Sausage rolls. The scent of Clary’s mother’s sausage rolls was imprinted on Rynne Sato, the police officer who was hiding those files that she clearly wasn’t authorized to have in that tiny, unimportant police station in downtown Singsong City.

Nonsense. I’d smelled those sausage rolls any number of times over the past few years, and it never led to the Clary Sage, the witch I’d spent five years writing letters to, letters that were supposed to reveal her black soul but instead had irrevocably tied my heart to hers.

She was even more diabolical than I expected. Her words tasted of goodness, but the heir of Sage House, who had murdered her mother, the son of the mayor, and who knew how many other willing victims, because who would ever not be willing if she wanted to suck the life and magic out of you, was not good at anything other than being bad.

Which made the fact that she’d accepted her prison sentence so calmly incredibly disturbing. I’d written to her, posing as my grandmother, to try and establish proof that would show her mother as the one who had been behind my own parents’ murder, a legacy of death and destruction that Clary had happily taken up, but the words were poisonous, full of sweetness and goodness that couldn’t be true.

Worst of all, Clary Sage had vanished once I’d gotten her out of prison using every political connection I had, and every bit of persuasion I could summon, but instead of finding me and ending me, during which time I would try to convince her that we could be partners in villainy, that I could prove useful to her in hiding her nature from the world, she’d disappeared. Vanished without one ounce of revenge.

It made me doubt my stance on the witch. On everything. Suppose she wasn’t the black-hearted seductress who was planning on siphoning my magic and life. Suppose her words were genuine. Suppose she really had loved me and been broken by my betrayal.

Years passed without a sign of the growing force of evil and power that she was destined to be. Years where I grew a coalition of witches and warlocks whose purpose was to find and protect those on the outskirts of society who lacked my power and charisma to protect themselves. In case she wasn’t evil and would be impressed by my work. And if she was evil, I worked in other directions in order to impress her by my competence, manipulation, resources. Whatever she was, I needed to be something to her. Perhaps she’d want my fame and fortune. My strength and magic.

After fifteen years of not seeing my witch, of obsessively becoming anything a woman could possibly want, it was clear that I’d never get over her.

And then those magic words. “I hardly ever go to the coven meetings, but they do have good sausage rolls sometimes, if Clary’s there.”

The detective witch had said the magic words.

Clary. Sausage Rolls. Could there be another witch tied to the two most compelling words in any world? Probably, but the possibility that I’d finally found my witch made my skin itch and my eyes twitch. She’d probably kill me. I’d let her as long as she put her hands on me to do it.

It was easy enough to manipulate the young, idealistic police officer into taking me to the Singsong Coven meeting. And then we parked beside the most hideously ugly truck. Stripes of all color and size with absolutely no eye for style or beauty blocked my door. Detective Sato had parked us in a bush and I had to use literal magic to get out. My Clary Sage couldn’t belong in this coven of misfits and hygiene-challenged.

But then I saw her and time stopped. I’d been hunting her down for fifteen years. Fifteen years of searching for the one person I couldn’t live without, and she was there, wearing the world’s most hideous stripes, hair, eyebrows, lips, just everything stripes. The clothes weren’t her, not the sophisticated socialite I’d met, but the glare was.

It was her. Her truck. Her spell to cloud and confuse anyone from her old life who was looking for her. An excellent spell, and an even better disguise. I never would have imagined that she’d choose orange and pink stripes. In fact, I had a hard time believing it was her even while she was glaring at me like I was the most offensive trash to ever vomit on her orange and pink floral boots. She was dedicated to the color scheme with a terrifying intensity.

An old woman with a hot pink turban stepped in front of her, blocking my witch from my view. I very nearly opened the earth beneath her feet to swallow her and reveal my Clary Sage once more, but somehow I restrained myself. That’s right. I was here on a mission, and it didn’t involve dragging Clary Sage into my care, never to release her again. Unless I could.

I was so distracted by her existence that I completely mangled my presentation. It didn’t help that more and more people moved between me and her, fueling panic in my veins that I tried to ignore, but couldn’t. I didn’t intend to reveal the young detective to her mother. I’d never been so clumsy with my words, but Clary Sage was here. Alive. Seething with rage just for me. She still cared or she wouldn’t be so angry. So why hadn’t she found me and cursed me ten years ago?

By the time I was finished, I’d insulted everyone, and deeply enraged both Rynne and Portalia. But I snagged half a dozen sausage rolls as well, and they were heaven. They tasted like her magic, her will, her affection. She cared about this ridiculous coven. Maybe I could join, abandon the coalition and grow a proper Warlock beard to cover my dimples? I could quit manipulating countries and become her slave. If she didn’t kill me. Either way, I was open to the possibilities.

Why hadn’t I spent the last decade cultivating my whimsical side? Probably because I didn’t have one. But if she wanted whimsical, or hygiene-deficient, like one of those Warlock band members who glowered at me suspiciously, I could adapt easily enough.

I meant to savor and save those sausage rolls in the privacy of my hotel, but they lasted all of four minutes. And then after they were gone, I craved more, but not as much as I craved her words, her scathing looks. I could write her a letter from my grandmother, saying that I, Winston had seen me and then I, my grandmother, had looked for her address. But Clary was clearly trying to disappear from that world. I didn’t want to open her up to the metaphysical influence of my grandmother, who was the best manipulator in the world. She was also too certain of her own superior morality and had never approved of my witch, had warned me that entangling myself with one as powerful as she would result in me losing my autonomy. I’d laughed at the thought that any witch could charm me into losing my heart, but then Clary wrote letters to my grandmother, defending me, calling me, a ‘beacon of light in a dark world,’ and other things that were like a knife in my chest, twisting my betrayal in deeper and deeper.

Surely it was all manipulation, meant to torment me when she thought that my grandmother reported her words to me, but it worked.

And now she was revealed as Singsong City’s literally brightest citizen. No one even knew she was a witch who wasn’t directly involved with her coven, and they were a closed-mouthed lot.

Clary Sage, notorious murderer, seductress, and style maven, had become notorious for stripes. Different stripes every day. Every day a new ghastly combination that startled as much as it intrigued. Striped eyebrows? Even striped eyes to cover her green if the green would clash with the new color combo. She was still dedicated to her vision of style with the same intensity she’d always had, only in a completely different way.

I wasn’t stalking her, not when she could disappear again so effortlessly if she got spooked. I was careful to only stalk her coven. They needed protection. Of course, they were under her protection, but I’d been building a coalition for fifteen years so that witches with bad reputations wouldn’t burn. Singsong was always, as a whole, on the brink of burning.

The ball fiasco with the compulsion dress made witches more unpopular than ever, and violence was starting to pop up all over. Ironically, Clary wasn’t known as a notorious witch of great power. She was known as Stripes, the second-hand clothing dealer, who could get you a great deal on great pieces, if you didn’t mind burning your eyeballs from her color clashes. She wasn’t married. No children. Seemingly no significant other, which I found far too interesting. If she wasn’t happily with someone else, maybe she’d like to be unhappily with me.

I was with the coven when the message came about the demon in City Hall. The coven was gathered together, trying to figure out a way to defuse rising anti-witch sentiment, without actually registering with the coalition and letting me come to their defense.

I was also trying to smell all of the Warlocks, and see if I could catch her scent on them. She had to take the life and energy out of people periodically, but apparently not these bearded beauties.

The drive into the city with Portalia and her son Tim was interesting. It was a small car, and I was crowded into the back, trying to look pleasant, but he smelled like her more than he should.

“It’s an opportunity to show the city that Rynne isn’t the only altruistic witch,” Portalia said, then wacked her son’s arm. “Don’t pass so close to the semi!”

The truck on our right blared its horn while Tim struggled to maintain his focus.

“It’s a good plan,” I said, offering a smile while she glared at me.

“If traffic wasn’t so terrible. Will we even be able to get to downtown? What’s the story with you and Stripes? If my Tim decides to marry her, I want to know the dirt.” She smacked his arm again, sending her golden turban chain tinkling.

“I’m not going to marry her,” Tim said, sinking down behind the driver’s wheel and focusing on that instead of the witch clearly antagonizing him. “She hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you, she just has a lot of pent up frustration. She needs a good warlock to unlock her happiness, and her heart. If she hated you, she wouldn’t give you so many sausage rolls. Not that we’ve had any as long as Winston’s shadow has covered the land. So, what’s the story, young man?”

I cleared my throat. What was the story I was willing to tell this person about my long obsession, betrayal, and search for Clary Sage, heir of Salem House, potentially the most powerful witch in the world? “Once I accidentally insulted her sausage rolls.”

“Ahhhhhh” both Tim and Portalia said in unison.

It was true, but it had been her mother’s sausage rolls that I called provincial the first time I met the woman. It’s just that I didn’t know any witches who cooked actual food that was actually filling. Potions of course, but sausage rolls? Bizarre. And I’d been so sure that Clary Sage would agree. She had at the time, but now she was making it her signature. Stripes and Sausage Rolls.

I never would have expected it. Like I never would have dreamed that her affection towards me could possibly be genuine. We were playing each other. That was the game between two diabolical forces, but maybe I’d misjudged the entire situation. No, I still couldn’t believe that anyone could be so entirely good.

When we got to the shop with the rest of the caravan of witches and warlocks, she was as happy to see me as a plate of her signature sides would have been. She didn’t look at me or acknowledge my existence until forced. And then she spoke directly to me and the rest of the world vanished. Could she see the energy flexing between us, struggling to close the distance? Every one of my particles was swimming towards her through the wide, cold space that had existed around my heart since I’d abandoned her. Accused her. Betrayed her.

She agreed to let us use her door just to get rid of us, me, but that was a time of exquisite happiness, standing in the same room as my witch, watching her work the complicated and creative spells that she’d clearly invented. She hadn’t become a dark force of rage, she’d become a bright force for good. Surly, but clearly invested in the peace and happiness of her city. It had her loyalty, as did her ridiculous coven. Like I’d had it and her.

When the last witch was through the door, leaving me and Clary, I set a small delaying spell on the structure so we could talk.

“Clary, I’m glad to see you’re doing well,” I gave her my warmest smile while her hands twitched in a clench.

“I’m sure my happiness and well-being is one of your greatest priorities. Why are you really here?” She faced me, so close I could have reached out and caressed her cheek.

She was so small, angry, like a spike of cactus flowers ready to throw her spines at me. Also striped. Bright green and bright yellow. So utterly cheerful. So charmingly chaotic. I had absolutely no idea who or what she was. Other than angry. But not angry enough to kill me the second she saw me.

Where was I supposed to go from this point? I had no idea. I was as lost with her as I’d ever been. How could I find my way back to her? Well, to start at the beginning…

“I’d like to apologize,” I said abruptly, before I could overthink. Apologies were a terrible way to start a manipulation.

She raised her striped brows, one green, one yellow, like she was parrot-themed. “What for?”

She wasn’t going to make this easy for me. Not that she should. “Your incarceration.”

Her rage turned her face red and then pale. Was she going to stab me? Drain the life out of me? Whatever she wanted from me, I was here for it.

She took a step closer to me, cocking her head as she studied me with burning ice in her eyes. “I forgive you.”

It didn’t take a genius to see through her words. She wasn’t going to let me apologize. What was she going to do? Something that would hurt me a great deal. Good. So good, but I didn’t expect her to touch her fingers over my coat, leaving an imprint of her warmth, a shadow of her aura sliding over mine as she tugged on a loose seam.

“It’s not in the best shape, is it? I have a section of coats that you could look at. Not on sale, sadly, but you don’t need sales, do you?”

Sales? She wanted me to buy something? Okay. I’d buy whatever she was selling, including that blatant lie of hers.

“You forgive me?”

She shrugged and tugged on my lapels. “What’s to forgive? It was a long time ago. You really should replace this old thing.”

That was code for skinning me and making a coat out of me. I wouldn’t even protest as long as she had her hands on me. My whole body was melting towards her, spiraling along with my mind. Finally, she was going to take her revenge and I’d know her truth, her nature, once and for all.

“You left all polite society, untraceable, hidden from everyone you knew. Why would you go to those lengths if you didn’t still…”

She interrupted me, yanking me even closer to her as her eyes roved over me. “I believe in moving on, putting the past behind me. Like you should do for your coat. How about we do a buy-one-get-one-fifteen-percent-off?”

She was holding me so close. I could feel her body heat, weight, molecules pressing against mine. She’d always felt impossibly good. Addictive. Perfection. It couldn’t be real how good she felt. She must be manufacturing these feelings. What was she talking about? Right. We were talking about what she believed in. Moving on. And holding on. How could she say one when she was doing the other?

She was so bright. “And color. You used to prefer black or dark purple.”

“Did I? Maybe I just thought that’s what I was supposed to like as dictated by my position in upper neutral magic society.”

She grabbed my lapels again, pulling me closer so she could stare into my eyes.

She was going to kill me. That rage certainly came before death, but she felt so good. It would be a good death. Worthy in absolutely every way. And I’d be vindicated for convicting her all those years ago, even if I was wrong to do it because who cared about justice when they could have had happiness?

“You look tired, Win,” she said, voice low, seductive, utterly irresistible, eyes green lakes of infinite rage that would swallow me eternally. “Maybe trying to rule the world isn’t worth the exhaustion.” Her lips pursed and I lost my mind.

My hands were around her waist and then she was close, closer than that first dance. She was going to kill me, but not fast enough. I couldn’t wait any longer.

“You look perfect,” I said and then slowly, slowly, waiting for her to take over and rip my life out of me, I lowered my head over her until our lips finally met.

She tasted of endless arctic horizons of desolate rage. I sipped her anger, emotions she held for me, emotions that I needed to taste, to understand. So much rage. So much hate. But still so absolutely delicious.

After a moment of perfect paralysis, she yanked me against her and kissed me like a hurricane devouring the land, sweeping me along with its wake. She was going to kiss me to death, her hands tangling in my hair, skin against skin on my neck, and then our lips. I could feel her pulling the life out of me, but it felt so good, so languid, so perfectly sweet. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It was supposed to hurt, but it just felt like happiness floating on clouds of guilt. She shouldn’t make me feel so good, not when I’d betrayed her so brutally.

I fell back, shoulder thudding against the door while I looked at my devastation in confusion. Wasn’t I dead yet? Why wasn’t I dead yet? Why had she let me go before I was dead?

“Clary? What did you do?” I asked, words tangled and lost. I needed to be back in her arms until I ceased existing.

“It’s called forgiveness,” she said, touching my shoulder with her pointer finger, pushing me off balance so I crashed into the wall, out of her way. “The next time I see you, I’ll forgive you so hard, you’ll never recover,” she whispered as she pulled off my coat, leaving me with better opportunities for skin to skin contact. I wasn’t dying. This was more of a sleep spell than a death spell. Why didn’t she kill me?

She hated me with burning passion of a thousand volcanos, but she wasn’t going to kill me and dispose of my body. She was just going to knock me out and then…What was she going to do? She’d better not be about to go take on a demon and save the city all by herself.

She plucked a strand of my hair, pulled on my coat and stepped through the door, twining that hair around her finger as she went. She was going to the battle dressed in my mage coat, wearing a glamour of me. She’d melted me into submission with her irresistible hands and now was going to her death. And I couldn’t do anything to save her.

Why didn’t she kill me? Why was she going to save the city? Why had I testified against her instead of knowing right away that she was the one I’d always need, want, yield to?

She hadn’t killed me, because she wasn’t a killer. The letters were real, like her feelings. And I was everything she’d never forgive. Unless she couldn’t help herself because she was just that good.

I wouldn’t use her weakness, her goodness against her, would I?

I closed my eyes and let her spell swallow me. It wouldn’t last long, and when I came out of it, I’d crave her touch more than anything. She’d kissed me to my soul, binding me with chains that nothing could break.

But I’d been bound to her the moment she talked about morality like she cared. The moment we danced and she smiled at me with her heart in her eyes.

I’d been bound to her soul like I always would be, even though I’d never be worthy of her.