The Witch & The Hound Sneak Peek

Convergence Quickies #2

For those new to The Convergence:

Just over a year ago, the world changed.

Not slowly, like climate change. Not visibly, like a natural disaster. Reality itself bent sideways, and suddenly myths and fairy tales weren’t fiction anymore, they were our neighbors.

At first, it was small things. An elevator opening onto a forest instead of offices. Cherry blossoms falling upward in Tokyo while commuters adjusted their ties and pretended not to notice.

Then the small impossibilities grew. Subways connected to places that weren’t on any map. Governments scrambled for explanations, scientists argued over dimensional membranes, and religious leaders declared both the Second Coming and Ragnarok, sometimes in the same breath.

But no matter what the cause, everyone agreed on one thing: the walls between worlds weren’t walls anymore.

Coffee shops served customers who paid in coins from realms that didn’t exist yesterday. “Normal” became nostalgia.

But the biggest shift wasn’t political or economic. It was personal.

Because when myths move in next door, love gets complicated.

Your neighbor might have horns and a voice that makes your knees weak. The man on your morning commute might be older than recorded history. The woman across the bar might be a minor goddess slumming it with a whiskey sour. Attraction no longer stopped at human boundaries. Desire doesn’t care what realm you’re from.

Some humans embrace it. Some run screaming. Most hover somewhere in between, caught between fear, fascination, and the undeniable truth:

We’re not alone anymore. And we’ve never been more in danger of falling in love.

This is the Convergence.


Chapter 1

Maggie

The problem with artisanal soap is that it takes forever to cure, and boutiques don’t care if you’re one woman with a backyard workshop; they want their pumpkin spice bars yesterday.

Which was how I ended up in the “big city” thirty minutes away from home, sweating under the fluorescent lights of Barrow’s SuperMart, trying to hunt down ten pounds of citric acid and silicone molds shaped like bats.

Big city, ha! The place had one half-decent Thai restaurant and a multiplex that played blockbusters six weeks late. But Barrow’s SuperMart had bulk supplies, so here I was, navigating the warehouse-sized maze.

I cut between the seasonal aisle and the start of the toy section, pushing my tote cart with the grim determination of a woman on a deadline. On one side, plastic pumpkins leered from endcaps. Skeletons in polyester cloaks rattled every time someone brushed too close. The other side was an ode to toxic femininity. A toddler was already crying as I rolled past the Barbie section, intending to cut through.

And then it hit me.

Hell’s own hot flash.

One second I was fine; the next I was standing in the center of the aisle, hairline erupting like Vesuvius, skin prickling as if I’d been hexed from the inside out. Heat rolled through me, starting in my chest and blazing outward, a curse with no counterspell. It wasn’t just sweat; it was betrayal. My own body staging a coup in public, and all I could do was ride it out.

“Not now,” I muttered, fumbling for the little folding fan I kept in my tote. My vision blurred. Sweat poured down my back. My freckles disappeared under a crimson flush. God forbid this happen in private, where I could collapse with dignity on my couch. No, it had to be in view of the Disney princesses.

Someone gasped.

I gripped the edge of a shelf, trying to steady myself. That’s when I noticed the Barbie Corvette’s headlights flickering. Then the karaoke machine beside it crackled to life, belting out a tinny version of “Let It Go.”

Someone else shrieked.

And then the toys started going off.

The plastic drum kit banged to life on its own. An animatronic werewolf in the Halloween aisle launched into a howling fit. Lights on the shelves flickered like a disco, strobing my humiliation for the entire aisle to enjoy. Perfect. Heatstroke with a side of paranormal poltergeist chic.

“Mama, is the lady gonna die?” a little girl whimpered, clutching her Elsa doll.

Oh, excellent. Exactly what every forty-something woman wants: to collapse in front of the princess aisle looking like she’s spontaneously combusting.

I staggered, tried to fan myself harder, only to catch my foot on a display of stuffed unicorns. I went down hard, a graceless heap of sweat, curls, and witchcraft. The aisle erupted in screams. A pair of little girls started crying, wailing something about “Merida’s melting!”

Kill me now.

“Manager!” someone bellowed. “Get the manager!”

My vision blurred, and for a second, faded to a pinpoint of bright light.

And that’s when he arrived.

I didn’t see him at first. I was too busy contemplating whether linoleum might actually be comfortable if you committed to it. But I felt him. A presence that made the air shift, that caused the crying to quiet to sniffles, that made the flickering lights steady themselves like they were trying to behave.

Then a shadow fell over me, tall and unmistakably not human. The crowd that had gathered for the spectacle parted like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea, except instead of a staff, he had a pair of curling black horns that caught the fluorescent glare and threw wicked shadows across his face. Skin the color of midnight, so dark it was almost black, but with a blue undertone visible where the harsh lighting hit his cheekbones and jaw. Amber eyes that glowed like backlit honey. Shoulders that blocked out half the aisle.

The monster manager.

“Out of the way,” he said, voice low and steady, and people actually listened. Even the animatronic werewolf went quiet, which had to be some kind of miracle. His voice carried through the aisle with an authority that made adults remember their manners, if not the children.

He crouched, assessing me with those strange amber eyes, eyes that caught the light like a dog’s in headlights, reflecting gold. “You alright?” he asked, and his voice was surprisingly gentle for someone who looked like he’d stepped out of a medieval bestiary.

“I was before I started flopping around on the floor like a dying fish.” Different heat flooded my face, the mortification kind. “Though I hear embarrassment is rarely fatal.”

“Lucky for you,” he said, flashing a crooked grin that made things in places happen, “you collapsed in the princess aisle. Which means I’m contractually obligated to rescue you.” And before I could croak out a protest, he scooped me up like I was nothing more than a bag of flour.

The wailing doubled in volume behind us.

“Merida’s been kidnapped by a monster!” the little girls shrieked in perfect, devastating harmony.

Fantastic. I’d gone from magical woman of mystery to Disney damsel in distress in under sixty seconds. At least they’d picked the right princess, wild, red curls, questionable decision-making, and all.

His arms were cool, his grip steady, skin smooth as velvet and solid against my clammy forearms. Cool. Blessedly, wonderfully cool. It seeped into me like shade in high summer, a relief so sharp it almost broke me. My head lolled against a broad shoulder as he carried me through the gawking crowd. He smelled like cedar and something darker—clove, maybe, or the promise of autumn bonfires.

I should have been horrified. Instead, my treacherous brain whispered: safe.

Straight through the sliding doors of the back hallway, past shocked employees, into the cramped little office marked “Manager.” He shouldered the door shut behind us and lowered me onto a hideous avocado-green Naugahyde couch that had seen better decades and better duct tape. The room smelled like burnt coffee and copier toner. It was every corporate office’s signature scent.

“Stay here,” he said, straightening. “I’ll get water.”

His voice was gravel and smoke wrapped in command, the kind of voice you listened to even when your better judgment screamed not to.

I fanned myself harder with a wrinkled coupon flyer. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an exorcist on speed dial?”

One dark brow lifted, horns gleaming under the cheap fluorescent light. The blue undertone in his skin was more visible now in the closer quarters, making him look like he’d been carved from shadow and midnight. And damn it if my heart didn’t give a little kick that had nothing to do with heatstroke. Of course, the universe sent me a horned, broad-shouldered monster manager at my absolute lowest point. Because humiliation is never complete without temptation tucked inside it.

He returned in less than a minute, a paper cup of water in one hand, his other braced against the doorframe as if daring anyone to follow. And no one did. Not one curious employee. Not one rubbernecker. The look in those amber eyes promised consequences, and apparently the humans knew better than to test him.

I squinted up at him, taking in the horns, the lean frame, the tail flicking once behind him before it stilled. Definitely not human. Definitely intimidating. Definitely, my stomach dropped, handsome in a “might eat you, might take you to a movie” sort of way.

He handed me the cup. His fingers brushed mine. They were cool, velvet-soft skin that made my overheated nerves sing with relief. My pulse stuttered, then kicked into a rhythm that had nothing to do with the hot flash.

I gulped water like I’d just crawled out of the Sahara. He didn’t move, didn’t fidget, didn’t even blink. Just watched me with that unnerving stillness, like he was cataloging evidence. But not in the way men usually looked, not assessing what they could take. This was different. He looked like he was memorizing me. Like every swallow, every shaky breath, mattered.

“Feel better?” he asked at last.

I wiped sweat from my temple with the back of my hand. “Define ‘better.’ I didn’t spontaneously combust. That’s a win.”

A beat of silence. Then, was that the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth?

“You passed out,” he said. “In the toy aisle.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious. I was there.”

His eyes flicked to my hair, wild curls plastered to my flushed cheeks, then back to my face. “You scared people.”

“Yeah, well, hot flashes aren’t exactly polite.” I dropped my voice into a dramatic stage whisper. “You’d think people had never seen a sweaty witch collapse before.”

Another pause. His gaze softened, just for a second. Then he said, “You scared me.”

Quiet. Flat. But it hit like a hammer to the sternum. Because monsters weren’t supposed to get scared, and yet here he was, admitting that my collapse, that I mattered to him.

I didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to handle a monster manager who looked at me like I was breakable and worth protecting all at once.

He cleared his throat, some of that intensity banking behind his careful expression. “Do you need me to call someone?”

“Nope.” I waved the fan. “Just my dignity. It’s in critical condition.”

That almost-smile again. This time it lingered. He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms, horns brushing the ceiling tile. For a moment, the office felt smaller, warmer, and not just from my internal inferno. It felt like he’d sealed us in together, a private pocket of space where my humiliation was suspended and only his steady presence remained.

“Your ride?” he asked.

My stomach sank. “The bus.”

One dark brow lifted.

“I don’t drive,” I added quickly. “I live in Seaview. I have an e-trike for around town, but it doesn’t exactly handle bulk citric acid runs.”

He tilted his head, considering me with those steady amber eyes. “I’ll drive you.”

I blinked. “What, like—now?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Bram.”

Of course it was. Short, blunt, sounded like it should be carved into stone somewhere.

“Well, Bram,” I said, sitting up straighter, “thank you for the offer, but I don’t usually let strange horned men drive me home after first dates in the toy aisle.”

That almost-smile spread just enough to be dangerous. Sharp teeth caught the light. “Is that what this is?”

My face heated again, and this time I couldn’t blame the hot flash.

“TBD,” I managed, trying to salvage some dignity. “Depends on whether you actually kidnap me or just drive me home.”

His laugh was low and unexpected, rolling through the cramped office like distant thunder. “Fair enough.”

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