Chapter 1: A Witch's Wages
The back room of Mountain’s Pharmacy tasted like dust and regret. Ashanti’s knees ached against the cold linoleum, a familiar discomfort drowned out by the press of thick, greenish cock against the back of her throat. Her boss, Gorak, grunted above her, one heavy hand tangled in her white dreads, guiding her head to a rhythm only he understood.
The air reeked of antiseptic and his musky sweat. Each thrust punched a wet gasp from her nose. She focused on the shelving unit to her left, on the half-empty bottles of cloudy cough syrup, their labels peeling like sunburned skin. His balls, heavy and tight, slapped against her chin with a damp, steady sound.
“Yeah, witch, just like that,” Gorak rasped, his voice gravel in a tin box.
She hollowed her cheeks, applying pressure where she knew he liked it, her magic utterly quiet, a tool she wouldn’t waste here. This was pure transaction. His grip tightened, yanking her head forward hard, holding her still as he fucked into the constricting ring of her lips. She willed her throat to relax, her eyes watering as he hit his depth. A low, guttural groan erupted from him. He pulled out abruptly, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his gleaming tip.
“On the couch. Now.”
The leather couch sighed, a stained, ancient thing that had seen more of her than any of her lovers. She turned, bending over the arm, the cool, cracked leather sticking to her forearms. She heard the rip of a foil packet, but he tossed it aside. “No need,” he grunted. His hand slid between her legs, two thick fingers pushing into her, scissoring roughly. She was wet—her body knew the drill, even if her mind was cataloging the inventory she needed to skim for the calming tincture Logan would ask for later.
He positioned himself, the broad head of his cock nudging against her. He didn’t wait. He shoved in, one brutal, complete thrust that forced the air from her lungs in a sharp uhn. No tenderness, no warm-up. Just filling her, stretching her, a thick, relentless invasion.
“Fuck, still so tight,” he muttered, and began to piston.
The couch springs screamed in time with his thrusts. Each drive hammered her pelvis into the armrest. She bit her lip, turning her face into the leather, smelling old potions and older sex. Her fingers clawed at the cushion. It was a brutal, physical punctuation to her shift. His rhythm was mechanical, powerful, a creature taking his due. She could feel the swell of him inside her, the thickening that signaled his end. His pace became erratic, jagged.
“Gonna fill you up,” he growled, hips stuttering. He slammed home and held, a deep, shuddering pulse as the first hot jet flooded her core. He grunted, pumping again, another load, and another, until she felt the overspill, a slick, warm trickle down her inner thigh.
He collapsed against her back for a moment, his weight immense, smelling of sulfur and cheap soap. Then he pushed himself off. The sudden emptiness was followed by the immediate, cold drip of his cum onto the leather. She straightened up, her muscles trembling faintly.
Gorak was already zipping his trousers. He pulled a roll of cash from his pocket, peeled off eight hundred-dollar bills, and dropped them on the stained cushion beside her. “For the special consultation,” he said, a smirk in his yellowed eyes.
“Appreciate it, boss.” Her voice was hoarse. She scooped up the money, folded it twice, and shoved it deep into her bra. She pulled her dress down, her movements efficient, already separating from what just happened.
“Clean yourself up. The night shipment needs sorting.”
She nodded, heading for the small sink in the corner. She used paper towels, cold water, wincing as she cleaned between her legs. In the speckled mirror, her reflection looked tired, but her dark eyes were calm, resolved. This was just part of the economy. She smoothed her dress, ran a hand over her dreads, and walked out, past Gorak counting blister packs of painkillers, and into the neon-drenched night.
The apartment buzzed with low energy and the sharp, skunky scent of high-grade weed. In the kitchen, under the sickly yellow fluorescent light, James carefully nudged a bud onto the digital scale. The number flickered: 3.5 grams. He dumped it into a baggie, his movements precise.
Logan leaned against the counter, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. He took a pull, the liquid fire barely making him blink. The scar through his left eyebrow pulled slightly as he watched his brother work. “Moving slow,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
“Quality control,” James replied, not looking up. “We’re not the Aces’ garbage crew. This is premium. It gets weighed right.” He shot Logan a glance. “And you drinking the profits.”
Logan just grunted, offering the bottle. James took it, swigged, and set it down with a thunk.
From down the hall, barely muffled by the thin bedroom door, came the sounds. The rhythmic, headboard-knocking-against-plasterwall thump. A high, theatrical gasp. Jackie’s voice, clear as a bell: “Oh, right there! Yes, fuck me harder, you greedy bastard!”
James rolled his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. “She’s feeding well tonight.”
“Sounding like a bad trid,” Logan muttered, his brooding expression deepening. He didn’t like the strangers, the noise, the risk. But the apartment was Jackie’s name on the lease. This was her territory too.
The front door clicked open and Ashanti walked in, enveloping the entryway in a wave of cold night air and the faint, clinging scent of pharmacy antiseptic. She kicked off her shoes.
“Hey, witch,” James said, his eyes sharp. He took in her posture, the slight weariness around her eyes. “Busy shift?”
“Something like that.” She drifted into the kitchen, opening the fridge. The light illuminated her face. She pulled out a bottle of water. “You two look like you’re plotting a funeral.”
“Just business,” Logan said, his dark eyes tracking her. He could smell it on her—sex, musk, a hint of orc. It was none of his business. But it was his pack. He noticed things.
Ashanti unscrewed the cap, drank deeply, and leaned on the counter opposite them. She watched James’s practiced hands. “Need any help?”
“We’re good,” James said. “You?”
“I’m good.” She patted her bra, the crinkle of bills audible.
A particularly loud moan echoed down the hall, followed by a male voice, gruff and desperate. “Oh god, Jackie, what are you doing to me?”
James chuckled darkly. “Succubus shit.”
The bedroom door flew open. Jackie stood silhouetted in the light, wrapped in a sheer lavender robe that hid nothing. Her pink hair was a wild corona. She looked sated, glowing, her tan skin shimmering with a faint, otherworldly patina. She sauntered down the hall, a rumpled, dazed-looking man in a cheap suit stumbling after her, trying to put his shoes on.
“Cash is on the dresser, sweetie,” Jackie said over her shoulder, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. “Don’t forget your wallet.” She breezed into the kitchen, ignoring the man’s fumbling exit. The front door shut behind him with a definitive click.
“Ugh, businessmen. All stamina, no imagination.” She hopped up to sit on the counter next to the scale, swinging her legs. “What’s up, party people? Oh, Ash, you’re back. You smell like… industrial cleaner and regret.”
“Charming,” Ashanti said, but a smile touched her lips.
Jackie leaned over, plucked a small bud from the scale, and sniffed it. “This the new batch? Smells potent.” She looked at Logan, her eyes glinting. “Moody? You need a session. You’re giving me a tension headache.”
Logan ignored her, finishing the whiskey.
James sealed another bag. “It’s strong. Might mellow somebody out.”
Logan finally spoke, his voice cutting through the kitchen’s haze. “We need mellow. Aces were at the southside drop. Skimming. Said the take was light.”
The air changed. James’s hands went still. Jackie stopped swinging her legs. The refrigerator’s hum grew loud.
“How light?” James asked, his tone flat, all business now.
“Twenty percent. They called it a ‘neighborhood tax.’” Logan’s knuckles were white around the whiskey bottle. The territorial itch under his skin was a live wire. A challenge to their operation was a challenge to him, personally.
James let out a slow breath, calculating. “That’s not a tax. That’s a test. See if we push back.”
“So push back,” Jackie said, examining a pink fingernail. “Let Logan go wolf on ‘em. A little fur, a little fear. Problem solved.”
“It’s not that simple,” James snapped. “You start a war with the Aces, we lose our distribution, our protection, and probably this apartment. It’s not just a fight. It’s economics.”
Ashanti watched them, the familiar tension settling in her shoulders. This was the constant tightrope. She reached into her bra, pulled out the folded stack of hundreds, and smoothed it on the chipped Formica table. It lay there, a small, hopeful rectangle against the grime.
“He’s built that way. How much are we behind and on what?” Ashanti sighed, placing her money on the table.
James looked at the cash, then at her. A flicker of gratitude was swallowed by grim reality. “Rent’s due Friday. We’re short four hundred. Then there’s the vig to the Aces for the territory permit—another six. That’s before the electric, before food.”
“My eight hundred covers the rent gap,” Ashanti said. “Vig is something else.”
“My next client’s a premium,” Jackie offered, though her smirk was gone. “Mage from the galleries. Pays double for… atmospheric feeding. That’s tomorrow night. Can we float until then?”
“The Aces don’t do floats,” Logan grumbled. He pushed off the counter, a restless energy in his movement. The room felt too small for his frustration.
“Then we pay them something tomorrow,” James said, thinking aloud. “A show of good faith. The rest after Jackie’s payday. We just need to stall.” He looked at Ashanti’s money, then at his brother. “We take Ash’s eight, add it to what we have from the last sack we sold. That’s enough for a partial to Dre, the Ace’s collector. It says we’re trying. It might buy a week.”
“Dre doesn’t do partials,” Logan said.
“He will if the alternative is you getting upset on his doorstep,” James replied, a thread of dark humor returning. “He’s an asshole, not an idiot.”
A heavy fist knocked on the front door. Not a client’s tentative tap. This was the bang of authority.
Every one of them froze.
Logan’s head lifted, his nostrils flaring. “Dre,” he muttered. “Smells like cheap cigars and aggression.”
“Speak of the devil,” Jackie whispered, pulling her robe tighter.
James swept Ashanti’s cash off the table in one smooth motion, shoving it into his pocket. He gestured sharply. Logan melted back into the shadows of the hallway, a silent, looming presence. Ashanti leaned against the sink, trying to look casually bored. Jackie pasted on her professional, dazzling smile.
James walked to the door and opened it.
Dre filled the doorway. He was a mountain of a man, a human who compensated with mass and menace. A cigar stub was tucked in the corner of his mouth. His small eyes took in the scene: the scale on the table, the baggies, the two women.
“James,” Dre said, his voice like gravel shifting. “Logan. Collecting for the month. You’re light from the southside drop. Makes the boss nervous.”
“We’re aware,” James said, his posture easy but his eyes sharp. “We had a packaging issue. It’s being corrected. You’ll have the full amount next week.”
Dre chuckled, a dry, unpleasant sound. “Next week is for people who pay on time. You’re this week people.” He stepped inside, forcing James back. His gaze landed on Ashanti. “Witch. You good for potions? The boss has… arthritis.”
“I’m a pharmacy technician,” Ashanti said, her voice cool. “He should see a doctor.”
Dre’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He looked back at James. “I’m not leaving empty-handed. It’s bad for my reputation.”
From the hallway darkness, Logan’s voice emerged, low and definitive. “You will today.”
Dre turned, unimpressed. “There you are. Mood wolf. You gonna make me?”
The silence was a held breath. James could feel the potential energy in the room about to snap into something kinetic and bloody.
“We have sixteen hundred,” James said quickly, pulling the combined cash from his pocket. He held it out. “It’s a gesture. The rest in seven days. You know we’re good for it. Our product is the best on the block.”
Dre looked at the money, then at Logan’s shadowed form. He weighed the inconvenience of a fight now against the certainty of future payment—and the trouble of explaining a war over a partial debt. He snatched the cash.
“Seven days. Not a hour more. And the southside skimming stops being an issue, you understand? You handle your business, or the Aces will handle it for you. And we don’t use scales.”
He tucked the money inside his jacket, gave Jackie a slow, appraising look that made her smile turn sharp as glass, and turned to leave. He paused at the threshold.
“Nice place you got. Be a shame if something happened to it.”
Then he was gone, his heavy footsteps echoing down the stairwell.
The door clicked shut. The spell broke.
Jackie let out a dramatic breath. “Well, he was a ray of fucking sunshine.”
Logan emerged from the hallway, his eyes glowing a faint, dangerous amber in the dim light. “We just gave him everything we have.”
“We bought a week,” James corrected, rubbing his temples. “Now we need to make sixteen hundred in seven days, plus the rest for rent, plus replace the stash we just sold to make that cash. Jackie, your mage client just became the most important man in your life.”
“No pressure,” Jackie sang, but her eyes were serious.
Ashanti walked to the window, peering through the blinds at the retreating taillights of Dre’s car. “He’ll be back. And he’ll want more.”
“I know,” James said. He looked at Logan, at the simmering violence in his brother’s stance. “We need a new play. Something bigger than baggies.”
Logan met his gaze. The unspoken hung between them. The sort of play that came with even riskier stakes.
“I’m open to suggestions,” James said, to the room, to the city outside their dirty windows, to the relentless pressure that was their life.
After a long moment of silence, Ashanti spoke. “There a new club on the eastside. In the Red Light District. While Jackie is with her client… I can get in the game. Score some money.”
The words hung there, simple and devastating.
Logan moved. It was a blur of dark motion that ended with him standing inches from Ashanti, his body blocking the fridge light. The air around him felt dense, charged. “No.”
“Logan—” James started.
“I said no.” Logan’s voice was a low growl, the human consonants straining against something older. “You don’t go there. That’s not your game.”
“It’s a game with fast cash,” Ashanti replied, holding his gaze. Her voice was steady, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the counter’s edge. “It’s just energy. I can manage it. Better than Jackie can. I can… compartmentalize.”
Jackie snorted. “Oh, honey. No you can’t. That’s the whole point. They don’t want you to compartmentalize. They want you to feel like a goddamn revelation. It’s exhausting.” She picked at her nail polish. “Besides, the Velvet is a meat market. They’d eat a sweet little witch like you alive.”
“I’m not sweet,” Ashanti said, a flash of heat in her eyes. “And I’m not little. I’m practical. We need sixteen hundred in a week. My boss is tapped out. Your one mage isn’t enough. Logan and James can’t move the weed fast enough without starting a war. So we diversify. It’s logistics.”
“It’s my territory,” Logan snarled. The possessive edge in his voice was primal, pack-deep. “You don’t walk into a den of wolves and vampires and johns looking for magic tricks and think you’re in control. They smell need. They smell witch. They’ll own you by the end of the first song.”
“So you come with me.” Ashanti’s statement silenced the room again. “You and James. You’re the muscle. You’re the scent markers. You stand in the back looking like violent poetry and make sure the deals stay clean. I do the work. We split the take. It’s a business operation.”
James let out a slow whistle, running a hand over his face. The cynical gears in his head were turning, weighing risk against reward. “The Velvet just opened. They’re still setting up their… talent roster. They might be open to a new attraction. ‘A witch’s touch.’ Premium rates.”
“You’re not seriously considering this,” Logan said, whirling on his brother.
“I’m considering not getting my knees broken by Dre!” James’s voice cracked like a whip. “I’m considering keeping a roof over Jackie’s head that isn’t a gutter. I’m considering options, Logan! We’re out of them. You want to go rob a bank? You want to ask the Aces for a loan? This? This is a service industry. We have a unique service to offer.”
“She’s not a service!” Logan’s fist came down on the kitchen table. The scale jumped, a baggie of weed tumbling to the floor. “She’s Ashanti.”
“And I’m right here!” Ashanti pushed off the counter, stepping into Logan’s space. She had to look up, but she didn’t back down. The faint scent of her magic rose around her—bergamot, rosemary, cold stone. “You don’t get to decide what I am or what I do. You don’t own my choices. This family—this pack—is drowning. I’m throwing a line. You don’t have to like it. You just have to decide if you’d rather stand there and growl, or help me pull.”
The refrigerator clicked off. In the sudden quiet, the distant wail of a siren filtered through the window.
Logan stared down at her. The anger in his eyes bled into something else, a raw, frustrated fear. He looked over at James, seeking an ally, but found only grim calculation. He looked at Jackie, who gave a tiny, helpless shrug.
“One night,” James said, his voice quiet, final. “We try it one night. We scope it out. Ashanti talks to the manager. We set rules. A safety protocol. If it feels wrong, we walk. No harm, no foul. We find another way.”
“And if it feels right?” Logan asked, the words barely audible.
“Then we make the money,” Ashanti said. “And we live another month.”
Logan turned away, his broad shoulders tense. He stared at the wall, at a crack in the plaster that shaped like a lightning bolt. The beast inside him paced, restless, hostile to the plan, to the exposure, to the very thought. But the man, the brother, knew the math. Knew the smell of coming ruin.
“Fine.” The word was gravel. “But I’m at the door. The whole time. You look at me. You give a signal. Anything. And it ends.”
“Agreed,” Ashanti said. The tension in her own shoulders loosened, just a fraction.
Jackie hopped off the counter, the mood shifting with her movement. “Well, since we’re all embarking on a thrilling new career in vice, I’m gonna need to look the part.” She winked at Ashanti. “Don’t worry, witch. I’ll loan you something devastating. You’re gonna need to look less like a pharmacy tech and more like a sin worth committing.”
Ashanti managed a weak smile. The reality of it was starting to sink in, a cold knot in her stomach. She pushed it down. It was just energy. It was just transaction.
James picked up the fallen baggie, brushing it off. “Saturday night. The Velvet will be packed. We go in at ten.” He looked at each of them. “We’re all clear? This is a job. Nothing more. We get in, we get paid, we get out.”
Logan didn’t nod. He just kept staring at the crack in the wall, as if he could see the future splintering through it.