Most of my morning was spent preparing for a fight.

Well… preparing the way a wizard prepares.

Which mostly involves weird trinkets, potions, and an assortment of objects that would make airport security very uncomfortable.

I laid things out across my desk in careful rows. Charms. Small bottles. Odd little packets tied with twine. The sort of magical odds and ends that look like junk until you know what they do.

I briefly considered bringing the sword cane.

Then I decided against it.

The lightning rod would be enough if things came down to parrying blades or breaking bones in close quarters. It was balanced well, sturdy, and I already knew how to use it.

Besides, subtlety mattered.

A sword cane suggests premeditated violence.

A lightning rod suggests eccentricity.

Eccentricity keeps people guessing.

Next came the coat.

Not my everyday one.

The long coat.

The one with all the pockets.

For a spellcaster, pockets are essential infrastructure. Each one carried something useful—powdered herbs, twisted graveyard nails, tiny glyph-painted stones, bits of cord, little sealed charms. Every pouch held something that could become a weapon, armor, distraction, or utility if the situation demanded it.

Jewelry, too.

Rings. Amulets. Bracelets.

That’s what makes a properly prepared wizard dangerous.

The magic doesn’t sit in one place.

It’s layered.

Hidden.

Waiting.

Almost every object on your person might hold an enchantment, a ward, a trick, or a curse.

And if things go sideways?

You have options.

Bertrum landed on my shoulder and spent a moment preening his feathers with all the self-importance of a creature who knew he was both useful and handsome.

“So,” he said at last, “am I accompanying you while you risk your neck against a smug mage with a gang of elementals?”

I nodded as I checked the fit of my coat.

“Yeah. I’d prefer my familiar within arm’s reach. The extra bit of magical throughput and the spiritual link are advantages I’m not passing up.”

Bertrum puffed up slightly and resettled himself with pride.

“Quite right,” he said. “I am rather indispensable.”

I rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t wrong.

There was a reason spellcasters kept familiars.

They were more than pets. More than mascots. More than winged accessories for dramatic entrances. A familiar is messenger, scout, conduit, and companion. They can move between layers of reality more easily than most mortals, slip half a step into the spirit world, sense things their caster misses, and provide a second reservoir of instinct, perspective, and power when it matters.

They are, ideally, wise and loyal allies.

And if they’re anything like Bertrum, they are also smart-asses with opinions.

Bertrum paused mid-preen and tilted his head thoughtfully.

“May we stop for popcorn chicken on the way?”

I stared at him as I reached for the Wizard-Mobile’s keys.

“Are you seriously asking me to stop for snackies on the way to a life-or-death showdown with an evil wizard?”

Bertrum tilted his head one way, then the other in that sharp, analytical avian way of his.

“Well yes,” he said calmly. “I have absolutely no idea how they transmute the chicken into battered popcorn, but if I must die today I would prefer to do so with my favorite last meal in my belly, good sir.”

I paused with the keys in my hand.

“You are unbelievable.”

“I am pragmatic.”

“You are food motivated.”

“Those traits are not mutually exclusive.”

I sighed and headed for the door.

“If we die because you needed fried chicken first, I’m haunting you.”

Bertrum clacked his beak approvingly.

“A fair arrangement.”

We did, in fact, stop.

Bertrum got his popcorn chicken.

I tried to maintain the appropriate level of grim determination befitting a man on his way to a potentially fatal magical confrontation, but that resolve eroded rapidly the moment the smell of fried food hit me.

So I grudgingly ordered a crunchy chicken sandwich and fries.

Because if I was going to risk my neck against a smug wizard with a quartet of elemental bodyguards, I might as well do it on a full stomach.

Bertrum perched on the edge of the wizard-mobile's dash board and went to work on his meal with focused enthusiasm.

“You realize,” I said between bites, “that if this turns out to be my last lunch, I’m going to be mildly annoyed that it involved a fast-food wrapper.”

Bertrum swallowed a piece of popcorn chicken and gave a satisfied little croak.

“History is full of great men who died after questionable meals.”

“That is not comforting.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But the chicken is excellent.”

I had to admit he wasn’t wrong.

And if fate insisted on sending me into battle with a belly full of fried poultry and caffeine?

Well.

There are worse ways to face destiny.

There were certainly better ways to prepare for a potentially lethal confrontation.

But at the moment, my options were somewhat limited.

So after lunch I parked the Wizard-Mobile and found a quiet stretch of pavement where I could think without traffic, pedestrians, or overly curious pigeons interfering with the process.

If I was going to confront Nadali, I first needed to figure out where the man was likely to appear next.

Or failing that—

Where I was most likely to cross paths with his elemental entourage.

That meant augury.

Thankfully, probability magic happens to be one of my stronger talents.

Not because I’m some mystical savant of fate or destiny.

No.

I got good at it for a far more practical reason.

Back when I was younger, I spent a considerable amount of time experimenting with ways to improve my odds of winning the lottery.

The results were… mixed.

Turns out fate has strong opinions about people trying to shortcut statistical reality.

But along the way I learned a lot about probability fields, small nudges in chance, and how to read the currents of likelihood when they start to converge.

Which meant if Nadali or his elementals were going to show themselves somewhere in the city tonight—

There was a decent chance I could figure out where.

All I needed now was a little quiet.

A few simple tools.

And a willingness to ask the universe an awkward question.

I spread the map of Greater Toronto across the floor of the Wizard-Mobile, smoothing the creases with the side of my hand.

Several locations were already circled in red ink.

Independent magical shops.

Apothecaries.

Book sellers.

Supply houses.

The kind of places Nadali’s little protection racket would naturally gravitate toward.

If he believed he’d scared me off—and there was a decent chance he did—then sooner or later he’d flex his muscle again. Racketeers thrive on visible intimidation. One smashed storefront becomes ten obedient customers.

I marked a few more locations.

Good people.

I didn’t know them as well as Bailey, but well enough that the thought of them getting pushed around made something hot and unpleasant stir in my chest.

I reached into my coat and pulled out a small black case.

The hinges clicked softly as I opened it.

Inside were several pendulums, each carefully cut stone suspended from a silver chain.

Clear quartz.

Amethyst.

Black tourmaline.

Bloodstone.

Agate.

Each one tuned slightly differently depending on the question you wanted the universe to answer.

I studied them for a moment.

Then glanced up at Bertrum, who was watching from the passenger seat like a particularly judgmental consultant.

“What do you recommend?” I asked, holding the case up slightly. “Golfer consulting his caddy moment.”

Bertrum hopped down to the edge of the seat and leaned forward to inspect the selection.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “if you were attempting communion with higher spiritual intelligences, I would recommend the amethyst.”

He tapped the glass lightly with his beak.

“If you expected hostile interference, the tourmaline would provide useful grounding and protection.”

His eye flicked toward the bloodstone.

“Bloodstone is excellent for decisive answers. Quick. Confident.”

Then he looked back at me.

“But if the question is simply where your quarry is most likely to appear…”

He nudged one of the chains with his beak.

“Clear quartz.”

I nodded slowly.

“Amplification and clarity.”

“Precisely,” Bertrum said.

“And,” he added dryly, “given the quality of your questions so far, clarity would seem advisable.”

I ignored that last part and lifted the quartz pendulum carefully from the case.

The chain settled between my fingers.

Now all I had to do was ask the universe where a smug wizard with four elementals was most likely to ruin someone’s day.

I’ve always liked pendulums.

That’s why I own a full set.

They were the first divination tool my dad ever taught me to use. Simple, elegant, and surprisingly effective if you knew what you were doing.

Even without magic they’re handy.

As I understand it, pendulums respond to micro-twitches—tiny subconscious movements in the hand. Your brain notices patterns before you consciously process them, and the pendulum amplifies that signal. It’s great for finding lost keys, choosing between options, or impressing people at parties by making it swing exactly the way you want.

But beyond that there’s something refreshingly honest about them compared to the more… theatrical forms of divinatory magic.

No mirrors stained with strange oils.

No silver bowls engraved with arcane sigils and filled with carefully collected spring water.

And mercifully, no staring into the steaming guts of a freshly disemboweled farm animal.

Those were just the first three examples that came to mind.

Divination is one of the most varied—and occasionally bizarre—branches of magic on the planet. Every culture, every tradition, every magical school seems to have invented at least a few dozen ways to ask the universe awkward questions.

Tarot.

Runes.

Astrology.

Tea leaves.

Bones.

Bird flight.

Cloud shapes.

If humans can look at it, someone somewhere has tried to divine the future with it.

Pendulums, though?

Pendulums are simple.

Honest.

A question.

A motion.

An answer.

Very Blackwell family magical tradition, too.

Other spellcasters call us agnostic mages—at least when they’re feeling polite.

When they’re not being polite the words get a lot more colorful.

The whole thing started a few centuries back when one of my ancestors decided that the idea of separation of church and state should apply to magic as well as politics and academia. It was apparently a controversial opinion in a profession where half the grimoires start with three pages of prayers and a polite request to an archangel not to smite you for reading the rest.

The Blackwell approach is… different.

Strip out the kneeling.

Remove the divine middlemen.

Leave the mechanics.

A lot of traditionalists hate that idea. Hermetics, Gnostics, Enochians—any tradition where magic and theology are tangled together like headphones in a pocket—they tend to give me dirty looks when they realize what school I come from.

To them magic is revelation.

To the Blackwells it’s engineering.

Which is probably why my dad started my training with something as brutally simple as a pendulum.

No angels.

No demons.

Just gravity, motion, and the quiet whisper of probability.

I watched the pendulum fall still for a moment before letting my hand relax.

Then I pushed the tiniest thread of magic into the ritual.

Not much. Just a drop.

Enough to turn the act from a parlor trick into something that brushed against the deeper machinery of the universe—the hidden lattice of cause, chance, and consequence that diviners politely refer to as probability.

I focused on Nadali.

Not the vague idea of him but the man himself. His smug smile, the cut of his suit, the glitter of the jewelry he wore like a walking advertisement for a magician who wanted the world to know he had money.

Images sharpened in my mind until they felt almost tactile.

Only then did I ask the question.

Clear.

Direct.

No wiggle room for the universe to get cute.

“Where should I go if I want to encounter Nadali?”

The pendulum hung motionless for a breath.

Then another.

Then it began to move.

Slow at first.

A gentle sway.

Back and forth across the map spread on the floor of the Wizard-Mobile.

Probability had heard the question.

Now it was thinking about the answer.

And somewhere in Toronto, Mister Nadali was about to have a very bad afternoon.

The pendulum began to swing harder.

What started as a lazy circle tightened, the motion sharpening like a compass needle finding north. The arc flattened into a line that traced itself across the map spread over the van floor.

Back.

Forth.

Back.

Forth.

Each pass cutting through the same spot until even a blind man could have guessed where the universe was pointing.

One of the circles I had drawn in red ink.

Oswald’s.

Or as most people in the magical community called him—Fat Ozzy.

I leaned forward a little, watching the pendulum settle into that steady rhythm like a metronome that had found the beat of fate.

“Well,” I muttered. “That’s not good.”

Ozzy wasn’t exactly a powerhouse in the magical community.

He was a heavyset occultist with middling talent, a booming laugh, and the sort of easygoing temperament that made people relax the second they walked into his shop. His place was less a store and more a carefully curated avalanche of weird junk—old charms, dusty grimoires, cracked talismans, and the sort of esoterically sympathetic trinkets that somehow always ended up exactly in the hands of the person who needed them.

If you needed a silver coin that had passed through exactly seven pockets before a full moon, Ozzy could probably find you one.

If you needed a cracked mirror once used in a séance during the 1920s, he’d pull it out from under a pile of cursed teacups and haggle like a friendly pirate.

He wasn’t dangerous.

He wasn’t ambitious.

He was just… a shopkeeper.

Which meant he was exactly the kind of person a protection racket would lean on first.

I didn’t know Ozzy all that well outside of frequenting his cluttered little curio shop, but every time I’d walked through that door he’d been personable. Warm. The sort of guy who treated every customer like an old friend even if it was your first time in the place.

When I was younger and my pockets had more lint than money, he’d cut me a few breaks too.

Knocked a few dollars off the price of things.

Threw in a charm or two for free.

Never said it out loud, but the message had been clear enough.

Pay it forward when you can, kid.

The pendulum kept swinging over his shop like a judge banging a gavel.

Yep.

Fat Ozzy was about to have a bad day.

And unless I got there first, Mister Nadali’s elementals were probably going to be the ones delivering it.

“We’re going to Oswald’s,” I said flatly as I folded the map and slid back into the driver’s seat.

Bertrum ruffled his feathers, gave a dignified little hop along the dash, and arranged himself into what I could only describe as a heroic pose.

Well… heroic for a raven.

“What?” he exclaimed with theatrical indignation. “That cad intends ill toward Oswald the Robust Sharpe? I shall not stand for this affront against morality and virtue!”

I turned the key and the Wizard-Mobile coughed awake like a smoker climbing a flight of stairs.

As the engine rumbled to life I glanced sideways at him and said in the most deadpan tone I could muster.

“This is because he always gives you unsalted peanuts, isn’t it?”

Bertrum did not even blink.

“Corvids never forget kindness,” he said solemnly.

He paused.

“Nor wrongs, my good wizard.”

It was, for Bertrum, a rare moment of dignified sincerity.

I pulled the van into gear and rolled out of the parking spot.

Toronto traffic crawled around me like a steel river, but my mind was already racing ahead of the road. If the pendulum was right—and probability magic is annoyingly good at being right when you do it properly—then Nadali’s next move was going to land squarely on Ozzy’s doorstep.

Which meant one of two things.

Either I arrived in time to stop it.

Or I arrived in time to watch it happen.

Neither option thrilled me, but the Wizard-Mobile lumbered forward anyway, the big van rumbling down the street like an aging warhorse that knew it was being asked to charge one more time.

Bertrum leaned forward slightly, peering out through the windshield.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “this whole situation could have been avoided if you had simply ignored the smash-and-grab, finished your coffee, and minded your own business.”

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“Instead you have chosen the path of danger, violence, and probable bodily harm.”

“Also correct.”

He tilted his head, studying me with one glossy black eye.

“You really are a terrible example of self-preservation.”

I eased the van through a light and muttered, “Yeah well.”

A crooked smile tugged at the corner of my mouth.

“Heroes are just idiots who don’t know when to stay out of trouble.”

The Wizard-Mobile rattled down the street toward Ozzy’s shop.

And somewhere ahead of us, Mister Nadali’s protection racket was about to meet a very inconvenient complication.