a wet, tearing protest as bolts shear, steel warps, and something expensive gives up on life.

The tire came off.

Not just the tire.

The tire and a chunk of the axle.

Ripped free like it had been attached with polite suggestion instead of engineering.

The elemental straightened, holding the assembly in one hand like it weighed nothing.

My eye twitched.

“Fixing that comes out of my pocket, you—”

I stopped.

Looked at him again.

Broad frame.

Dusty sleeves.

Grainy skin where the glamour slipped.

“…you blockhead!”

I pointed the lightning rod at him in accusation.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find parts for an ’86 Astro?!”

The elemental did not care.

It turned its head slowly toward me, gravel grinding somewhere deep in its chest.

Bertrum shifted on my shoulder.

“I believe,” he said calmly, “it has elected to escalate.”

Of course.

Of course the first one I ran into was the solid one.

And the fact the other three weren’t immediately visible?

That worried me more than the walking pile of gravel currently dismantling my van.

I didn’t have the time—or the spare magic—to go hunting for them.

Which meant I had one option.

Commit.

I ran straight at the earth elemental.

Bertrum launched from my shoulder in a burst of black feathers, taking to the air as the situation officially upgraded from “bad” to “actively stupid.”

All according to plan.

Or at least something that vaguely resembled one.

“You rock-brained, dusty bastard!” I snarled.

The elemental turned fully toward me, the stolen wheel still in its grip.

For one horrifying second, I was certain it was going to throw it.

Which would have ended my career, my spine, and probably my warranty in one decisive moment.

Instead—

It dropped the wheel.

The heavy metal slammed into the gravel with a dull, final thud.

I’ll take it.

You take your victories where you can get them.

I closed the distance and swung the lightning rod in a tight arc, aiming for the joint where its knee should have been.

If it had bones.

Which it didn’t.

The rod connected anyway.

And the impact felt like hitting a sack of compacted stone.

The elemental didn’t flinch.

It stepped forward.

And that’s when I realized—

I had just voluntarily entered grappling range with something that could bench press a car.

“Ah,” I muttered.

“That was a mistake.”

A smarter wizard might have opened with a lightning bolt.

Force it back. Blow a limb off. Take the head.

Not that it would have mattered much.

Elementals don’t care about anatomy.

They care about mass.

And momentum.

The thing didn’t lunge.

Didn’t strike.

It fell at me.

Like an avalanche deciding I was the most convenient part of the landscape to become buried under.

For half a second my brain supplied a very clear, very unhelpful image of being pinned beneath it—lungs crushed, ribs folding, dirt and stone grinding the air out of me while I suffocated in a parking lot beside a pawn shop.

“Hard pass,” I muttered.

I threw myself sideways.

Not graceful.

Not controlled.

Just fast.

I rolled hard across the gravel, trusting in every ward I had layered on my person and every scrap of luck magic still clinging to me to keep that much mass from turning me into a smear.

The elemental hit where I’d been standing.

The ground thudded.

Not cracked.

Not shattered.

Just… compressed.

Like reality itself took a step back and decided not to argue.

A spray of gravel and dust kicked up, peppering my coat as I came out of the roll on one knee.

Alive.

Uncrushed.

Which, at this point, counted as a win.

I didn’t waste the moment.

 Now this is the part where you probably expect me to reach into my coat—fast—and tear free one of the prepared slips.

That would have been the obvious move.

It also would have gotten me crushed.

Because I didn’t have the earth sigil on me.

Bertrum did.

The raven dropped out of the air and landed lightly on the elemental’s shoulder.

It barely noticed.

Of course it didn’t.

To it, Bertrum was just a bird.

A small, insignificant thing perched on a much larger problem.

I allowed myself a small, sharp smirk.

This was why you brought a familiar.

The spiritual link between us wasn’t just sentimental—it was functional. A living conduit. A line I could push power through without having to physically touch the target myself.

And more importantly—

It let me cheat.

The slip of paper Bertrum carried wasn’t a shield.

Wasn’t a ward.

It was a circle.

A very specific kind of circle.

One designed not to call something in—

But to send something out.

“Terrae Exilium,” I said, voice steady.

I reached for that connection—felt it snap taut between me and Bertrum like a drawn wire—and pushed what magic I had left through it.

Power flowed along invisible lines.

Spirit to spirit.

Will to will.

Through feather and bone and into the sigil pressed against the elemental’s shoulder.

For a heartbeat—

Nothing happened.

Then the glyph ignited.

Not with fire.

With structure.

Lines of pale, geometric light unfolded across the elemental’s body, the sigil replicating itself in expanding patterns—circles, angles, bindings that spoke in the language of removal.

The ground beneath it vibrated.

The elemental reacted.

Slow.

Too slow.

Its body began to… come apart.

Not breaking.

Unmaking.

The dirt sloughed off first, falling in clumps that never quite hit the ground.

Stone cracked along lines that weren’t physical, but conceptual—like something was reminding it that it didn’t belong here.

A low, grinding sound filled the air, like mountains shifting somewhere far away.

The glamour shattered.

The fedora slipped.

The trench coat collapsed inward as the thing inside it unraveled.

The elemental reached for me—

Or maybe just reached.

Then the circle completed.

And reality politely declined to continue hosting it.

With a sound like a breath being pulled backward, the entire mass of it folded in on itself and vanished.

Gone.

No explosion.

No debris.

Just absence.

Bertrum beat his wings once and lifted off the empty space where several hundred pounds of animated earth had been standing a second ago.

He circled once and landed back on my shoulder.

“Well,” he said, smoothing a feather.

“That was satisfying.”

I exhaled slowly, feeling the drain of that spell settle into my bones.

“One down,” I muttered.

And somewhere nearby—

I had the distinct feeling the other three had just noticed.

Bertrum settled back onto my shoulder, feathers still slightly ruffled from the maneuver.

“I can’t believe that worked.”

I kept my eyes moving, scanning the lot, the street, the rooftops—anywhere the other three might be lurking.

“Well,” I said, a little breathless, “I needed a banishment strong enough to break Nadali’s binding. Figured a contact-based charged circle was my best bet.”

Bertrum made a dismissive little scoffing sound.

“Not that,” he said. “That part was clever.”

I glanced at him.

“I mean the part where you stole the idea from a cartoon.”

I frowned.

“Anime,” I corrected automatically, still scanning for movement. “You know—the thing where the guy slaps a demon with a sutra and it gets banished? Or explodes? Or learns a life lesson, depending on the episode.”

Bertrum clicked his beak.

“Somewhere, an onmyōdō practitioner is very disappointed in you.”

“Yeah, well,” I muttered, “they can file a complaint.”

He shifted slightly, posture changing from conversational to alert.

“And for the record,” he added calmly, “I can see considerably better than you.”

I paused.

“…Noted.”

“So perhaps,” Bertrum continued, eyes narrowing as he looked past me, “you should stop wasting time and look up.”

I did.

And immediately regretted it.

The air above the lot shimmered.

Not heat.

Not light.

Movement.

Something was wrong with the space itself—like the sky had decided to ripple.

Then it inhaled.

Not literally.

But the feeling of it—

Pressure pulling inward.

Dust lifted.

Loose gravel skittered.

A low, rising whistle built into something sharper, hungrier.

Air.

The second elemental didn’t walk in.

It descended.

A shape coalesced out of distortion—fedora, trench coat, the same bad attempt at human—but thinner, stretched, edges never quite staying where they should be.

Its form flickered like a reflection in disturbed water.

Then the wind hit.

Hard.

It slammed into me like a physical force, coat snapping, breath punching out of my chest as I staggered back a step.

Bertrum dug his claws into my shoulder to stay anchored.

“Ah,” he said, entirely too calm. “There it is.”

I squinted up into the distortion, already reaching for my coat.

“Let me guess,” I muttered.

“No convenient shoulder perch this time?”

The elemental tilted its head.

The wind intensified.

And somewhere behind me—

Gravel shifted again.

Which meant—

They weren’t coming one at a time anymore.

“Of course,” I sighed.

“Why would they?”

The next one didn’t descend.

It came.

Fast.

Too fast.

From across the lot, the shape surged toward me—its glamour barely holding together as something beneath it roiled and flowed like a tide with intent.

Water.

Not walking.

Not running.

Moving like undertow given form.

“Of course it’s water,” I muttered.

I didn’t have time to think.

I dropped.

Hard.

Gravel bit into my hands and I rolled under the van just as it hit.

The impact slammed into the side of the Wizard-Mobile with a wet, crushing force.

Metal groaned.

The whole van rocked.

Somewhere deep in its frame something made a noise that sounded expensive.

I winced.

“Can you stop wrecking my van,” I muttered from beneath the chassis.

Water sloshed and reformed, spilling around the van like something trying to decide whether it wanted to flow through it or simply tear it apart.

Above me, the air howled.

The wind elemental still circling.

Great.

Pinned under my own vehicle, one elemental trying to drown me, another trying to turn me into airborne debris.

“Bertrum,” I said, keeping my voice low as I reached into my coat.

“Yes?” he replied from somewhere above, sounding far too composed.

“Please tell me you grabbed the the air sigil.”

A beat.

Then—

“Of course I did.”

I exhaled.

“Good.”

Because if I didn’t deal with the one above me first—

I was about to become a very brief and very educational lesson in fluid dynamics.

“I think I can handle water,” I said, keeping my voice low as I reached for my coat. “But you’re going to need to get airborne and drop the air sigil into its core.”

There was a pause.

Bertrum considered this.

“That sounds terribly heroic,” he said, “and very much unlike me.”

I clenched my jaw as the van shuddered again, metal whining under pressure from something that did not respect engineering limitations.

“Do it for Ozzy,” I grumbled. “And his unsalted peanuts.”

Another pause.

Then—

“Ah,” Bertrum said.

“That reframes the situation.”

A rush of wings.

He launched.

Above me the wind screamed louder, the air elemental tightening its spiral like a storm deciding where to land.

Good.

That meant it was focusing on him.

Which meant I had about three seconds to solve my own problem.

I shifted under the van, gravel grinding into my back, and pulled free the second slip.

Water.

“Alright,” I muttered. “Let’s not drown today.”

The elemental surged again, slamming against the van’s side. Water forced its way through seams, dripping, then pouring, pressure building as it tried to crush, flood, or simply erode me into a cautionary tale.

I reached out.

Not at the mass.

At the flow.

Water isn’t solid.

It moves.

Which meant somewhere in that motion—

There was a moment of contact.

I snapped my hand forward as a tendril of it surged beneath the chassis, slapping the sigil against it.

“Aqua Exilium.”

The glyph flared.

Cold.

Sharp.

And for the first time—

The water hesitated.

I trusted the sigil.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t wait to see if it worked.

I rolled out from under the van, gravel biting into my side as I scrambled clear and hauled myself to my feet.

Behind me, something shifted.

The sound of water losing cohesion.

Of pressure collapsing inward instead of outward.

I didn’t need to see it to know the banishment had taken hold.

One more down.

I staggered upright and looked up.

The air elemental was still there—coiling, twisting, a distortion in the sky wearing the vague suggestion of a man like a bad joke.

And in the middle of it—

A small, very determined black shape.

Bertrum.

He darted through the currents like a fighter pilot in a hurricane, wings snapping tight, then flaring wide as he juked and cut through violent crosswinds that should have torn him out of the air.

The elemental surged after him, trying to swallow him whole.

He slipped past it.

Again.

And again.

Waiting.

Looking for an opening.

“Come on, buddy,” I murmured under my breath, fists clenching without realizing it.

“You’ve got this.”

The wind howled louder.

The elemental tightened.

And for one terrible second—

Bertrum vanished into it.

For one awful second, everything in me went heavy.

I regretted sending him into the fray.

My mind, unhelpful as ever, immediately offered vivid possibilities—small black wings buffeted apart by gale-force magic, fragile bones breaking, Bertrum tumbling out of the sky like a broken omen.

Then the smarter part of my brain cut in.

I would have felt it.

That was the advantage and the curse of a familiar bond. If he died, I wouldn’t have to guess. The loss would hit me like a knife driven straight through the soul-link between us.

I felt no such rupture.

Which meant he was still up there.

Still alive.

Still in one piece.

I just had to trust he knew when to pull away—before bravery turned into stupidity and stupidity turned into grief.

Good familiars are hard to find.

Friends even harder.

And I was suddenly very aware that I had sent one of the few beings in this world I trusted completely into the center of a magical storm because my plan required it.

“Come on, Bertrum,” I whispered, not even realizing I’d said it aloud.

Above me the air churned, twisted, screamed—

And then a black shape burst free from the whirling distortion, wings beating hard as Bertrum tore out of the elemental’s core like a shot arrow.

He had done it.

Now I just needed the universe to cooperate long enough for the spell to take.

I had to act fast.

Before the paper was shredded.

Before the wind spat it back out.

I couldn’t rely on contact this time—not cleanly, not with the elemental churning like a living storm. If I wanted the sigil to fire, I had to trigger it remotely.

Which meant spending more magic than I wanted to.

I didn’t have much choice.

I planted my feet, forced a larger portion of my power into my hands and down into my core, then dragged it back up through breath and will. The image of the glyph burned bright in my mind—every line, every angle, every careful mark I had drawn into it.

No room for error.

No room for hesitation.

“Ventus Exilium!” I shouted from the diaphragm, voice carrying harder than I thought I had left in me as I poured magic into the working.

The air answered immediately.

The slip ignited where Bertrum had planted it, not with flame but with blinding geometric light. Lines of force erupted outward through the elemental’s body, the banishment circle unfolding in midair like a blueprint the universe had suddenly remembered it was obligated to obey.

For a heartbeat the whole thing held.

Wind.

Pressure.

Motion.

Then the spell bit.

The elemental convulsed—not physically, but structurally. Its false shape rippled, trench coat and fedora shredding into meaningless glamour as the thing beneath them lost coherence. The spiral collapsed inward on itself, currents breaking apart, the storm-body unthreading in loops and ribbons of pale distortion.

The scream it made wasn’t a sound.

It was a pressure change. A violent sucking absence that made my ears pop and the breath catch in my throat.

Then it folded.

In on itself.

Out of this world.

Gone.

The lot went suddenly, almost painfully still.

No roaring wind.

No screaming pressure.

Just silence, a few loose scraps of paper tumbling across the gravel, and Bertrum dropping out of the air with an indignant flap to land on my shoulder hard enough to nearly tip me sideways.

I staggered but stayed upright.

“Well,” he said, smoothing a feather with exaggerated dignity, “that was deeply unpleasant.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Two down,” I muttered, eyes already scanning for the others.

Because there was no chance in hell Nadali had only sent half the problem.

The front window of Ozzy’s shop didn’t shatter.

It breathed.

Glass blew outward in a controlled gout of flame, like a backdraft given direction and purpose. Fire rolled out into the lot in a hungry wave, licking the air as if it had been waiting for an excuse.

Bertrum dropped from the sky and landed on the roof of the Wizard-Mobile with a heavier thud than usual. He looked rough—feathers out of place, breathing sharp and uneven.

I grunted, already moving.

“Catch your breath,” I said. “I can handle cinder-face.”

“You sure, boss?” Bertrum replied between ragged little breaths. “Fire elementals are a logistical nightmare.”

I could feel it through the bond—his heart racing, his strength dipped lower than I liked.

Yeah.

He was done for now.

“I know,” I said. “But I don’t need you a deeper shade of black.”

That earned me a weak, offended clack of his beak.

I rolled my shoulder and started toward the shop, heat already pressing against my face in waves.

Fire.

Different problem.

Earth you could disrupt.

Water you could redirect.

Air you could collapse.

Fire?

Fire doesn’t stay anywhere long enough to politely accept a circle.

It consumes.

It spreads.

It ignores boundaries unless you force them on it.

I reached into my coat, pulled out the last prepared slip—

—and sighed.

Then I tore it in half.

The magic snapped back into me in a small, sharp surge. Not much, but enough to matter. Enough to give me a little more fuel for what was about to get very unpleasant.

Because yeah—

Paper wasn’t going to survive this.

And neither was the neat, tidy version of my plan.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the returned energy settle into my system.

Fire roared inside the shop, casting wild light through the blown-out window.

“All elements are equal in threat,” I muttered.

Then shook my head.

“But fire?”

I stepped closer, heat washing over me.

“Fire’s a problem.”

I wasn’t a pyromancer.

Wasn’t an aquamancer either.

Mediocre at both on my best day.

And today?

Not my best day.

I took a slow breath, feeling the wards on my coat begin to warm.

“Alright,” I said to no one in particular.

“Let’s do this the hard way.”

And I stepped toward the burning doorway.

The inside of Ozzy’s place was a mess.

Which, to be fair, was normal.

But this was a different kind of mess.

Not clutter.

Not the usual avalanche of curios and questionable antiques.

This was destruction.

Shelves scorched. Trinkets cracked or melted. A few things still smoldering in corners where the fire hadn’t quite decided whether to finish the job.

I spotted Ozzy behind the counter—ducked low, doing the smart thing for once in his life and staying out of the way.

Good.

One less thing to worry about.

Then I turned my attention to the last problem.

The fire elemental stood in the middle of the shop like a man-shaped inferno trying very hard to pretend it understood tailoring. The fedora was gone. The coat was half ash, half illusion, flickering around a core of living flame that burned too bright and too hot to look at directly for long.

The heat hit me full on.

Dry.

Cracking.

It pulled the moisture from my mouth, from my lips, from the back of my throat like I’d stepped into a kiln instead of a storefront.

I swallowed and winced.

“Alright,” I rasped, voice already feeling the strain.

I adjusted my grip on the lightning rod and took a cautious step forward.

“Ash-hole,” I added, because I’m apparently incapable of facing down elemental destruction without commentary.

“Why don’t we take this outside?”

It turned.

Its voice cracked and hissed, something between a roar and a furnace venting pressure. I’m sure it was meant to be threatening.

Probably even insulting.

A real sick burn.

Yes, the pun was intentional.

They always are.

It came at me fast.

As fast as I expected.

Which is why I was already moving—backpedaling out of the shop and into the gravel lot, heat chasing me like a living thing that refused to be ignored.

I’m not a great elementalist.

Not really.

Except in one very specific area.

Lightning.

I always thought it was cool as a kid—still do—so I hyper-focused on it. Turns out if you want to throw lightning around without turning yourself into a smoking cautionary tale, you need to understand a few things first.

Magnetic fields.

Potential differences.

The relationship between sky and ground.

And most importantly—

The ground.

Before I ever learned how to call lightning, I learned how to anchor it.

Guide it.

Ground it.

Which meant I learned earth.

Not well.

But well enough.

Water might be the ideal counter to fire.

Earth?

Earth is a very solid second option.

I planted my foot, swung the rod down, and let it connect—not just with the ground beneath me, but with the idea of it. Soil. Stone. Weight. Stability.

“Up,” I muttered.

The gravel answered.

It rose in a surge, snapping together, compacting, hardening into a rough, jagged barrier just as the fire elemental crashed into it.

Flame met stone.

There was a sharp, violent hiss as heat tried to devour something that simply refused to burn.

The barrier glowed.

Cracked.

But held.

The elemental recoiled slightly, its form flickering as the impact disrupted its cohesion.

And for the first time since it appeared—

It didn’t look inevitable.

I grinned despite the heat drying out my throat.

“Yeah,” I said, tightening my grip on the rod.

“Turns out rock’s a terrible meal.”

Bertrum chimed in from somewhere behind me, voice still a little winded but recovering its usual bite.

“I would have gone with ‘rock beats fire.’”

I narrowed my eyes, not looking back.

“I do not need your help with my action quips.”

“You clearly do,” he replied.

I ignored him.

Because the elemental was already pushing forward again.

Fire doesn’t learn.

It consumes.

The barrier I’d raised was cracking now, heat spiderwebbing through the stone as it forced its way through sheer intensity.

I stepped back, spun the rod once in my hands, and planted my stance.

If I couldn’t banish it cleanly—

I could suffocate it.

Not something I’d ever use on a human.

Not unless there was absolutely no other option.

It’s one of the nastier tricks in an earth elementalist’s toolbox—less a spell and more a statement. Final. Crushing. The kind of thing that ends fights without negotiation.

I don’t take that lightly.

Not when there’s a person on the other end of it.

But this?

This wasn’t a person.

If its form was destroyed here, its spirit would just take a one-way trip back to wherever Nadali had dragged it from.

No funeral.

No guilt.

Just… removal.

I drew in what little magic I had left, felt it scrape the bottom of the tank, and forced it downward through the rod and into the earth beneath us.

“Terra Sepulchri.”

The words hit the earth like a command.

The gravel lot answered.

Not rising this time—

Opening.

The ground beneath the elemental collapsed inward, stone and soil dropping away in a sudden, hungry sink. Not a pit so much as a grave being dug in real time—tight, immediate, and deep enough to matter.

The fire elemental stumbled as the support vanished beneath it.

Flame flared.

It tried to surge upward—

The earth surged faster.

Stone slammed in from the sides, compacting, folding over it, smothering flame under weight and pressure. Not extinguishing—no, nothing that simple—but containing. Starving it of air, choking the spread, forcing it into a smaller and smaller space.

The light dimmed.

The roar dulled.

A muffled, furious heat radiated up through the packed earth, cracks glowing faintly like veins of magma trapped under skin.

I held the spell for a second longer.

Two.

Then let it settle.

The ground sealed.

Still glowing faintly.

But it was the dying heat of a thing that needed oxygen to exist.

I lowered the rod slightly, breathing harder than I wanted to admit.

“Yeah,” I said, voice rough.

“Not so scary now, are you, hotshot?”

Behind me, Bertrum gave a tired, approving croak.

“Acceptable quip,” he said.

I smirked faintly.

High praise.

I pushed into the shop, braving the lingering heat.

It hit like opening an oven that had been left on too long—dry, oppressive, clinging to the back of my throat with every breath. The air shimmered, thick with the smell of scorched wood and overheated magic.

“Ozzy?” I called out.

A shape shifted behind the counter.

Fat Ozzy.

Still fat.

Still Ozzy.

Sweat soaked through his shirt, his sweater vest discarded somewhere nearby, his face flushed and shining like he’d just run a marathon in a sauna.

But—

Alive.

More importantly—

Not cooked.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“Hey,” I said, stepping around the counter. “You good?”

He blinked up at me, dazed, then nodded weakly.

“Been better,” he wheezed.

“Yeah, you and me both.”

I reached down, hauled him up with a grunt, and slung one of his arms over my shoulder.

“Let’s get you out of the kiln.”

He didn’t argue.

Smart man.

I half-dragged, half-guided him toward the door, the heat pressing at our backs like it was offended we were leaving.

On the way out, I paused just long enough to grab something off the counter.

A bowl.

Filled with unsalted peanuts.

Priorities.

I stepped back out into the open air, letting the cooler temperature hit like a blessing as I eased Ozzy down onto a relatively intact section of ground.

Bertrum fluttered down from his perch, looking marginally less like he’d fought a hurricane.

I held up the bowl.

“For services rendered,” I said.

The raven’s eyes lit up.

“Ah,” he said with deep satisfaction.

“Justice.”

I gulped in a breath of cooler air and let it out slowly, feeling the adrenaline start to ebb.

“Well,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck, “that’s done.”

I glanced toward the still-glowing patch of earth, then back to the street.

“Now I just need to find Nadali.”

Ozzy blinked at me, pulled off his fogged glasses, and wiped them on his shirt.

“Nadali?” he said. “Smug guy? Wears more gold than an eighties hip-hop band?”

I looked at him, interest sharpening.

“You know him?”

Behind me, Bertrum was already deep into the peanuts, making small, satisfied noises like a creature who had earned every bite.

Ozzy huffed.

“Came in not long before fire-for-brains did,” he said. “Looked around, insulted my shop—called it a ‘rustic junk collection’—all polite-like, with that Tunisian accent of his.”

“Tunisian?” I muttered. “Huh. My guess was way off.”

I shut up and let him continue.

Ozzy leaned back slightly, one hand resting on his knee.

“Yeah,” he said. “Started talking about how I should invest in better wards. Said he could provide them.”

He snorted.

“I know a shake-down when I see one.”

I nodded slowly.

“That means Nadali’s probably not far…”

“Except he left,” Ozzy cut in.

“In a car.”

My shoulders slumped.

“Of course he did.”

For a moment, defeat threatened to creep in.

Then Ozzy started laughing.

Not nervous.

Not relieved.

Satisfied.

I looked up.

And saw a shit-eating grin spread across his face.

“Which,” Ozzy said, “is why I’m real glad I paid him.”

I blinked.

“You what?”

He held up a hand.

“From the till,” he clarified. “Couple bills, made it look good.”

Then his grin widened.

“And one old bronze coin.”

Something in my brain clicked.

“A coin,” I repeated slowly.

“With a tracking spell attached to it,” Ozzy finished.

There it was.

I felt a grin start to creep across my own face.

“Well,” I said.

“Looks like today might actually be my lucky day.”

Behind me, Bertrum crunched another peanut.

“Statistically unlikely,” he said.

I ignored him.

Because for the first time since this mess started—

I had a lead.

“I could kiss you, Ozzy,” I said.

He glanced at me, then sneered.

“I wouldn’t,” he replied dryly. “Wouldn’t want the missus getting jealous. Now get me a bottle of water and go after that rat-bastard.”

He fished a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them at me.

I caught them.

“Bring my car back in better shape than your van.”

I winced.

“Low bar.”

I grabbed him a bottle of water—and one for myself— from the Wizard-Mobile then handed it over. He downed half of it like a man who had just survived being slow-roasted, which, to be fair, he had.

I glanced at Bertrum.

“You stay here,” I said. “Watch him.”

Bertrum looked up from the peanuts, offended.

“I am not a nurse.”

“You are today.”

He considered that.

Then nodded once.

“Very well. If he expires, I shall inform you.”

“Comforting.”

I turned and headed toward the back lot.

And stopped.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Parked behind the shop was Ozzy’s car.

A Mini.

Tiny.

Compact.

The exact opposite of the Wizard-Mobile in every conceivable way.

I stood there for a second, keys in hand, contemplating the cosmic joke.

Fat Ozzy.

Tiny car.

Yeah.

There was something poetic about that.

I sighed, opened the door, and folded myself into the driver’s seat like I was trying to fit into a shirt two sizes too small. Adjusted the mirrors. Found the pedals.

Took a breath.

“Good things come in small packages,” I muttered.

Then I turned the key.

The engine purred.

Responsive.

Light.

I frowned.

“…Okay, I don’t hate this.”

Then I slammed the pedal down and peeled out of the lot, gravel kicking up behind me as I followed the trail of one very smug wizard who had just made this personal.

Okay.

I had to admit it—the little car had some pep.

It handled tight, responsive, none of the groaning, rattling protest I was used to from the Wizard-Mobile. The red paint job didn’t hurt either, that clean racing stripe running down the center like it had something to prove.

It felt faster.

And judging by how quickly the streetlights were starting to blur past—

It probably was.

“Alright,” I muttered, settling into the drive. “I take back at least half of what I thought about this thing.”

I glanced down for a second, mind ticking over the next problem.

Tracking.

Ozzy hadn’t actually told me how to track the coin.

Which seemed like an oversight.

Then I saw it.

Dangling from the keychain.

A small, old bronze coin.

I smirked.

“Of course.”

Twin-linked tracker.

Elegant.

Simple.

Very Ozzy.

I plucked it off the ring with one hand, keeping the other steady on the wheel.

“Have to give it to you, Oswald,” I said, holding it up between my fingers. “You’re a sharp one.”

The coin felt warm.

Not physically.

Magically.

A faint pull.

Subtle.

Directional.

Like a compass that didn’t care about north—only about its other half.

I let a trickle of will flow into it, just enough to wake the connection.

The sensation sharpened instantly.

There.

A tug.

Forward.

Slightly to the right.

Moving.

I grinned.

“Got you.” 

I downshifted, leaned into the turn, and followed the pull.

Somewhere ahead, Nadali was driving away thinking he’d made an example.

Didn’t know he’d just left breadcrumbs.

And I was very, very good at following trails.