Of all the apothecaries in all the neighborhoods in San Francisco, he has to walk into mine.
       He's wearing a suit and hat so grey they could have been cut from the fog that rolled in at sundown. The only sharpness to his earnest, handsome, corn-fed face is his jaw, which could cut ginger. He holds a briefcase in one hand. The other is clenched around a scrap of paper. When he sees me, he looks at the paper and frowns.
       "I'm looking for a witch called Cas Sheldrake." His voice is shaded with a question.
       "You're looking at him."
       "I thought all witches were dames. Aren't you a wizard?"
       "Those are recipes," I say, jerking my thumb at the shelf behind me, "not spellbooks. Wizards cast charms and enchantments. Witches make potions and poultices."
       "What about warlocks?"
       I'd spit if it wasn't my own floor I'd be spitting on. "I don't tango with warlocks. And neither should a fine gentleman like yourself."
       He sinks down in the chair opposite my desk, wringing his hands. "I'm not much of a gentleman."
       "So there are no gentlemen here. What can I do for you, Mister...?"
       "Heron. Lyle Heron. A wizard at the Chanterelle Club said you might be able to help me."
       "Start at the beginning, and we'll see."
       Heron doffs his hat and sets it on my desk. "I suppose that would be at the crossroads."
       "Sure."
       "Well..." The uncertainty seems foreign on his broad face. "My little sister. I don't know how she got involved with all of this. She's a good kid, really she is. But she made a deal."
       It's a story as old as bones. A kid dabbles in wizardry or witchcraft, starts learning basic incantations or potionmaking, and a patron appears and offers them another way. An easier way. Instead of spending years memorizing spells or mixing herbs, they can have incredible power in an instant. All it'll cost is a few favors.
       I know this tune too well. "She became a warlock."
       "Yes." Heron hangs his head. "At first, I didn't realize what was happening. It seemed like a run of good luck, you know? She had money, new clothes, that kind of thing. She's a working girl, I thought; good for her. But then, one day, she turned up at my apartment in tears. She told me..."
       I can guess how the rest of this story goes. "Her patron asked for something she didn't want to give, and she wanted out."
       "Yes." His voice is cold and coarse as sand from the bay. "She said she was going to break things off."
       "You don't break things off with a patron." The truth of it is bitter as wormwood in my mouth.
       "She thought she could get away. But she never came back." His shining eyes fix on me, green like snowdrops poking through winter ice. "I've heard you're the best witch west of the Rockies. I just want Evanie home safe."
       Disobedient warlocks don't last long. The most generous patron would still strip your powers and anything you gained from them... and patrons aren't known for their generosity. "It might be too late for that."
       "I know." Heron slides the briefcase onto his lap. "But she gave me something before she left. Something her patron entrusted to her."
       The briefcase clicks open. When Heron lifts the lid, the apothecary is washed in light the bruised purple of smokebush leaves. At the center of the light is a string of black pearls, not a single one, smooth or round. Everything else in the room seems to fade to grey, as though the pearls are stealing the colors for their iridescent sheen. I can't look away. I see clawed hands pluck each pearl from its shell. The memory isn't mine. It is unspeakably ancient.
       Heron closes the briefcase. Colors leach back into the room. "Her patron's essence is tied to the pearls. If you pour the right potion over them at a crossroads, she'll be separated from this plane. It'll destroy her."
       He can't mean what I think he means. "You want to take down a patron?"
       "She took my baby sister."
       "Your sister got in over her head. That was her mistake. I'm not making the same one."
       "I can pay you."
       His naivety wrings a laugh out of me. "It's not about money. It's about living. Going after a patron is more than suicide. It's a nightshade cocktail with a hemlock chaser."
       "Everyone told me you were the witch for the job." Desperation chokes his voice. "That you'd want to end Vaeloth."
       When he speaks her name, the power in it rattles the glass jars on my shelves. It shakes me, too, right through my core. It's been a long time since I've heard that name. It hasn't been long enough. Some of those memories are white-hot to touch, a blinking afterimage of the sun I can't quite look at.
       I've spent the past two years running, Boston to Cleveland to Chicago, Omaha to Denver to Salt Lake, digging up my roots every time I heard another warlock had cut a deal with her. Five months here with no sign of her had me complacent. I should've known she'd catch up when I ran out of land. If she's making deals in the Golden City, there's nowhere left for me to run.
       But if Lyle Heron can help me end the chase on my terms...
       "So let's say I'm thinking about helping you," I say finally. "What potion is it you need brewed?"
       He takes another piece of paper from inside his jacket. "You don't want to know what I've been through to get this," he says, passing it to me.
       The recipe is printed in neat, arcanist-college handwriting. "I have most of these ingredients," I say. Amaranth and dandelion leaves are common in summoning and manifesting rituals--they'll bind her in the pearls. Rainwater from a waning moon will diminish her powers. Cinnabar and ginseng root are good for banishing. Dried jellyfish... let's just say I've never met a potion with dried jellyfish I'd want to drink. "But there are a couple we'll have to find."
       "Let me guess--the rainwater," he says. "I knew that one would be difficult. It won't be waning again for weeks, and if we have to wait for rain--"
       "No, I have rainwater from every moon phase." I gesture to the cabinet. "But I've never worked with this reishi mushroom before. Sounds imported. Meaning expensive. Especially since the recipe calls for it fresh."
       "If you know where we can get it, the cost doesn't matter. I'll pay anything."
       Anything. Alexei's going to love him. "Okay. We'll see what we can do. Then there's the gold."
       "You don't have any?"
       "I run an apothecary between a washateria and a palm reader. What do you think? We can try the pawn--"
       "Will this do?" He pulls from his pocket a gold brooch glittering with paste stones. It has the look of a family heirloom, too worn to have ever seen the inside of a Tiffany's showbox. "It was Ev's. It's real gold."
       "You won't get this back, you know."
       Heron's face crumples like yesterday's classifieds. Two dark grey spots bloom in his lap. "I was there when she was born," he says. "Pa wasn't home, so the midwife kept sending me to the well to pull buckets of water. I was five, and they were so heavy. I spilled 'em all over the porch, trying to carry fast enough. Then I came in, and Ma was holding her, and she let me hold her, and she said, 'Lyle, this is Evanie. You're her big brother, and you're gonna look out for her, you hear?' And now they're--they're both gone, and I--"
       Everyone who needs magic has a sob story. But I've never been immune to seeing a good man cry.
       I come around the desk and put a hand on his shaking shoulders. "There was nothing you could've done." More tears fall from the crag of his chin. I pull the handkerchief from my pocket and press it into his wide hand. "Patrons, they know what to say to get what they want. They'll promise anything a person could want--power, money, fame, even love. She would've offered your sister things you couldn't imagine."
       "Ev would want to end this. She's--she was a good kid." He wipes his face with my handkerchief. "I'm ready. Lead the way."
       The cable car gets us there in twenty minutes. Alexei's joint is a narrow brick box squeezed between two hotels. We step into a dark room that smells of wood, spice, and dirt. The lit ends of incense sticks pinprick the haze.
       Alexei rises from a low wingbacked chair the color of blood, leaning on his boar-headed cane. His silver beard clings to his lined face like Spanish moss on a twisted tree. "Vedmak Sheldrake. Always a pleasure. And I see you've brought a guest tonight. One of your... particular friends?"
       "He's a client."
       "Lyle Heron, sir." Heron holds out his hand.
       Alexei ignores it. "Let us have tea."
       He pours from a porcelain teapot perched on a samovar. It's green tea with powdered mushrooms, so it tastes like grass and dirt, but I take my cup anyway. Alexei is fond of his rituals.
       He settles back in his chair. "Now, to business. What are you looking for?" When we tell him, he strokes his beard. "Ah, you want the divine mushroom."
       Sounds about right. If you want to kill a god, you need something divine to do it.
       "Yes--yes." Heron fumbles for his wallet. "How much?"
       "I am not interested in money, saharniy." Alexei smiles like a slow-acting poison, and his eyes land on me. "Nor do I need for potions today."
       I know this ritual too. Luckily, I'm off the hook tonight. Alexei's a hell of a piper to pay. "Heron's footing the bill."
       "Very well. Kneel right here, young man. Take my hand." Heron does. Alexei spiders one hand across the crown of Heron's head. "Now, let me see what we have to choose from..."
       I turn away. I've sold enough of my own memories to know how it goes. I don't need to watch his green eyes glaze over, see his expression flicker from confusion to loss.
       When it's over, Alexei nestles the mushroom in a paper bag and presents it to me. "I hope you know what you're doing, saharniy," he says in a low voice. "This one is not only a danger to himself."
       I glance over at Heron, who's collapsed onto a hassock. So long as he can be a danger to her, I'm happy to use his grief. "I'll take my chances."
       Heron's so shell-shocked I have to pull him to his feet and steer him onto the cable car. He won't even sit down. I manage to get his hand twisted in a leather hanging strap before we start moving. "Heron? You still in there?"
       "I didn't know how much this would cost," he murmurs, eyes empty.
       "You put a hit on a patron, kid. You thought it'd be cheap?"
       "I thought..." He trails off, shaking his head.
       "Can you tell what it was?" I say. Alexei goes for memories with strong emotions attached. Usually happy ones. He says they feed his sweet tooth. Freak. "Was Evanie in it?"
       "Who? Oh." He rubs his forehead. "No, I don't... I don't remember."
       The first memory I sold Alexei is long gone, but I remember the feeling that came after it. You can't help worrying at the hole in your memory like a missing tooth. The shape of the thing is gone, but its absence is a chasm.
       "Hey. Look at me." He does, a flat, broken gaze that twists my heart. "You wanna end this patron's reach, right? We do this right tonight, and she'll never seduce, stalk or steal anyone ever again. You're not just getting back at her for your sister. Thousands of future Evanies will be safe from her because of you. What's one memory compared to that?"
       It's weak and watery, but Lyle laughs. "Yeah. I guess." His eyes are less haunted. "Thanks. The things no one tells you about getting involved with magic. We have what we need for the potion now, don't we?"
       When we reach my apothecary, I lock the door and get to work. Lyle paces as I hang the cauldron over a fire of yew logs. "Can I help?"
       "Don't worry about it, toots." All the ingredients need to be put in by the same hand.
       "I want to help. I can bring you the moonwater."
       "Sure."
       I drop the dried jellyfish into a rough granite mortar and grind it to a shimmering powder. Lyle returns from the cabinet with a jar, smoothing the water-peeled label down with his thumb. I pour the moonwater into the cauldron. The other ingredients follow, one by one, separated by counterclockwise stirs: amaranth, dandelion leaves, ginseng root, jellyfish, and cinnabar. The brooch, which sinks to the bottom with a muffled clink, paste stones winking up at us through the water. The mushroom, which turns the smoke cloying, cough-syrup sweet.
       "Is it done?" Lyle asks, anxiously looking into the cauldron.
       "Not quite." I take up a silver knife to gather the last ingredient.
       It always burns. This time's no different, except for the audience. Lyle gasps. "What are you doing?"
       "Every potion needs a drop of witch's blood." One rolls down the channel of my heart line and drips off my palm. It chases a straight line down to the brooch. When they touch, the brooch dissolves, turning the potion the color of tarnished gold. An aftershock of magic ripples out from the cauldron.
       We're done. It's ready.
       Lyle's beside me faster than a wraith. "You're bleeding," he murmurs, pressing his pocket square against the cut. Dark poppies bloom on the white cotton.
       "It'll stain."
       When I close my hand around the fabric, he doesn't pull his hand away. It's wide and warm in mine. "You're really putting yourself out to help me."
       It's been so long since I met someone else who's been burned by a patron. Not many of us survive long enough to commiserate, and those who do aren't the sharing type. For an instant, I want to tell Lyle everything.
       But no. Better dispel the idea that I'm getting more out of this than he is. "Nothing's free. We haven't talked payment yet."
       "Of course. Like I said, anything you want is more than fair." He hesitates. "But... it's not just about that, is it? You really want her gone."
       "Maybe. Or maybe I'm doing all this just for you, doll."
       He lowers his eyes, looks up at me through his lashes. My heart kicks against my chest. The potion's already finished, but another pulse of energy quakes the room. It seems to come from our clasped hands, and by the time it sweeps through us, he's got his arm around me, and my unbloodied hand is in his hair, and we pull each other in until there's no missing space between us.
       We part breathless and smiling. It's been a long time since I could fill one of the gaps in my memory with something untarnished and good. "Come on," I say, half-drunk on him and the promise of more sunlit memories--memories I'll be free to make after tonight. "Let's get our revenge."

       If you could call down a patron at any old intersection, San Francisco would be crawling with warlocks. Some folks swear you need a crossroad outside the city proper; others only try to summon at three-way intersections by graveyards. A crossroad is just a place where the veil is a little thinner, which is why some warlocks follow ley lines or use dowsing rods to find a ritual site.
       You can't beat the classics, though. The veil's thinnest where blood's been spilled. If you spilled it yourself, all the better, but in a pinch, a recent death or an old mass murder will do.
       So we head to the corner of Market and Stueart, where ten people got blown up during a parade back in '16. We're close enough to the bay that I can hear the knife-edge waves slicing the water, lit by a splinter of a waxing moon.
       I draw a heather switch from my bag and trace a circle on the pavement. Lyle places the pearls right in the center, a ring within a ring, and backs out as I approach them with the destroying potion.
       When the first drop splashes onto a pearl, dark purple smoke billows forth, sweeping a chill around my ankles. I upend the vial, and the smoke keeps coming, reaching right to the borders of my circle. Then the smoke contracts into a column, lifting the necklace into the air so it hangs level with my shoulders. The smoke condenses, taking a shape, the pearls sitting around its neck--
       --its neck--?
       Amaranth and dandelion are summoning herbs.
       No. No. The hairs rise on my neck as I back away from the smoke. Back right into a solid body--Lyle--
       I round on him, grabbing him by his lapels. "What have you done?" He's wearing a grin I don't like the look of. I try to shake it off him. "You damned fool, what have you done?"
       I turn back to see the smoke clear from the figure. Lips red as cinnabar curve into a smile. Oilslick eyes wink dark rainbows at me. "Hello, darling." Her voice is as soft and poisonous as a destroying angel.
       Mine is gone.
       "I brought him," Lyle says, grabbing hold of my shoulders. "And I swapped out the rainwaters and used the brooch like you asked."
       "Yes, you've done very well," she tells him with a dismissive wave. She's looking at me like a raptor gearing to strike. "Unlike someone who's been a very naughty boy. Didn't I give you everything you asked for?" she croons. "You were so bored of fussing over those silly little potions. Didn't I make you rich? Didn't I make you happy? Didn't I take you into my bed?"
       "You slept with a patron?" Lyle guffaws. "How stupid are you?"
       My words rush back. "You're going to lecture me about who I did for magic?" I can't struggle free of him, but I twist to meet his gaze. There's no new spring softness in his eyes now. They're hard as uranium glass. "Let me guess. This is your first big ask. The last test before she gives you what you want, right? You're thinking, just this one last mission, then I'll never need to do anything for her again. News for you, pal. There's always another mission. Another favor. Another carrot she can use to reel you back in."
       Lyle scoffs, but in the sodium-yellow glow of the streetlight, doubt caresses his face.
       She tuts at me. "Now, now, this isn't about him. This is about you. How you ran from me," she pouts. "Do you really want to discuss our last deal?"
       Maybe I do. Maybe there's a way out of this, smuggled inside that noose I slipped. An oversight in the contract, a loophole big enough to squeeze my soul through. I remember the before--a need, a knife, a promise--and the after--the fear, the decision, the running, running as far as I could, running until I hit the foggy edge of the country. But the middle is all searing blankness.
       Her mothwinged presence hovers at the edge of my mind. "Oh, dear. You've gone and forgotten our most fun times. Who's done that to you? Don't worry; I'll take care of them. We'll just have to fix this, won't we?" She snaps her black-taloned fingers
       and
       I
       remember, all those sunblinded memories cascading into focus at once. All the memories of the power she'd offered me and what I'd done with it. It's enough to make me glad Lyle's farmer's hands are clamped around my arms because I'd collapse otherwise. The street is shaking, or maybe it's just my hands. Alexei must have gorged himself on these memories, the explosion of ecstasy and horror, desire drenched in blood. Now I know why I sold them.
       "There you are," she purrs. "So you see, our deal wasn't finished. Now it's time to come home."
       I choke on the word. "Home?"
       "Oh, yes. You hid so well from me here... and we can't have that. Fortunately, you've opened a gateway to my world. You'll love it there, Caspian Sheldrake," she says. It's not a promise. It's a command bound to me with my name.
       A name.
       One final try. This trick will only work once. Where to go? She's between me and the street, but behind me--the bay. The water. The salt. It just might be somewhere she can't follow.
       "Hey, Lyle," I say, getting my feet back under me. "You watch yourself, all right? She'll turn on you too. You can't trust Vaeloth."
       The streetlight flickers. A bird falls dead out of the sky. Pavement ripples underfoot. Her name warps reality just enough. Just enough that Lyle's grip slackens in surprise.
       Just enough that I can make a break for it.
       I'm running full-tilt over pavement, then grass, then salt-weathered planks, lungs and legs burning. Behind me, I hear a screech that shatters the glass out of the Ferry Building, but I keep running, the bladed bay closer with every step. I haven't been a praying man since I knew there were gods you could meet in the flesh, but I'm pleading to anyone who's listening as I throw myself off the end of the pier--
       But there's only ever been one who heard my prayers.
       She catches my collar, and I stop, dangling above the black freedom of the water. "I told you it's time to come home," she chides, and San Francisco disappears in a purple fog.