The sun was bleeding out behind us, low and swollen in the sky as our tires bit into the asphalt. The Gravemare Mustang growled beneath us, velvet engine humming like it had secrets of its own. June drove like she was born to tame monsters—with one hand on the wheel and the other lazily flipping through a glowing sigil pad synced to the GPS.
"Wardline's about ten miles ahead," she said. "If it's already failing, we'll feel it before we see it." She tapped the sigil pad once and glanced at me in the mirror. "Group missions fall into categories, by the way. Escort, retrieval, suppression, containment, and cleansing. This one's a hybrid—escort and suppression. We're protecting the cargo, but we might have to put something down if it gets through the veil."
Kaito sat in the back with me, unusually quiet. Still glowing a little. Not from power. From satisfaction. I wasn't about to stroke his ego again—literally or metaphorically—but I couldn't deny it: he looked good when he was smug.
He cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "Y'know, rank matters for more than bragging rights. It determines your access to tools, information, even how fast backup shows up. Higher the rank, lighter the leash—and bigger the guns."
He leaned forward toward June. "You pull this gear from HQ?"
June grinned without looking back. "Straight from the vault. They don't hand Gravemare-grade toys to just anybody, Whiskey."
Kaito started digging around in her glove box and whistled low when his hand disappeared through a compact portal lined with velvet runes. He pulled out a folded rune-blade, a leather pouch of charms, and a sealed satchel with glowing locks.
"Every Sonter gets paired with a vehicle," he said, setting the items out across his lap. "It's matched to their rank and method. I got a van. Great for storage, rituals, long-term binds—utterly useless for a job like this. Too slow, too loud."
He tapped the dash admiringly. "This, though? Suppression-grade Gravemare. Built for speed, tight turns, and magical reinforcement. June's rank fits the model."
Kaito gave a pleased grunt and leaned back again, arms folded behind his head.
I was kinda impressed, if I'm honest. The way he broke it down, like it was second nature, made me forget for a moment how chaotic he usually was. And it hit me then—how much I missed dancing. Real dancing. Not rituals, not performances for rituals, just... me. The first job felt like a surprise gig, but this one? This one felt like our first real contract. Like I had officially stepped into something bigger than us.
I looked out the window as the trees changed. The deeper we went, the more the world forgot it was part of the living. The air got heavier. Dumber. Like gravity remembered it had other jobs to do besides just holding us down.
Vinyl popped up from under my seat with a yawn and a small shake, like he'd just finished his own secret mission. He curled in Kaito's lap and whined once, but not out of fear—more like annoyance.
"He doesn't like the road," Kaito muttered, scratching behind Vinyl's ears. "Too many old deals buried under it."
I pulled Vinyl into my lap and cuddled him tight, feeling the faint vibration of a growl more annoyed than scared.
"Great," I said. "We're riding through cursed pavement. Just what I wanted on my day off." I leaned toward Kaito. "Turn up the radio or something. Distract me."
He reached over and nudged the dial.
A slow, smoky riff crackled through the speakers, followed by a gravel-slick voice dripping with sin and soul. My chest tightened.
"Crossroads Blues," I whispered. "Is that...?"
Kaito nodded once. "Track's by 27. Famous crossroads demon. Real old-school."
June groaned. "Ugh, of course it's 27. That demon is the worst. You know how many blues musicians died at twenty-seven? Look it up—Robert Johnson, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, all of 'em. That bastard's got a taste for soul and spotlight."
Something shimmered across the road up ahead—an oil-slick ripple, almost invisible in the last light. I sat up straighter.
"There," I said. "That it?"
"Yep," June replied, her eyes narrowing. "Wardline's breaking. Get ready for something ugly."
She reached beneath her seat and yanked up a duffel marked with infernal script, flipping it open to reveal rows of enchanted bolts, hex grenades, and a sawed-off spell-cannon.
"Stampede formation," she muttered. "Headless-class love to pull that bullshit. Ride in like it's Hell's Derby and drag folks off before the veil even closes."
The Gravemare Mustang didn't slow down.
It sped up.