Savannah had teeth.
Not the polite kind, either—the kind that smiled at tourists and wore lace over their bite. No, it had the kind of teeth that gnawed into the bones of the old world and waited for someone foolish enough to listen too long.
I listened anyway.
Because tonight, I needed the world to bite back.
It had been two days since the Winchesters left town.
The pull they left behind still tugged at my thoughts—a magnetic hum beneath my ribs I couldn't explain, only feel. I'd anchored the observational spell to something subtle, something living. It whispered now and then, like the brush of wind past a forgotten grave.
But I needed clarity. Focus.
And nothing gives perspective quite like danger.
I wandered through the historic district as the sun bled out across the river.
There were fewer tourists at twilight. The streets grew quieter, softer, until only the buzz of cicadas and the pulse of something darker echoed through the bricks.
I wasn't hunting.
Not officially.
But I was open.
The alley near St. Julian's smelled wrong.
Not garbage. Not mold.
Rot.
Old. Wet. Soul-deep rot.
And beneath that, the prickling scent of disturbed energy—like sulfur and wilted flowers.
I stopped just past the edge of the lamplight.
My fingers brushed the edge of the knife hidden in my bag, then paused. No.
Not yet.
The sound of a scuffle echoed.
Low. Muffled.
Then—gasping.
Human.
I moved.
Fast. Quiet.
Around the corner, I saw her—maybe sixteen, cornered, back pressed to the wall of the alley, her hands up and shaking.
And it.
It looked like a man. Thin, hunched, in a faded uniform soaked to the bone. Its face sagged, jaw distended and dripping with black rot. One eye socket was empty. The other burned faint yellow.
A parasitic spirit clinging to rotted remains.
Starving.
I didn't hesitate.
I stepped into the alley.
Its head snapped toward me.
Good.
"You're in the wrong place," I said coolly, voice steady.
The thing hissed, words twisting in some ancient tongue, slick with hunger and spite.
"Let her go," I said.
It didn't.
It lunged.
Time bent.
I didn't scream.
Didn't flinch.
My hand flicked, fingers dancing through a sigil in the air, drawing a loop of space that snapped the creature back like a slingshot.
It slammed into the wall behind it, reality warping for a heartbeat.
The girl ran. I didn't follow.
My pulse barely shifted.
The parasite surged forward again, half-human limbs flailing, mouth open in a howl that split into five voices at once.
I bent space again.
Pulled the alley in on itself.
Compressed time by a second.
And then—
I unleashed the Void.
It wasn't a beam. It wasn't fire.
It was absence.
A thin line of crackling distortion burst from my palm, slicing the spirit from left shoulder to hip. Not just cutting—unmaking.
The creature let out a scream that dissolved into silence mid-breath.
Gone.
Not dust.
Not death.
Just gone.
The alley returned to stillness.
My breathing was even.
But my hands shook.
Not from fear.
From strain.
The Void stirred in my core like it had tasted something bitter.
Too much energy, too fast.
Even with my capacity, it costs me.
I stood still for another minute.
Listening.
Waiting.
Then I turned and walked back into the street, the girl's screams now far away, somewhere near safety.
I didn't follow her.
She'd live.
I had other concerns.
At Home
Don met me on the balcony.
He didn't speak.
Just looked at me.
I nodded once.
He nodded back.
I cleaned the soot and sweat from my hands. Washed the blood that wasn't mine from beneath my fingernails.
My body ached—not from injury.
From channeling too much too quickly.
From a technique too brute, too costly.
From dependence.
Later, I stood in the library, wrapped in a silk robe, staring at the sword hung above the fireplace. It was old—Spanish steel, enchanted to hum when magic approached it.
It hummed faintly now.
I ran a finger down the blade.
"I want training," I said aloud, knowing they were listening.
Behind me, footsteps.
Maggie first.
Then Don.
Neither looked surprised.
"What kind?" Don asked.
"All of it."
I turned.
"Martial arts. Blades. Firearms. Anything that makes me deadlier without draining power."
Maggie raised one brow. "Why now?"
I didn't hesitate.
"Because even gods bleed. And I don't plan to be caught flat-footed when something bigger than me decides I'm inconvenient."
They agreed.
Immediately.
No ritual. No ceremony.
Just agreement.
That night, I meditated with the scent of jasmine burning.
And in the dark of my mind, I whispered a promise:
I am magic.
I am memory.
But I will also be muscle and steel.
Let them come.
Let them try.
Grimoire Entry
Today I learned I can unmake things.
I also learned that it costs more than I expected.
Magic is power.
But muscle is precision.
If I'm going to survive this world—this violent, burning, breathtaking world—I need to be a weapon in all forms.
Voidwitch. Yes.
But now, also: blade-bearer.
I will not wait for fate.
I will cut it into shape.