03/02/2025
Because I'm having a bitch of a time keeping one project straight, let's try two more! Here's a sneaky peaky at Infernal Highway. Out soon. Maybe. We'll see. Go toss down a cold one or three and check back.
The ceiling’s got more cracks than a m**h head’s mirror. I count them for the third time tonight, pretending it’s some kind of meditation bulls**t.
It’s not.
It’s just me trying to keep the goddamn ghosts at bay.
The ones in my head are louder than the ones outside, mostly because the ones outside are real, and they don’t give a f**k about my mental health.
The ashtray’s overflowing, and the room smells like a bar after last call.
I tell myself I’m done with all of it. Magic, monsters, the endless parade of s**t that goes bump in the night.
I’m retired.
Retired means you get to sit in your underwear and drink until you forget your own name.
Or at least that’s what I thought.
Then the phone rings.
It’s not a friendly sound. I stare at it like it’s a snake coiled on the table. My hand twitches toward it, but I hesitate.
Let it go to voicemail. Let whoever’s on the other end deal with their own problems.
I’m out.
Done.
Finished.
But I pick it up anyway. Because apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
“Garrett,” I growl into the receiver, because answering with “hello” is for people who still have hope.
“Blake.” Murphy’s voice is off—too stiff, too careful. Like he’s walking on broken glass and trying not to bleed. “We’ve got a situation.”
I take a drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke fill my lungs before I exhale it slowly. “Murphy, if this is about your f**king fantasy football league, I swear to Christ…”
“It’s Graves.” He cuts me off, and there’s som**hing in his tone that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Ethan Graves. One of my old trainees. Kid’s got balls of steel and a brain to match. Or at least he did the last time I saw him.
“What about him?” I ask, though I already know I’m not going to like the answer.
“He called me an hour ago. Panicked. Like, full-blown, hyperventilating, can’t-put-a-sentence-together panic. They were on a raid, some warehouse down by the docks. Supposed to be a routine Vice/Narcotics bust. But they found som**hing.”
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose like that’ll somehow stop the headache that’s already forming. “Let me guess. Not drugs. Not guns.”
“No,” Murphy says, and his voice drops lower, like he’s afraid someone might overhear. “Som**hing else. An artifact. Graves didn’t say much, but whatever it is, it’s got him spooked. And Blake, you know Graves. That kid doesn’t scare easy.”
“So, what do you want me to do about it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Murphy hesitates, and for a second, I think he might actually let it go. But then he says, “You know what it is, don’t you?”
I don’t answer. Because yeah, I probably do. And that’s the problem.
The cigarette burns low between my fingers, ash crumbling onto the cracked linoleum floor. I don’t even remember lighting it. The room smells like stale smoke and regret, a cocktail of my own making. The ceiling stares back at me, pockmarked with water stains that look like faces if you squint long enough. Tonight, they’re laughing.
Murphy’s voice cuts through the static in my head. “Blake, listen to me. Graves isn’t some rookie with an overactive imagination. You know him. Kid’s got nerves of steel. If he’s freaking out, it’s because he saw som**hing real.”
I take a drag, the ni****ne doing f**k-all to calm the storm brewing in my gut. “Real,” I repeat, the word tasting like bile. “Yeah, Murphy, I’m real familiar with ‘real.’ You remember how that worked out for me last time? Spoiler alert: not great.”
“Don’t give me that s**t,” Murphy snaps, and I can hear the edge in his voice, the one he gets when he’s trying to keep it together but the cracks are starting to show.
The cigarette trembles in my hand. F**k. My aura’s acting up again. The lamp on the table flickers, casting jagged shadows across the wall. I swear under my breath, stubbing the cigarette out harder than necessary. “Normal died a long time ago, Murphy. You of all people should know that.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I can almost see him pacing, the limp from that goddamn knife wound slowing him down but not stopping him. “I’m not asking you to suit up and play hero. I’m telling you to listen. Whatever Graves found, it’s tied to the s**t you’ve seen. The stuff we never put in the reports. The stuff that makes people like us drink too much and sleep too little.”
I lean back in the chair, the springs groaning like they’re about to give out. “And what do you want me to do about it? I’m retired, remember? Crazy old Blake Garrett, off the grid, out of the game. Let the fresh-faced kids handle it.”
“Bulls**t,” Murphy growls, and there it is—the tone that says he’s not backing down. “You’re not out, Blake. You’re just hiding. And whatever Graves stumbled into, it’s not som**hing some new boot can handle. You know that better than anyone.”
I close my eyes, but that just makes the memories worse.
The blood. The screams. The things that shouldn’t exist but do anyway. “Not my problem,” I mutter, but the words feel hollow, even to me.
Murphy’s quiet for a moment, and then he says it, low and deadly serious. “It’s not just a case, Blake. It’s som**hing wrong.”
The lamp flickers again, then dies with a soft pop. I sit in the dark, the silence pressing in.
Murphy doesn’t have to say more. I already know he’s right.
And that’s the worst part.
Because when Murphy’s right, people die.
“Wrong?” I snort, lighting another cigarette with a flick of my lighter.
The flame dances too long, like it’s mocking me. “Murphy, everything’s wrong. That’s the goddamn job description. What’s so special about this one?”
He hesitates. I can hear it in the static of the line, the way his breath hitches like he’s holding back som**hing he doesn’t want to say.
That’s when I know it’s bad. Murphy doesn’t hesitate. Murphy’s the guy who kicks down doors and asks questions later.
If he’s hesitating, it’s because he’s scared. And that’s a problem.
“Graves said he found som**hing,” Murphy finally says, his voice tight. “Not drugs. Not guns. Som**hing... else. And there was this... symbol. Carved into the floor. He said it looked like—”
“Like a spiral with a line through it,” I finish for him, my voice flat. The cigarette falls from my fingers, landing on the carpet with a hiss.
I don’t move to pick it up. My stomach’s already churning, bile rising in my throat.
I know that symbol. I’ve seen it before. In my nightmares. In places I’ve tried to forget.
Murphy’s silence is deafening. “You know what it means,” he says, and it’s not a question.
“Yeah,” I mutter, staring at the cigarette smoldering on the floor. “I know what it means.”
It’s the sigil of the Legati Magis. The black Mages. The ones who don’t just dabble in power—they f**king drown in it.
And if they’re leaving their mark in Ashboro, it’s not just a case. It’s a warning.
A declaration of war. And war with the Legati?
That’s not som**hing you walk away from.
It’s som**hing you survive.
Barely.
“Blake,” Murphy says, his voice low, urgent. “Whatever this is, it’s big. And Graves... he’s not cut out for this. You know that. He’s a good kid, but he’s in over his head. You’re the only one who can—”
“Stop,” I snap, cutting him off. My hand’s already reaching for my jacket, hanging on the back of the chair.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to walk back into that world, to drag myself through the blood and the nightmares again.
But I don’t have a choice. Not when the Legati are involved. Not when people I care about—people like Murphy, like Graves—are in the crosshairs.
“I’m coming,” I say, shrugging on the jacket. It smells like old leather and gunpowder, like the life I tried to leave behind. “But this isn’t a favor, Murphy. This is me cleaning up a mess before it gets worse. And when it’s done, I’m gone. You hear me? Gone.”
“Loud and clear,” Murphy says, and I can hear the relief in his voice. “I’ll send you the address.”
I hang up without another word, staring at the phone in my hand. The screen flickers, the battery icon blinking red.
Of course. Things always break around me when I’m pi**ed.
I toss the phone onto the table and grab my keys, my fingers brushing the hilt of the knife I keep in my pocket.
Old habits die hard.
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