My brain’s struggling to catch up to Marcus’s rapid-fire line of questioning. "What does my appearance have to do with anything?"
Marcus straightens his already perfect tie and addresses Logan, instead of me. He’s competent. Even occasionally kind. But I can totally see why people think lawyers are assholes.
Marcus Ashby is a grade A certified one.
"Altering her appearance is our safest option. It won’t fool anyone actively searching, but it would prevent casual identification. Security cameras. Facial recognition. Random encounters."
The way he says it makes it sound like he’s discussing paint colors for a living room wall rather than magically altering my entire face.
Then again, he probably uses paint expensive enough to buy several of my faces.
"We need to be realistic about the timeline," Marcus continues. "The moment they get her in cuffs, we’ll lose all ability to keep her safe. Not without sparking something we don’t want."
Huh.
Somehow, I’d really thought the SED was kind of in the palm of the Conclave’s hand. It’s only now starting to really kick in that... well, they’re not. This mysterious enemy, unnamed and unexplained to a peon like me—seriously, if Marcus wasn’t so damn useful, I’d kick his shin—seems to have outplayed the Conclave when it comes to me.
Which is not a very reassuring thought, though it does make me wonder if they’re any better than the Conclave.
Though... they’re pinning me for Scott’s murder, so probably not.
Seriously, can a girl find an ally anywhere in this great, big world? One little ally? Is it too much to ask for some strange shadowy organization to have morals and care about autonomy, and come out of the woodwork to save a little human Catalyst being thrown around by random political agendas?
Yes, apparently, it is.
Logan’s hands rake through his hair, and he groans. "Absolutely not. No. She’s not an option."
Marcus doesn’t argue, just looks at Logan with the calm patience of someone who’s used to waiting out tantrums. Which, to be fair, is probably a job requirement when dealing with alpha werewolves on a regular basis. I get it. Even a beta werewolf was a giant baby sometimes.
But my brain’s all latched onto this strange witch they speak of. She’s got Logan unsettled, and they haven’t even spoken her name.
What’s the story here?
I want to know. Someone Logan knows but won’t use? Someone who could help keep me safe, but he’s refusing?
Is she an ex-girlfriend?
A second, more alarming thought rockets through me like an unwelcome shot of adrenaline.
Wait—is this about money?
I know Logan has plenty, but maybe this witch charges a fortune. But it isn’t like all his assets are tied up in investments, right? So...
The thought feels petty even as it forms, but I can’t shake it. If my boyfriend thinks I’m not worth paying a witch for when my life’s on the line, I get to be a little irrational.
I press my lips together and stare down at my sweet tea, determined to be mature. To not make assumptions. I’ve never been the jealous or petty kind of person.
Well, petty has always existed within me. I don’t usually bring it into my relationships, though.
But whatever this bond is between me and Logan? She’s a jealous, petty, grumpy, possessive little bitch, and she has no qualms in letting me know exactly how I should be feeling at any given moment.
Remember the nurse and kaboom incident? No? Well, I do.
Penelope leans close, her mouth inches from my ear as she stage-whispers, "Is he broke?"
Logan exhales loudly, the sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh.
Marcus drawls, "He better not be."
I choke on my tea, trying to smother a laugh that’s equal parts humor and hysteria. Because this is absurd. All of it.
The fact that I need magical plastic surgery to avoid prison for a murder I didn’t commit. The fact that there’s a mysterious witch in Logan’s past. The fact that I’m jealous of said witch.
The fact that my best friend is busy making eyes at Logan’s attorney while my life implodes. Though it’s pretty in-character for her, so it doesn’t actually bother me very much.
Logan turns to Marcus, his jaw tight. "Check for alternatives. Artifacts. Something we don’t need to rely on her for."
Marcus gives a single nod, already typing on his phone. His fingers move with supernatural speed, shooting off rapid-fire texts. I wonder who’s on the receiving end of those messages. What kind of connections does Marcus Ashby have? Can he really produce magical disguise artifacts on short notice?
I sneak a glance at Logan. The tense set of his shoulders, the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tight grip on his beer—his stress levels haven’t gone down. If anything, they’re rising with each passing second.
This isn’t about money. This is about something else entirely.
I clear my throat. "Can I ask something?"
Marcus, still focused on his phone, responds with a casual, "Of course."
Logan throws him a sharp look, and Marcus completely ignores it.
"Of course," he says, a beat behind the lawyer.
The power dynamic between these two is fascinating—and confusing. Logan clearly has the supernatural advantage, but Marcus acts like he holds all the cards.
"Who’s this witch—and why do we need to change how I look?" I ask, keeping my voice level.
Logan immediately bristles. "There’s nothing wrong with how you look."
I give him a deadpan stare. "Never thought there was. But appearance-changing magic isn’t exactly casual. What’s the real reason?"
Marcus answers without looking up from his phone. "Because it might keep you alive. And because we have to stack the odds in your favor any way we can."
It’s still surreal to hear it stated so plainly. My life depends on changing my identity. Like a TV show.
Supernatural Witness Protection. It’d probably go over pretty well.
Penelope, bless her heart, tries to lighten the mood. "So if she changes your face, can you ask for cheekbones like that elf actor? You know the one. With the stupid bone structure?"
Logan sighs. "That’s not how magic works." He hesitates, then turns to the lawyer. "Is it?"
Huh.
This opens so many possibilities.
It’s basically plastic surgery, right? But not permanent.
I find myself leaning forward, curious despite everything. "I kind of want to try. I’ll go blonde, too."
"Pink would be better," Penelope muses.
I shake my head. "No, we don’t want me standing out, remember? Pink would be terrible."
Logan looks pained.