Page 52 of Zero Happily Ever Afters

“Oop, I see what you did there.” Diaz tipped his hat at the witty pun that Wadsworth hadn’t intended.

“Just the organization’s way of diversifying.”

“I know you’re referring to my branch when you say diversify,” Diaz said, pointing a finger at Wadsworth. “But you’re treading a thin line, old man.”

“Bah.” Wadsworth waved a dismissive hand, truly finding some branch magics like bestial beneath him.

“We need Diaz and Priscilla,” Milo said, earning ire from Wadsworth’s glare as he didn’t think much of phony psychic magics either.

“I don’t need them to face The True Witch.”

“Well, if anything, they’ll keep her from fleeing,” Milo said. “Pretty sure she’ll recognize the expert trackers who’ll grab her scent the second we confront her.”

“Oh yeah.” Diaz stretched. “Once I get a scent, it’s mine for life.”

“Yuck.” Milo shuddered, imagining every pungent, horrible smell he’d ever encountered.

“Besides, if I get to play, I can do some real damage with this baby.” Diaz pulled out his sword a second time. The symbols glowed now, under his direction, the way he channeled his magic.

That particular blade was expensive and difficult to gain approval for work. Diaz’s sword and his familiar’s armor plating weren’t support tools legally afforded to them, but a casting weapon. In order to use it, he had to pay huge fees and constantly recharge the sigils—which, based on his grumblingsurface thoughts, required the aid of a qualified enchantment witch, ward witch, and rejuvenation witch. Christ, he ensured the Sword & Shield Duet came with top-tier magics. That was a big fucking headache.

Every symbol etched onto his gear required yearly testing and evaluations to prove he could wield the weapons without endangering others, injuring them, or causing wrongful deaths.

There was a lot of red tape involved with arming guild witches with extra gear for combat, which was usually why the guild wouldn’t front the cash for such exorbitant costs. They generally made their enchanters pay those fees out of pocket—even the undercover case Milo went on to handle demons required the aid of glamoured earrings, which his guild didn’t approve his acolytes for, meaning he had to pay the cost out of pocket himself since he was the only one qualified by Cerberus standards. And the use of those glamour tools for a night’s work probably matched my monthly salary. Not a cheap bill to buck.

That was why most enchanters relied solely on their magics—since few could afford the upkeep, maintenance, cost, approvals, paperwork, and everything else involved in arming up. Plus, the scrutiny that came with misuse.

All the same, Diaz never felt comfortable going into combat with Priscilla unless she had her armor on. Like any witch with a familiar, he worried for her safety above his own. Diaz’s thoughts turned somber until Priscilla rubbed her head against his hip, asking for pets under her chin. She didn’t seem to like her helmet much, but she had a goofy grin of satisfaction once she got the best chin scratches ever. I’d seen that happy face on Charlie many times before.

“Alrighty.” Diaz slapped his thighs. “Let’s get this rodeo started.”

“About fucking time,” Wadsworth hissed.

And like that, Milo led the way, flying fast and silent. The three enchanters moved so quickly through the city, I barely managed to keep up. Hell, even my connection to Milo didn’t help. I staggered behind with Priscilla, who intentionally secured a defensive scouting position as a support role.

When they reached a busy building where the dark aura of The True Witch radiated, I faltered, nearly falling into a puddle of nerves. Atop the skyscraper, the three enchanters closed in on the witch who stood above the illuminated letters of the building.

Harris Enchant Tech!

My heart hitched, stirring anxiously and nearly drawing me back to my body. Some of my students were inside that building at this very moment, celebrating the merger of Harris Enchant Tech and Whitlock Industries. Hundreds of the most elite witches of Chicago were in attendance, completely unaware of the witch who lingered outside their gala with enough power in her Oceanic Collapse to slaughter them all in one fell swoop.

The True Witch carried herself with elegance, carefree and majestic in her pose, in her expression, in her…thoughts? I couldn’t glean them. She’d veiled her mind from psychic energy with enchantments, wards, entropy, or some unknown arcane magic. I couldn’t determine it. Mainly because I couldn’t determine a single thought from her surface. Still, she wasn’t hidden from me. Her presence oozed with a toxic horror that sought death, destruction, and the decimation of anything beneath her station.

She stood perched at the ledge of Harris Enchant Tech, ready to drape the entire building in her horrifying branch. I sensed that much, feeling the cold rush of channeled magic seeping from her pores and coating the many floors below, gauging how many people she’d need to cast against, how much energyshe’d require, and how long it’d take to drown them all. Milo suspected as much, studying The True Witch in all her glory.

She didn’t look anything like I expected. I figured she’d be an old crone of a woman, someone closer to Enchanter Wadsworth’s age, but she looked younger than me, a woman barely in her thirties. She wore a tattered black dress, intentionally frayed at the hem leading to two large slits that ran up her legs all the way to her hips, torn at the sleeves, exposing her shoulders, and ripped in the front to flaunt her cleavage. Though her dress hid little, her skin was painted in symbols. Not tattoos for aesthetics but magical etchings strewn across her shoulders, her chest, and the parts of her legs not hidden by the thigh-high boots she wore.

The enchanted sigils matched those carved onto the ivory staff she held, the top a skull with the head bashed in and holding hundreds of glittering small stones. Each gem was a different color and radiated an aura of emotion or magic or possibly both.

The most outlandish part of The True Witch’s attire came in the form of her absurd witch hat. A long-pointed hat that’d fallen out of style—if it’d ever truly been in style—more than two centuries back when magic returned to the masses and witch stereotypes fizzled out as we moved toward a modern era. Her hat was bent, the tip hanging low and almost reaching the wide, rounded brim that sat lopsided on her head.

I’d never felt anything like this. It was impossible to explain, to comprehend. There was an aura of mystique, confusion, and pain that radiated off this witch.

“You aged.” The True Witch tilted her head, eyeing Enchanter Wadsworth from head to toe, unconcerned by the presence of two other enchanters and a literal armored bear. No. She only had eyes for Wadsworth. “You carry it well. Mostly. Not much. More than expected.”

Wadsworth glared, a natural set-in expression for him; the wrinkles creased in a familiar way they’d always done when talking with The True Witch. A woman whose love he’d seared from his memory. He’d literally had the thought of her exorcised, burned away, holding only onto the details that’d help in his pursuit of ending her life.

She hadn’t aged, not in Wadsworth’s mind, the same image of her holding a much younger hand of the elderly enchanter. Her French accent had gotten better, more believable, and covered her actual accent, one he never managed to place.

---