I have no idea when I got home.

At some point the Wizard-Mobile stopped, the door opened, and I apparently dragged myself inside. The details are fuzzy—one long blur of exhaustion, pain, and the lingering burn of medicinal herbs working their way through my bloodstream.

I remember the couch.

Mostly because I hit it face-first.

Sleep took me immediately, the kind of heavy, dreamless collapse that comes when your body decides consciousness is optional and recovery is mandatory.

I didn’t worry about trouble finding me there.

A man’s home is his castle.

A wizard’s home?

That’s something closer to a haunted fortress.

Blackwell Manor has a genius loci—a spirit of the place itself—along with a modest population of domestic faeries, goblins, and other small supernatural residents who have decided my house is preferable to wherever they were before.

Between them, the wards layered into the bones of the building, and the general supernatural hostility the place shows toward unwelcome guests, it is not an easy house to invade.

Breaking into my home would require magic, nerve, and a truly terrible sense of self-preservation.

And if Nadali was that stupid…

Well.

That would solve a lot of my problems.

He was, of course, not that stupid.

My sleep went unbroken.

No midnight alarms. No sounds of Nadali’s goons screaming in terror as the house ghosts decided to amuse themselves. No thumps from the basement kobolds kneecapping intruders with enthusiastic professionalism.

Just silence.

Eventually my eyes fluttered open and I sat up slowly, every muscle reminding me that the previous evening had been educational in all the wrong ways.

I noticed Bertum immediately.

He was perched on the bust of Marcus Aurelius that sat on a narrow pedestal in the living room, black feathers glossy in the morning light as he regarded me with the kind of judgment only a bird can deliver.

He clacked his beak once.

“You look like hell warmed over, boss.”

“Good,” I grumbled, pushing myself to my feet. “Because that’s exactly how I feel.”

I shuffled toward the kitchen like a man twice my age and in desperate need of caffeine. The freezer yielded salvation in the form of a box of No Name breakfast pizza pockets.

High cuisine.

I shoved two into the microwave and filled the coffee pot with the determination of a man who knew civilization itself depended on that first cup.

Bertum watched me the entire time.

Birds are very good at looking unimpressed.

The microwave hummed and the plate began its slow rotation.

“Breakfast of champions,” I muttered, staring at my future meal like it might try to escape.

The coffee started to drip.

The smell alone improved my outlook on life by at least fifteen percent.

Bertrum fluttered down from his imperial perch and landed on the back of one of the kitchen chairs. He cocked his head at me, fixing me with the sort of intense, analytical stare only a raven can manage.

Then he asked, casually as you please,

“So, boss… care to give me the footnotes on what happened after you left the house to see Bailey?”

I leaned against the counter and rubbed my eyes while the coffee continued its slow, sacred drip into the pot.

“You mean the part where I nearly got stabbed, beaten, and run off the road?” I asked.

Bertrum clicked his beak thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he said. “That part sounds like it contains the interesting details.”

The microwave beeped.

I pulled out the pizza pockets and nearly burned my fingers immediately, because patience is not a trait I possess before coffee.

“It started,” I said, blowing on molten cheese, “with a bakery robbery.”

Bertrum leaned forward.

“Those are rarely the simple kind,” he observed.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Turns out this one came with elementals, mob tactics, and a wizard with more rings than a Vegas pawn shop.”

The raven’s feathers ruffled slightly with interest.

“Oh good,” Bertrum said. “A mystery.”

I grunted and took a cautious bite of the pizza pocket, immediately regretting it as molten cheese reminded me that physics still applied.

“No,” I said after swallowing. “It went from mystery to life-threatening pretty fast.”

Bertrum leaned forward slightly.

“Oh good. Those are my favorite kinds.”

I pointed the half-mutilated pizza pocket at him like it was a lecture pointer.

“Tracked the trail to the Goblin Market. Long story short, some guy calling himself Mister Nadali appears to be starting a protection racket targeting independent magical merchants.”

Bertrum’s head tilted a few degrees to the left.

“Charming.”

“Yeah, that’s not the worst part,” I said, reaching for the coffee pot like a man greeting an old friend. “He’s got muscle.”

“Human muscle?” the raven asked.

“Some,” I replied, pouring a cup of black coffee. “But the serious kind too. Four elementals. Classic set. Fire, air, earth, water.”

Bertrum let out a low croak that sounded suspiciously impressed.

“That is… ambitious.”

“Also stupidly dangerous,” I added. “And apparently he took offense to me poking around.”

“Oh?”

I took a long sip of coffee, felt life slowly return to my body, and sighed.

“Yeah. Sent four human thugs after me on the way out of the Market.”

Bertrum blinked.

“They were, I assume, not delivering baked goods.”

“Nope,” I said. “Pretty sure they were there to turn my kneecaps into artisanal powder.”

The raven considered this for a moment.

“And yet,” he said slowly, “your kneecaps appear to remain in their original configuration.”

“Mostly,” I muttered.

I took a breath and leaned against the counter, considering the problem while I took another bite of pizza pocket.

At that particular moment it tasted like the food of the gods.

“So,” I continued between bites, “I got away, came home, collapsed, slept.”

Bertrum waited.

Ravens are very good at waiting when they know the interesting part is coming.

I took a sip of coffee and exhaled.

“Now I’m worried.”

His head tilted again.

“About your health?” he asked.

“About Bailey,” I said. “And every other small-time magical merchant Nadali decides looks profitable.”

I gestured vaguely with my coffee mug.

“If I don’t shut him down—or at least expose what he’s doing—he’s going to start leaning on people. Threats. Break-ins. Smash-and-grabs. Same playbook as the mundane mob, just with more arcane flair.”

Bertrum ruffled his feathers thoughtfully.

“And you suspect Miss Bailey may be… the opening act.”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Or the warning shot.”

The kitchen filled with the steady drip of coffee and the hum of the refrigerator while the thought hung in the air.

Finally the raven spoke.

“Well,” Bertrum said, “the obvious question becomes:”

His black eyes fixed on me.

“How does one go about robbing a racketeer of his advantage?”

“That,” I said flatly, draining a long pull of coffee, “is the million-dollar question.”

Bertrum shifted his weight on the chair back and ruffled his feathers with what I can only describe as gallows cheer.

“Well,” he said, “you have already made an enemy of Mister Nadali.”

I waited.

The raven continued.

“So at least you don’t have to worry about that part.”

I paused mid-sip and slowly turned my head to look at him.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

Bertrum clacked his beak, clearly pleased with himself.

“I am a creature of insight,” he replied.

“You’re a creature who enjoys watching me suffer,” I corrected.

“Both things can be true,” the raven said calmly.

I took another bite of pizza pocket and leaned back against the counter, staring into the middle distance while my brain started assembling the problem pieces.

Protection racket.

Elementals.

Human muscle.

Goblin Market politics.

And one wizard with a very punchable face.

“Alright,” I muttered.

“If we assume Nadali is running a protection racket, that means he needs three things.”

Bertrum leaned forward.

“Money,” the raven said.

“Control,” I added.

“And reputation,” Bertrum finished.

“Exactly.”

I tapped the side of my coffee mug thoughtfully.

“And if I want to stop him…”

Bertrum’s eyes gleamed.

“You must remove one of those pillars.”

I sighed.

“Or all three.”

The raven fluffed his feathers approvingly.

“Now that,” he said, “sounds entertaining.”

I tapped my foot against the kitchen tile and tilted my head, thinking it through.

“Problem is,” I said slowly, “I can’t really hit him in the money.”

Bertrum leaned closer on the chair back, feathers shifting as he settled in.

“His reputation?” I continued. “Maybe.”

I lifted the coffee mug and took another sip.

“His control? Also maybe.”

Bertrum edged closer, clearly enjoying where this was going.

“Two out of three is not a bad strategic outcome,” he observed.

Then his beak clacked once.

“And if you make him angry enough, he may develop tunnel vision.”

I frowned slightly.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” the raven said with unsettling cheer, “he stops worrying about Miss Bailey and begins focusing exclusively on you.”

I let out a slow sigh through my nose.

“So basically,” I said, “I piss him off so badly that he only wants to kill me.”

Bertrum nodded.

“Yes.”

He paused, then added thoughtfully,

“Admittedly, that part is less ideal for you.”

I shrugged.

Far too casually, even for my own liking.

“Not the first jerk who’s wanted me dead,” I said, taking another sip of coffee. “Apparently having morals and a backbone offends a certain type of person.”

Bertrum regarded me for a moment.

“You do make it sound like a recurring professional hazard.”

“It is,” I replied.

The raven clicked his beak thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said, “if Mister Nadali is building a protection racket, then reputation is everything.”

I nodded slowly.

“Right.”

“If people believe he is untouchable,” Bertrum continued, “they will pay.”

“And if they believe he’s vulnerable,” I finished, “they start asking questions.”

The raven’s black eyes gleamed.

“Exactly.”

I stared into my coffee for a moment, the plan starting to take shape in that dangerous way ideas sometimes do.

“Which means,” I muttered, “I need to embarrass him.”

Bertrum fluffed his feathers slightly.

“Oh, I do like this plan already.”

I paused for a long moment before answering him.

“I don’t.”

I finished the last of my coffee and set the mug down on the counter with a soft clink.

“The more I think about it,” I said quietly, “the more likely it is I end up dead.”

Bertrum watched me carefully.

“And the cause of death?”

I rubbed a hand across my face.

“Trying to do the right thing.”

The kitchen was quiet for a few seconds except for the soft ticking of the coffee maker cooling down.

Finally Bertrum spoke.

“You say that as though it surprises you.”

I snorted.

“It doesn’t.”

The raven shifted his footing and regarded me with something that almost looked like sympathy.

“Then why the hesitation?”

I looked down at the empty mug in my hand.

“Because,” I said slowly, “it would be a lot easier to pretend this wasn’t my problem.”

Bertrum tilted his head.

“But you will not.”

“No,” I said.

Then I sighed.

“Unfortunately I’m cursed with a conscience.”

I brushed the last crumbs from the counter and pushed myself up from the chair.

Bertrum hopped once, spread his wings, and landed on my shoulder with the casual confidence of someone who had done it a thousand times before.

I rolled my shoulder slightly to settle his weight.

“Unfortunately for Mister Nadali,” I said, heading toward the hallway, “I’m a lot more competent as a mage than my professional reputation—or my self-deprecating humor—would suggest.”

Bertrum gave a thoughtful clack of his beak near my ear.

“Yes,” he said. “I had gathered that.”

I paused halfway down the hall and glanced back at him.

“Good,” I said.

“Because now comes the part where I prove it.”

“Nadali’s working heavy in spirit summoning and binding,” I said as I moved down the hall. “Elementals specifically.”

Bertrum shifted slightly on my shoulder, claws adjusting through the fabric of my shirt.

“Four of them,” he said. “You mentioned that.”

“Yeah. The classic set,” I replied. “Which means his whole toolkit probably leans that way too.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, thinking it through again.

“His jewelry, the amulet, the rings… the whole setup suggests he’s drawing from a Middle Eastern magical tradition. Or at least something heavily influenced by it.”

Bertrum gave a low croak of approval.

“Djinn-binding traditions have a long and respectable history.”

“Respectable might be pushing it,” I muttered.

“Effective, then.”

“That part, unfortunately, is accurate.”

I paused at the doorway and leaned against the frame for a second.

“He also seems to think I’m some kind of cheap dabbler.”

Bertrum chuckled in that dry raven way of his.

“Did he say that?”

“Not directly,” I said. “But the smugness was loud.”

I shook my head.

“Man was so pleased with himself I barely restrained the urge to punch the grin off his face.”

Bertrum tilted his head thoughtfully.

“A temptation you may yet indulge.”

I snorted.

“Yeah, well,” I said. “First I have to survive long enough to earn the opportunity.”

I walked into my library and sank into the old leather chair behind the mahogany desk.

The desk had belonged to a newspaper editor who died in 1947 and apparently never quite accepted the concept of retirement.

He still haunted it.

I leaned back and ignored the faint rattling of the pens in their holder as the ghost made his quiet displeasure known.

Bertrum, who was as accustomed to the house spirits as I was, paid it no attention at all.

“So,” he said from my shoulder. “What do you have?”

“A plan,” I replied.

I paused.

“A plan that’s more cowboy than wizard.”

Bertrum’s claws tightened slightly on my shoulder.

“That does sound concerning.”

I tapped the arm of the chair thoughtfully.

“I have four charms in my jacket pockets for the elemental problem,” I said. “Water, air, earth, fire. Each one tuned to disrupt and banish if I can get close enough.”

Bertrum leaned forward.

“And Nadali?”

“That,” I said, “is the issue.”

The raven tilted his head sharply.

“Wait.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You are actually planning to punch him in his smug face, aren’t you?”

I sighed.

Then nodded.

“First I banish his pets,” I said. “Then I beat down a wizard who thinks I’m some low-rent ghost hunter.”

Bertrum gave a low, approving croak.

I leaned forward slightly in the chair.

“Think about it,” I continued. “If I pull it off, his reputation takes a hit like a sledgehammer.”

“And if you expose the protection racket while doing it,” Bertrum added.

“Exactly,” I said.

“He loses credibility with the entire magical community.”

I steepled my fingers.

“Because nothing ruins someone like him faster than everyone realizing he’s just a greedy bastard feeding off honest spellcasters.”

“The magical community tends to be… self-regulating when it comes to justice,” Bertrum offered thoughtfully.

I gave a slow nod.

“And Bailey’s a witch,” I said. “Which means she has witch friends.”

I leaned back in the chair, letting the thought develop.

“Witches who will not take kindly to Nadali leaning on one of their own.”

Bertrum’s feathers ruffled slightly in quiet approval.

“Community retaliation can be… unpleasant.”

“Exactly,” I said.

I steepled my fingers and looked up at the ceiling for a moment.

“If I prove he’s breakable,” I continued, “and show everyone exactly what he’s doing…”

I shrugged.

“I’d bet money a poppet of him ends up in a jar of graveyard dirt with rusty nails and wrapped in bloodstained twine inside of twenty-four hours.”

Bertrum considered that.

Then nodded once.

“Yes,” the raven said calmly.

“That sounds about right.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I added, raising a hand slightly. “I adore witches.”

Bertrum gave me a sideways look.

“I’m dating one,” I continued.

The raven clicked his beak.

“Ah yes the Wendy, I like her most of the time.”

I ignored him.

“But if we’re being honest,” I said, taking a slow breath, “no one does a curse like a witch.”

Bertrum tilted his head.

“True.”

“It’s practically an art form in their magical tradition,” I said. “Precision work. Personal. Creative.”

I leaned back in the chair.

“Honestly, if Nadali gets on the wrong side of a coven, I almost feel sorry for him.”

Bertrum considered that for a moment.

Then shook his head slightly.

“No,” the raven said.

“You do not.”

I smirked.

“Okay, you got me there,” I admitted. “But the trick is figuring out how to beat him cleanly.”

Bertrum shifted on my shoulder, listening.

“I need to make sure everyone knows what he did,” I continued, ticking points off on my fingers. “And ideally avoid getting myself all kinds of dead in the process.”

The raven considered that.

“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Dying would complicate the plan.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

Bertrum hopped from my shoulder to the edge of the desk and peered down at me.

“So,” he said, “you require three outcomes.”

I nodded.

“Expose him.”

“Remove his elementals.”

“And survive.”

“Preferably in that order,” I said.

The raven’s eyes gleamed slightly.

“Then you do not need a larger spell.”

I frowned.

“No?”

Bertrum shook his head.

“You need an audience.”

I leaned forward a little in the chair.

“Go on.”

“If Mister Nadali is building a protection racket,” Bertrum said, “then he must interact with the very merchants he intends to intimidate.”

“Meaning he’ll show his face somewhere public.”

“Yes.”

The raven clicked his beak.

“And when he does…”

I finished the thought.

“…that’s when I knock his pillars out from under him.”

Bertrum nodded once.

“Exactly.”

I tapped my fingers along the rim of the desk.

Slowly, my smirk began to widen into what could only be described as a properly bastardly smile.

“Know what the most dangerous thing in the world is, Bertrum?”

The raven answered immediately.

“Large glass windows that are mirror reflective and therefore prone to causing fatal bird collisions.”

I blinked.

My brain stalled for a moment.

“No,” I said slowly. “I mean… I can see the hazard there, but—”

I rubbed my forehead.

“Where was I?”

Bertrum let out a low, patient croak.

“The plan.”

“Oh right.”

I leaned back in the chair and spread my hands.

“The most dangerous thing in the world,” I said, “is a wizard with prep time, a library, and absolutely nothing better to do with his day.”

Bertrum’s head tilted.

“That,” he admitted, “does sound considerably worse than a window.”