Page 8 of Blood & Ash

Four nights. Four nights of tests that went nowhere. The samples did nothing predictable. They didn’t react to heat like organic compounds should. They didn’t crystallize. They didn’t oxidize. They sat in their vials and defied every tool he had.

He’d called Cole on night two. Cole had come over, taken one look at the setup, and said, “That’s witch work.” He’d said it flat, without judgment, the same tone he’d use to report the weather. Marcus had asked if Cole could identify it. Cole had shaken his head. “Not my kind. If Marin were here, maybe.” Marin was in Richmond with Emma. School visit. They wouldn’t be back until Sunday.

So, Marcus kept testing. He’d ordered reagents. He’d pulled textbooks he hadn’t opened since medical school. He’d spent three hours on the phone with a toxicologist in Charlottesville who’d finally said, “Marcus, if it’s not in the database, send it to the state lab.” He hadn’t sent it. State labs asked questions. State labs wanted names.

The lamp guttered. The flame bent sideways, caught a draft from the half-open door, and straightened. The shadows jumped and settled.

Marcus pressed both hands flat on the examination table and leaned forward. The wood was cool under his palms. The vials stood in their row, indifferent.

“Not venom, not injury,” he said to the quiet room. “What are you?”

The lamp flickered. No answer came.

He straightened. His shoulders ached. He’d been hunched over the table for hours. He reached for his log, flipped to a clean page, and wrote the date at the top. His handwriting was steady. It was country doctor handwriting, practical.

He wrote: Sample series incomplete. No identification possible with current methods. Ruled out: venom (all regional species), heavy metal toxicity, alkaloid poisoning, infectious agent, inflammatory response. Samples show anomalous behavior under heat and centrifugation. Recommend further analysis by specialized practitioner. Caveat: samples exhibit properties inconsistent with standard medical taxonomy.

He read it over. Struck through the last sentence. Wrote instead: I don’t know what this is.

He closed the log, set his pen beside it, and looked at the vials.

He would call Cole in the morning. Cole would know someone, or Cole’s mate would know someone. The witch community had its own channels. Marcus had treated enough of them over the years to know that much. They kept their business close. They solved their own problems.

He capped each vial. Wrapped them in a clean cloth and set the bundle in the locked drawer of his desk. The key went into his pocket. The lamp needed oil. He would refill it tomorrow.

Marcus turned off the gas to the burner. He checked the door. The brick held it open three inches to the night air. The trees moved beyond the parking area, a faint stir of leaves in the dark. No cars came, and no footsteps crossed the gravel.

He blew out the lamp and stood in the dark. The samples were secure. The tests were recorded. The work was done for tonight.

He locked the drawer and went home.

Chapter 2

Del unlocked the front door of Nightshade & Nettle at six-fifteen. The morning air carried the smell of cut grass and the bakery two doors down. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, turning the sign to OPEN without looking at it.

The shop smelled of beeswax and dried herbs. She moved through the front room on habit. Three lavender sachets went onto the porch hooks, tied with twine she’d cut the night before. The window display needed straightening. She adjusted the jars of dried chamomile and rose hips, lining them up by height. The chamomile jar had a chip on the rim. She turned it so the chip faced the wall.

The wooden counter was worn smooth in the center from years of elbows and forearms. Del wiped it down with a cloth dampened in vinegar water. The rag left streaks that dried clear. She folded the cloth and set it under the counter.

The first customer arrived at seven. The bell above the door rang once. Del looked up.

Mrs. Harlow came in every Tuesday for a sleep tincture. She was sixty-eight, with white hair pinned in a bun and glasses on a chain around her neck. She wore a cardigan despite the warm morning. She placed her purse on the counter and waited.

“Same as last week?” Del asked.

“Please. The dreams are better but I’m still waking at three.”

Del reached for the tincture bottle on the shelf behind her. It was valerian and lemon balm in an apple cider vinegar base. She measured two ounces into a smaller dropper bottle and sealed it.

“That’ll be twelve.”

Mrs. Harlow counted out the bills. Her hands were spotted with age. She placed the money on the counter and didn’t pick up the tincture.

“Did you hear about the shifters?” Mrs. Harlow asked.

Del capped the dropper bottle. “Which shifters?”

“The pack. Two of them are sick. Fever that won’t break. My neighbor’s son works with one of them at the lumberyard. Says the man can barely stand. Trouble breathing. Ribs that ache like something’s pressing from the inside.” Mrs. Harlow adjusted her glasses. “They tried everything. Fever-break tea, aspirin, cold compresses. Nothing touches it.”