Chapter 1: A Price Too High, a Body Too Small
The heist had been flawless, a masterclass in precision. Sal moved through the tower like a shadow, his gloved hands deftly plucking jewels from their cases and gold bars from their vaults. Not a single alarm blared, not a single guard stirred. By the time he slipped out the service entrance, the bag over his shoulder was heavy with loot, but his steps were light. The city glittered behind him, oblivious to the theft that had just occurred. He couldn’t help but grin as he vanished into the night.
The portal shimmered like liquid silver as he stepped through, the chaos of New York dissolving into the crisp, pine-scented air of the Scottish Highlands. The magic bag on his shoulder pulsed faintly, a reminder of its weight. His hideout—a weathered stone cottage tucked into the hills—was exactly as he’d left it. He dropped the bag onto the creaky wooden table with a satisfying thud, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Three thousand miles from the scene of the crime. Perfect.
The table groaned under the weight of the haul as he emptied the bag. Gold bars glinted in the dim light, jewels spilled across the surface like a pirate’s treasure. Sal leaned back, cracking his knuckles, and let out a long breath. “Finally,” he muttered, running a hand through his beard. “Time to disappear.” The thought of sandy beaches and endless margaritas danced in his mind. All he needed was one last favor from the universe.
The bell above the door jingled softly as Sal stepped into the shop, the air thick with the scent of lavender and something sharper, metallic, almost electric. His boots scuffed against the wooden floor, the sound swallowed by the clutter that surrounded him—cauldrons bubbling with liquids that shifted colors like oil on water, shelves crammed with books whose spines were cracked and faded, and trinkets dangling from the ceiling that caught the dim light in strange ways. He hesitated, his hand brushing the hilt of the knife hidden beneath his jacket, a habit he couldn’t shake even here.
From behind a curtain of shimmering beads, Tina Darkstar appeared, her red hair a fiery contrast to the muted tones of the shop.
The bell above the door jingled softly as Sal stepped into Tina’s shop, the scent of incense and something faintly metallic hitting him like a wall. His boots scuffed against the worn wooden floor, the sound swallowed by the low hum of bubbling cauldrons and the faint rustle of pages from ancient tomes stacked haphazardly on shelves. Tina stood behind the counter, her fiery red hair catching the dim light, her moss-green eyes already fixed on him with a knowing gleam. “Sal Jenkins,” she said, her voice smooth and teasing. “Right on time. Though I must say, you look a bit… tense.”
He didn’t sit, despite the velvet chair she gestured toward, his gaze darting around the room like a man cataloging exits. The place was a mess—vials of glowing liquids, jars filled with unidentifiable things, and a faint shimmer in the air that made his skin prickle. “Let’s just get this over with, Tina,” he said, his voice low and clipped. “I’m a busy man… or I was.”
She chuckled, a sound that felt like it was meant to disarm him, but it only made his shoulders tighten. “Patience, darling. Transformation is an art, not a microwave dinner.” Her fingers danced over the counter, brushing against a vial filled with something that swirled like liquid smoke.