On a highway about three hundred miles east, a white Cadillac sped along, carrying the Unger brothers to their target.

“A stitch-witch? A fucking old lady in a rocking chair making mittens?”

The indignant questions came from the backseat of the Caddy. Fergus Unger adjusted the mirror so he could make annoyed eye contact with Ladd, his younger brother. “A job is a job,” he said, with Ladd moving his lips in unison, having heard the line multiple times.

“Yeah, yeah.” Ladd sat back with a huff. “These jobs are all just so easy. No excitement. No challenge.”

Fergus sighed. His brother, barely mid-twenties, was still a rookie in terms of witch-hunting and thus, still full of untarnished enthusiasm. He wondered if he’d been like that at Ladd’s age, but couldn’t recall, which bothered him. He was only six years older than Ladd, but the span felt like a lifetime. He sometimes wished he were more like his older brother, Aldo, as emotional as a tree stump.

Aldo sat in the passenger seat. Despite the spaciousness of the Caddy the lanky man barely fit. His knees were drawn up, with his head tilting to the side to not bump the roof. At nearly seven feet tall there weren’t too many cars he’d fit comfortably in. But he never complained. Ever. About anything. While Fergus frequently repeated “a job’s a job”, Aldo actually embodied the phrase. The gangly giant didn’t care at all about their various employments. He’d sign a contract to weed a garden or fight a demonic horde with the same detached shrug.

They pulled over at a deserted rest stop to stretch limbs and kill time as they waited for the sun to set. When twilight came, they stripped off their shirts, revealing matching tattoo-covered torsos. To the unknowing eye, they were just decorated with generic, pick-em-off-the-parlor-wall tribal tats. But hidden within the designs, needled with special ink, were magic-resistant symbols. Fergus often wondered just how powerful a magic the tattoos could repel. They had yet to fail them, but the brothers had never locked horns with any truly powerful beings.

“You really think we need the vests?” Ladd whined. “It itches.”

“Yes,” Fergus replied as he pulled the bulletproof Kevlar from the trunk. “These country witches are more likely to have shotguns than dangerous spells.”

Ladd rolled his eyes. “I’m tired of going up against these old, powerless hags.”

“Sooner or later, we’ll tangle with someone that has real teeth. We’ll see if that changes your tune.”

“Teeth? Lucky if she has dentures.”

Fergus sighed, ran a hand over his bald head. Balding may have been a better word. He shaved what little he had left. His one vanity. Aldo was also balding but cared too little to bother with it. Instead, he let his curly hair grow into a clownish, horseshoe-shaped hedge from ear to ear.

“Much further?” Aldo asked. He had a light, airy voice. Not feminine, just soft. A man who didn’t care enough about speech to put any effort into it.

“Within the hour,” Fergus replied.

“Let’s go.”

***

Isaac lay on the bed in the Brit’s guest room, arms crossed behind his head, eyes on the ceiling. He’d been lost in thought since his conversation with her.

Never come back.

The words had stung. While he had never had any intention of returning, having it verbalized to him had made an impression. He should have left the moment Brit had informed him she had withdrawn herself from the Other World. Like with Susan, he should have been smart enough to not involve her at all. But in the end, learning and moving on had been his modus operandi for years. Glean what you can and disappear. Leave the past behind, both literally and figuratively.

But still, one of the few decent people he’d met had rightly nailed him for being the kind of person she had changed her life to avoid. Maybe that had been what really stung. She’d been an accurate judge of his character.

The front doorbell rang and interrupted his whiny introspection. He heard Brit going down the creaky stairs, loudly mumbling, “who’s knocking at this hour?”

***

The front porch was large enough for all three brothers to line up. They made no attempts to disguise themselves, brazenly carrying weapons, clad in Kevlar. Aldo wielded a two-handed ax, Fergus a shotgun. Ladd carried a 9mm and had used the barrel to ring the bell.

A living room light came on, shone through the picture window. Next came the click of the deadbolt. A short, homely woman, clearly annoyed, opened the door. “Who are you and why are you bothering...” her voice trailed off when she saw the weapons.

“Brit Whitworth?” Fergus asked.

The women backed up. “This house is protected. Barrier spells on the doors. No one who wishes to do me harm can enter.”

“Of course not. Aldo?” Fergus said.

Aldo, axe on shoulder like a lumberjack, pulled open the screen door and put a foot into the house. He winced, eyes pinched, teeth gritted, at the invisible forces that assailed him. The hunter pushed forward, slowly, a mime walking against gale-force winds. The magic-resistant ink in his tattoos flared, glowing, searing, as it fought the protective magic. Brit took a step back, mouth agape. Fergus didn’t know how his brother could withstand it. Even with the tattoos, it had to hurt like hell. With a final slow-motion charge, Aldo pushed through and stood before the stitch witch.

“Peasant magic. We’re always prepared for peasant magic. No offense,” the tall man said and brought the axe down.

***

Isaac peered through the cracked door just in time to see the weapon fall. The stairway banister spared him the sight of the death blow but not the sound, sickeningly akin to chopping wood. He caught his breath, and his heart skipped a beat, but he otherwise physically restrained himself to only a slight flinch. There was no point in further reaction. He could do nothing for Brit and saw little benefit in giving away his position. Instead, he slowly backed up, gathered up his Everbag and his shoes, tiptoed into the walk-in closet, and shut the door.

He opened his Everbag, knew that, even if he could see, it would be empty, until he thought about an object he’d placed in it, thus willing it out of the Everbag’s pocket dimension. Just as Brit had said. He pictured a piece of onyx he’d previously placed in it. Black, shiny, smooth. And it appeared, spit back into this dimension by the lining of the bag.

With the stone in his hand, he could cast a spell to camouflage himself in the darkness, the shadows wrapping him like a blanket. He didn’t like it. It made for a cold place to hide. But even if the intruders shone flashlights directly on to him, they would see nothing but dark, empty space.

It wasn’t fear that bid him do this, just resignation. He’d liked Brit and had no wish to see her die. But she’d been right about the Other World, the one she’d left behind. She’d been right about him. Foul things tended to follow both. Whether the assassins had come for him or her, he didn’t know, nor did he care. Brit was dead. It made no sense to engage her killers—no justice to gain and no retribution worth the risk. Scales in the Other World were not built to be balanced.

The house was old, and he could hear them wandering around. They moved freely, unconcerned about wooden floors creaking, uncaring about the noise they made. If they were in pursuit of him, he assumed they’d still be wary of their prey, but they moved like the job had been completed with Brit’s death.

He heard the guestroom door open and someone rummaged about. Passing feet broke the light bleeding under the closet door. Then he heard the voice—young, angry, disappointed. It said loudly, “I knew the old bitch would have no teeth.”

The onyx lay in Isaac’s hand, cold in his palm, the shadow-wrap spell would be quick and easy to cast, but something stopped him.

Teeth. The old bitch had no teeth. It jarred him. Made him think...

***

...Isaac had been much younger, maybe a teenager, he couldn’t quite remember. He couldn’t recall the month or the year. He’d been in a place where time had been irrelevant, so there’d been no need to know. His master stood before him, wreathed in shadow, only a silhouette, an outline of a cloaked human form with a shine from his eyes, like jewels. To his right, on a stand made of bones, perched a giant snow-white owl. On the ground before him lay a skull, polished and bright, but inhuman. It had an oblong shape and oversized jaws, with rows of fangs, too many and too large.

“Fangs are impressive.” When the master spoke, the voice flat. Unable to tell if it had been a statement or a question, Isaac had remained silent. “They terrify the lesser because they impart a ferocious countenance. One would be a fool to engage such a beast. Yet look where it is. A trophy used as a lesson because it judged me by the size of my teeth. And found it to be a serious misjudgment.” Then, finally the question. “Should you fear such fangs?” The skull levitated with the words and rotated on the air.

A butterfly stomach had been Isaac’s first reaction. Admit fear and be thought a coward. Deny fear and be thought a fool. The master was hard to anticipate. Better to dodge. “Depends what they’re attached to.”

Since he could observe no face on his master, only swirling darkness, it proved impossible to tell the immediate effect. “It’s more important for beings such as us to keep our fangs hidden. But those with sharp teeth on display deserve to be met in kind. You must always be ready to bite, and when you do, make sure your teeth meet.”

***

Isaac didn’t cast the spell. He replaced the stone, drew his .38 pistol, and stood in the center of the closet, ringed on three sides by Brit’s clothing, her handiwork, her life. He normally didn’t get riled up enough for vengeance, but he supposed this particular situation called for teeth.