Updated Apr 13, 2026 • ~18 min read
Chapter 3: Forced Partnership
Oliver
Oliver has been sitting in Sage Thornwood’s apartment for exactly twenty minutes, explaining the pattern of disappearances in meticulous detail, and he’s pretty sure the witch is debating whether helping him solve a series of magical murders is worth not throwing him out the window.
She’s listening, at least—sitting across from him with that massive leather-bound grimoire open in front of her, taking notes in handwriting that’s surprisingly neat for someone who seems to approach most interactions like a feral cat approaching a bath—but her expression hasn’t softened from the cold mask she put on the moment he mentioned her coven.
Oliver knows he’s on dangerous ground. He knows that bringing up someone’s murdered family is about as tactful as showing up to a funeral and asking if they’re going to finish the deceased’s sandwich, but he also knows that if he doesn’t make Sage understand the urgency, she’s going to kick him out and face this threat alone, and that’s unacceptable for reasons Oliver doesn’t want to examine too closely.
“The timeline is accelerating,” Oliver says, pulling up another file on his phone and turning it so Sage can see. “First disappearance to second was two weeks. Second to third was only twelve days. If the pattern continues—”
“The next witch will vanish within a week,” Sage finishes, voice flat but eyes sharp, analyzing the data the way Oliver imagines she analyzes magical theory—thoroughly, ruthlessly, missing nothing. “Which means we have very little time to identify the entity and even less time to stop it.”
“Right. So I was thinking—”
“You know what happened to my coven,” Sage interrupts, and it’s not a question, just a statement delivered with the kind of icy precision that makes Oliver’s grandmother’s voice echo in his head, warning him that some battles can’t be won with charm alone.
Oliver meets her eyes—green and furious and hiding something that looks like grief so profound it has its own gravity—and makes a choice to be honest instead of diplomatic. “I know the official report. Five years ago, the Thornwood Coven—thirteen witches, all hereditary practitioners, based in Salem—disappeared over the course of three months. No bodies were recovered. Magical signatures were erased. You were the only survivor, and you refused to give a statement to the magical authorities beyond ‘unknown entity, overwhelmingly powerful.’ The case was filed as unsolved.”
Sage’s hand clenches around her pen, and Oliver watches the wood actually crack under the pressure, splitting down the middle as magic flares briefly around her fingers—unconscious display of power, the kind that happens when emotions override control.
“How dare you—” she starts, voice deadly quiet, and Oliver knows he has about five seconds before she either kicks him out or turns him into something small and unpleasant.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, can hear the genuine remorse in his own voice because he knows what it’s like to have old wounds prodded, knows what it feels like to have strangers treat your trauma like a case file. “I’m sorry for investigating your past without permission. I’m sorry for bringing up something so painful. But if it’s the same killer—and I think it is—then more witches are going to die, and I think you’re the only person who might have information that can help us stop it.”
“Us,” Sage repeats, and the word drips with skepticism. “There is no ‘us.’ There’s me, a witch who barely survived the first time, and you, a human with trace magic who’s going to get himself killed.”
“I’m a curse-breaker,” Oliver corrects, trying not to be offended by the dismissal because he’s heard it before, has spent his entire career being underestimated by practitioners who think power matters more than skill. “I might not be able to throw lightning or whatever it is you do, but I can unravel magical workings, and I can see patterns that pure practitioners miss because they’re too used to thinking in magical terms.”
“That’s a lovely speech,” Sage says, and her tone suggests it’s anything but lovely. “But it doesn’t change the fact that whatever killed my coven is beyond your ability to fight. It’s beyond my ability to fight, and I’m significantly more powerful than you’ll ever be.”
The words should sting—would sting, if Oliver didn’t recognize them for what they are: fear disguised as arrogance, an attempt to push him away before he becomes another casualty. He’s seen this before, in clients who’ve lost too much and are terrified of losing more, and he knows that arguing about power levels isn’t going to convince her.
So instead he tries truth. “You’re right,” he says simply, and Sage blinks, clearly not expecting agreement. “I’m not as powerful as you. I’ll probably be a liability in a direct confrontation. But I have resources—Daniel’s research library is extensive, I have contacts in the curse-breaking community across the East Coast, and I have experience identifying and dismantling complex magical workings. And most importantly, I’m offering help when you clearly don’t have anyone else.”
It’s a low blow, bringing up her isolation, but Oliver can see from the way her apartment is warded—designed to keep people out rather than welcome them in—and from the way she flinched when he mentioned her coven that Sage Thornwood has spent the last five years alone, and that loneliness is going to get her killed if she tries to face this threat solo.
Sage is quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the grimoire in front of her, and Oliver can see the war happening behind her eyes—the desire to refuse fighting against the knowledge that he’s right, that she needs help whether she wants to admit it or not.
“One week,” she finally says, and Oliver feels something in his chest loosen because he was genuinely uncertain whether she’d agree. “You follow my lead, don’t touch anything magical without my explicit permission, and shut up when I tell you to. If you become a liability, I’m leaving you behind. Are we clear?”
“Crystal clear,” Oliver says, and he can’t help grinning because despite the conditions, despite the obvious reluctance in every line of Sage’s body, she said yes, and that’s a victory.
“I can work with two of those things,” he adds, because honesty seems to be working and also because the “shut up” condition is probably unrealistic given that Oliver has been told his entire life that he talks too much when he’s thinking through problems.
Sage’s glare could probably melt steel. “Then we’re going to have problems.”
“Probably,” Oliver agrees cheerfully, and he pulls out his notebook—actual paper, because he’s found that taking notes by hand helps him process information better—and clicks his pen. “So. Tell me about the entity. What did it look like? How did it attack? What kind of magic did it use?”
For a moment, he thinks Sage is going to refuse, is going to tell him that her trauma isn’t his business and kick him out after all, but then she takes a slow breath and starts talking, and Oliver realizes he’s being given something precious and terrible—trust, however reluctant.
“I didn’t see it,” Sage says, staring at a point past Oliver’s shoulder like she’s looking into the past. “Not really. It came at night, always at night, and it didn’t have a physical form—or if it did, it was wreathed in shadow too thick to penetrate. What I remember is the cold. It got so cold when it appeared, like all the heat was being drained from the air, and then witches would just… stop. Mid-sentence, mid-spell, they’d freeze and this look would come over their faces—terror, recognition maybe—and then they’d vanish. Not transported, not killed in place. Just erased, like they’d never existed.”
Oliver writes quickly, cataloging every detail. “Did they scream? Fight back?”
“Some tried,” Sage says, and her voice is distant now, detached in the way people get when they’re recounting trauma. “My aunt Maria managed to throw a fireball before she vanished. It went right through the entity like it was smoke. Protective wards didn’t slow it down. Binding spells had no effect. It was like trying to fight darkness itself.”
“How did you survive?” Oliver asks quietly, and Sage’s gaze snaps back to him, sharp and defensive.
“Luck,” she says flatly. “And cowardice. I hid when it came for me, used every protection spell I knew and sealed myself in a safe room my grandmother built. It tried to get in—I could feel it testing the wards, could hear it whispering things I couldn’t understand—but eventually it left. When I came out the next morning, everyone was gone. Thirteen witches, vanished like they’d never existed.”
Oliver’s hand has stilled on his notebook, pen hovering over paper, because the rawness in Sage’s voice is cutting through his professional detachment and hitting something deeper, something that recognizes grief in all its ugly, persistent forms.
“That’s not cowardice,” he says firmly. “That’s survival. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” Sage’s laugh is bitter. “I lived while my entire family died. I had the power to hide but not to save them. Seems like cowardice to me.”
Oliver wants to argue, wants to tell her that surviving when everyone else dies doesn’t make you a coward, it makes you human—or witch-equivalent-of-human—but he knows from experience that arguing with someone’s guilt is pointless, so instead he focuses on what he can control.
“Did the entity leave any trace?” he asks, redirecting to practical matters. “Physical evidence, magical residue, anything we can use to identify it?”
Sage is silent for a moment, and Oliver can see her pulling herself back together, tucking the vulnerability away and replacing it with the cold competence he’s starting to realize is her default armor.
“No physical evidence,” she finally says. “But there was a magical signature—or the absence of one. Everywhere it touched, there was this… void. Like reality had been scooped out. The magical authorities tested for everything—demonic presence, death magic, forbidden rituals—but came up empty.”
“Because they were looking for what was there instead of what wasn’t,” Oliver murmurs, writing notes in the margins of his page. “Classic mistake. Sometimes the absence of evidence is evidence.”
“That’s very philosophical for a curse-breaker,” Sage says, and there might be the faintest trace of not-quite-hostility in her tone, which Oliver is choosing to interpret as progress.
“My abuela was big on philosophy,” Oliver says, grinning. “Used to say that magic is just another word for paying attention to what other people miss.”
“Your grandmother was a bruja,” Sage says, and it’s not a question—she must have noticed his trace magic earlier. “Why didn’t she train you properly? You clearly have some innate ability.”
Oliver’s grin fades slightly. “She died when I was twelve. Car accident, completely non-magical. I inherited her sensitivity but not her power, and by the time I was old enough to seek training, I’d already learned to work around what I couldn’t do.”
There’s a flicker of something in Sage’s expression—sympathy, maybe, or recognition—but it’s gone before Oliver can analyze it.
“The sensitivity is useful,” Sage says grudgingly. “If you can sense magical voids, you might be able to track the entity in ways I can’t.”
“See? I told you I’d be helpful,” Oliver says, and Sage rolls her eyes in a way that’s becoming familiar.
“Don’t push it, Reyes.”
Oliver likes the way she says his name—sharp, annoyed, but using it nonetheless, which suggests she’s accepting his presence even if she won’t admit it. “What’s our next move?” he asks, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook.
Sage considers for a moment, fingers drumming against the grimoire in a rhythm that might be nervous habit or magical practice. “We need to examine the sites where the witches disappeared. If the pattern matches my coven’s deaths, there should be residual void energy, and I can track that.”
“When?”
“Now,” Sage says, standing abruptly and moving to a cabinet that Oliver is pretty sure wasn’t there a moment ago—probably glamoured, hidden unless Sage wants it visible. “If another witch is going to vanish within the week, we don’t have time to waste.”
She pulls items from the cabinet with practiced efficiency—vials of what looks like silver dust, a compass that definitely isn’t pointing north, several bundles of herbs that make Oliver’s sensitivity buzz with recognition of powerful magic, and a wicked-looking knife that has a handle carved with symbols he doesn’t recognize.
“Are we expecting trouble?” Oliver asks, eyeing the knife.
“Always,” Sage says, tucking items into a messenger bag that looks like it’s seen better days. “Rule one: expect everything to try to kill you. Rule two: have a backup plan for when rule one proves correct. Rule three: don’t die.”
“Those are good rules,” Oliver says, standing and checking his own bag—salt, iron filings, his silver knife, the notebook, and the small mirror his abuela gave him that’s supposed to reveal true forms. “I have a similar philosophy, except rule three is usually ‘call someone more powerful for help.'”
“Smart,” Sage says, and she almost sounds approving. “Too bad you’re stuck with me instead.”
“I chose to be stuck with you,” Oliver corrects. “There’s a difference.”
Sage gives him a look that he can’t quite interpret—somewhere between exasperated and something softer that she seems to catch herself doing and immediately shut down.
“We’re taking my car,” she says instead of responding to his comment. “And you’re not allowed to touch the radio. The playlist is curated for specific magical resonance.”
“Does that mean you’re playing witch music, or—”
“It means I like classical and you’re going to suffer through it in silence.”
Oliver grins. “I can work with that.”
They head downstairs, and Oliver notices that Rowan has apparently left for the day—the main shop is dark except for the protective wards that glow faintly around the windows and door. Sage disables the wards with a gesture that looks casual but Oliver’s sensitivity tells him is incredibly complex, and they step out into the cool Salem evening.
Sage’s car turns out to be an older model sedan, black because of course it is, with bumper stickers that say things like “My other car is a broomstick” and “I put a spell on you” that seem wildly out of character until Oliver remembers the apprentice and realizes Rowan probably added them.
“Don’t comment on the stickers,” Sage warns, unlocking the doors with actual keys instead of a fob. “Rowan thinks she’s funny.”
“She seems nice,” Oliver offers, sliding into the passenger seat and immediately noticing that the interior smells like herbs and old books, which is somehow exactly what he expected.
“She’s annoyingly optimistic,” Sage says, starting the engine. “Reminds me of you, actually. It’s exhausting.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
But there’s no real heat in her voice, and Oliver is starting to realize that Sage Thornwood’s bark is significantly worse than her bite—or at least, her bite is reserved for actual threats rather than curse-breakers who are trying to help.
They drive in silence for a few minutes, classical music playing softly from speakers that sound like they’ve been upgraded beyond the car’s original specs, and Oliver watches the city slide past the window while his mind catalogs everything he’s learned.
Entity that feeds on witch power. Erases magical signatures. Leaves void residue. Killed thirteen witches five years ago and is active again now. Sage survived by hiding, carries guilt about it, is powerful enough that the entity either couldn’t or didn’t want to take her at the time.
“Why didn’t it come back for you before now?” Oliver asks, the question occurring to him suddenly. “If you were a target five years ago and it failed to get you, why wait this long to try again?”
Sage’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I’ve been wondering that myself. Best theory? It went dormant, either by choice or necessity. Building up power, maybe, or waiting for something.”
“Or maybe it got trapped,” Oliver suggests, thinking through possibilities. “A lot of entities that feed on magic need to be bound or banished regularly. If someone managed to contain it five years ago—”
“Then it recently escaped and is picking up where it left off,” Sage finishes, and she sounds grim. “Which means someone was maintaining a binding that failed.”
“Or someone deliberately let it out.”
They exchange a look, and Oliver sees his own concern reflected in Sage’s expression.
“Either option is bad,” Sage says.
“Yeah,” Oliver agrees. “Really bad.”
The first disappearance site is in Providence, about an hour’s drive, and Sage navigates through traffic with the kind of aggressive competence that suggests she learned to drive in Boston and never quite adjusted to the concept of courtesy.
Oliver spends the drive researching on his phone—pulling up everything Daniel sent him about historical entity sightings, cross-referencing with cases of power absorption, and making notes about potential binding methods if they can actually identify what they’re dealing with.
He’s so absorbed in his research that he doesn’t notice they’ve arrived until Sage parks and kills the engine.
“We’re here,” she says, and Oliver looks up to find they’re in a residential neighborhood, parked in front of an older apartment building that looks recently renovated.
“Melissa Hunt lived here?” Oliver asks, checking his files.
“Third floor, apartment 3C,” Sage confirms, already out of the car and pulling her messenger bag over her shoulder. “She vanished in the stairwell between the third and second floors. Security cameras showed her entering the stairwell but not exiting.”
Oliver follows Sage into the building—the main door is propped open, security clearly more theoretical than actual—and up the stairs to the third floor. The stairwell is standard issue: concrete steps, metal railings, fluorescent lights that flicker slightly.
But the moment they reach the landing between floors, Oliver feels it—that buzz in his skull intensifying into something that’s almost painful, like pressing on a bruise.
“There,” he says, pointing to a spot on the wall that looks completely normal to his eyes but feels wrong to his magical sensitivity. “There’s something there.”
Sage moves to where he indicated, pulling out the compass and the vial of silver dust, and Oliver watches as she works—muttering under her breath in a language that might be Latin or might be something older, sprinkling the dust in a pattern that makes his eyes water when he tries to follow it.
The dust settles into the concrete, and for a moment nothing happens—and then the wall starts to darken, shadow spreading like ink in water, and Oliver can see it now: the void where Melissa Hunt used to exist, a gap in reality shaped like a scream.
“Gods,” Sage breathes, and she sounds shaken in a way she hasn’t since Oliver arrived at her shop. “It’s exactly the same. Exactly.”
Oliver steps closer, careful not to touch the void, and he can feel the wrongness radiating from it like heat from a fire. This isn’t just absence of magic—it’s absence of everything, a hole in the world where something was forcibly removed.
“Can you track it?” he asks, pulling out his own tools, ready to help however he can.
Sage nods slowly, pulling out the knife and cutting her palm in a quick, practiced motion that makes Oliver wince. Blood wells up—dark red, too dark to be entirely human—and she presses her bleeding hand to the edge of the void.
The reaction is immediate. The shadow writhes, pulling away from her touch like it’s alive, and Sage’s eyes go unfocused as she mutters an incantation that makes the air pressure drop and Oliver’s ears pop.
“North,” she finally says, pulling her hand back and wrapping it quickly with a bandage from her bag. “The entity went north from here after taking Melissa. Same direction as the second victim.”
“Pattern,” Oliver says, excitement cutting through the horror because patterns mean predictability, and predictability means they have a chance. “It’s hunting in a specific direction, which means—”
“Which means we can predict where it might strike next,” Sage finishes, and despite everything—despite the void still staining the wall and the blood on her bandage and the weight of thirteen dead witches between them—she looks at Oliver with something that might be respect.
“We make a good team,” Oliver says, grinning despite the circumstances.
Sage rolls her eyes. “Don’t get used to it, Reyes.”
But she doesn’t disagree, and as they head back to the car to check the second site, Oliver allows himself to hope that maybe, just maybe, they actually have a chance at stopping this thing.
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