When the Hunter Let Go

The city smelled of burnt ozone and feathers. Streetlights flickered like nerves, afraid to stay on.

John Merlin stood in the middle of it, coat torn, eyes quiet—the look of a man who had finally run out of arguments with the universe.

Matilda limped to his side. For now she was a dog—black-and-brown mutt, one crooked ear, dragon’s gold eyes—but scales shimmered under her fur like a storm trying to remember itself. She pressed her head against his thigh and huffed.

Mr. Whiskers hopped onto a mailbox and wrapped his tail around his paws. Just a cat—lean, street-smart, one white patch under his chin that some witch once called “the morning star.” He hated that almost as much as he hated witches.

“You look like the last page of a book,” he said, voice dry as dust.

“Feels like it,” John answered.

He could still hear the prophecy chiseled in a dead language:

When the hunter’s heart is pierced by loss, the balance of magic will shatter—and the world will bleed white.

He’d mocked it once. Then a vampire took someone he loved—someone who made coffee too sweet and laughed with her whole face.

By dawn, John Merlin had burned through his last restraint.

He hunted until vengeance felt like silence.

Word spread through the underworld like fire in dry grass.

Smith tried to stop him; Prudence begged him to count souls; Lily said, “Enough.”

Chains older than books couldn’t hold him.

Each kill thinned the veil, time coughed, nights came wrong, clocks lost names.

Now it was done. The last coven was ash.

Matilda nudged him. Mr. Whiskers dropped to his boot toe.

“You could say it,” the cat offered. “Try ‘I was wrong.’ I hear confession gets you good parking in the afterlife.”

“I tried to change it,” John said. “Thought I could outrun a sentence someone else wrote.”

“You didn’t write it,” Whiskers said. “You just… annotated.”

John put a hand on Matilda’s head. “Guard them,” he said softly. “Even the fools.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. She made a keening sound pulled from somewhere older than fire. He laid a palm on Mr. Whiskers. The cat arched despite himself.

“Find someone who still believes in magic,” John murmured. “Someone annoying. Someone who’ll argue with the wind and win by accident.”

“I was always more gravity than wind.” He smiled faintly. “Some prophecies are guardrails. Some are cliffs. This one’s both.”

He drew one deep breath and let it go.

Air shivered. His body unstitched into silver dust that rose like a book opening, then drifted down, glittering in fur and fabric.

The city exhaled. A siren decided it wasn’t needed.

Matilda pressed her head to the ground where he’d stood. Mr. Whiskers sat without meaning to, tail around his paws as if the posture might hold something together.

---

The Quiet After

They kept watch.

Rain came and went.

Then—footsteps.

The girl who appeared looked like trouble had adopted her early and she’d trained it well. Too much eyeliner, not enough armor. Staceee Dark—three e’s, because of course there were—held an empty fishbowl like a wound.

She stopped at the coat and the animals. “I’m late,” she said.

Mr. Whiskers sniffed. She smelled of smoke, salt, and bad habits trying to be better. She smelled like Barnabas—the goldfish she’d lost in the same war.

She crouched. “You were his.”

Matilda’s tail thumped once.

“Were,” Whiskers said. “Past tense is rude.”

A breath that might have been a laugh. “Right. My bad.”

“I lost mine,” she added. “Barnabas.”

“Sorry,” the cat said, and meant it.

“Is he—?” she nodded at the coat.

“Transcended,” Whiskers answered—the word John would’ve chosen.

Tears shimmered in her eyes. “That him?”

“Don’t be weird about it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She leaned forward and hugged him gently. “Kitty.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh brother.” He didn’t move away.

Matilda shoved her head under Staceee’s arm.

“I don’t know what to do next,” Staceee admitted.

“You take us home,” Whiskers said. “Feed us. Argue with the wind. When something tries to eat the neighborhood, we eat it first.”

She smiled. “Yeah. I can do that.”

She reached for the coat. Matilda lifted her head so the sleeve slid beneath. The fabric was heavy with secrets and lint. It didn’t fit. It fit.

A sigil glowed faint and blue under her palm—the mark John had left for the day he couldn’t hold it himself. The night seemed to lean closer.

“Guardian?” she breathed.

“Temporary,” Whiskers said. “Probationary. We’ll see how your review goes.”

Matilda barked once, meaning don’t listen to him; he’s already moved in.

They walked away. If you were sentimental, the breeze that stirred the dust sounded like a familiar voice saying You won’t have to.

---

The New Guardian

They settled above a laundromat that hummed like a lullaby.

The fishbowl held a candle—not because Barnabas needed light, but because grief did.

Magic seeped instead of bled; clocks stopped stealing birthdays.

One rain-washed evening Staceee stood in the alley, coat collar up, Mr. Whiskers on her shoulder, Matilda at her side.

“You ever think about him?” she asked.

“All the time,” Whiskers said.

“What do you remember?”

“The quiet,” he said. “Not this kind—the quiet he carried. Like a pocket you could put your fear in while you tied your shoe.”

“I like that.”

They almost had a routine when someone pounded on the door hard enough to threaten the hinges.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Matilda stiffened. Whiskers inflated. Staceee sighed, “Either the landlord or something wants to kill me,” and opened the door.

A wall of man filled the hallway—Smith, shirt torn, knuckles split, grin pure chaos.

“Hey, kid,” he rumbled. “You the new Guardian?”

“Guardian-in-training,” Whiskers corrected.

Smith laughed, ribs protesting. “Good. ’Cause I really f***ed up this time.”

He dropped onto the couch, leaving a geological dent. The air still carried the echo of marble halls and burnt temples. Once Hercules; now just Smith.

“The Council of Nine is losing it,” he said. “Destiny’s missing. Mischief’s stirring gods. Something ugly’s wearing a familiar face in the underworld. John was supposed to handle it. Now it’s us.”

“Of course it is,” Whiskers muttered. “He transcends five minutes and you break the world.”

Smith grinned through blood. “Nice to see you too. Still a pain?”

“All I know is you were always a pain in John’s,” Whiskers said.

“So what—save the world again?” Staceee asked.

“Saving’s easy,” Smith said. “Keeping it’s work.”

He glanced at the glowing coat. “You coming?”

“We just unpacked,” Whiskers complained.

Staceee pulled on her boots. “Yeah, well, some of us like chaos.”

The apartment dimmed. A soft blue pulse folded the shadows; the temperature dropped a degree no thermostat could track.

A woman stepped from the shimmer like a candle deciding to be a person.

Prudence Blackstone. Coat black as punctuation, eyes rimmed silver from staring into the River of Souls. Power clung politely.

“I felt the echo,” she said. “He crossed clean.”

“John?” Staceee asked.

“Not gone. Not here. Where time minds its manners.”

“Can he see us?” Whiskers asked.

“For a while,” she said. “As long as memory keeps a light on.”

Smith cocked his head. “That poetic for ‘no backup’s coming’?”

Prudence’s smile was dangerous. “That practical for we’re the backup. And yes—I’ll keep an eye on you. Especially you.”

“Me?” Smith blinked.

“Don’t get cocky.”

Staceee tried not to grin. “Council of Nine, huh? Who are they?”

Prudence ticked them off: “Destiny and Fate, Mischief and Chaos, Love and Hate, Creation and Destruction, and Wisdom—currently cursed to forget herself.”

“Great dinner party,” Whiskers said. “I’ll bring the laser pointer.”

Smith straightened, cracking his neck. “They’re supposed to hold balance. Now they’re holding grudges.”

Staceee’s rune warmed. Matilda rose, tail high. The room felt too small.

“You ready?” Smith asked.

“No,” Staceee said. “But we’re going.”

Prudence’s gaze went distant, listening to a river only she could hear. “He’s proud. That might help you sleep.”

“We don’t sleep,” Whiskers said. “We power down.”

“Of course you do.” She eyed Smith. “Try not to die. I hate paperwork.”

They stepped into the hallway. Rain tapped the stairwell window.

At the door, Whiskers glanced back at the candle in the bowl. “Hey, John,” he said to the air. “Try not to micromanage.”

The breeze that found them smelled like rain and laughter. They went down into the night.

The adventure continued.

---

Tag — Where Time Minds Its Manners

There’s a place where immortals go when they’re done with clocks. Air moves the way a hand moves over a sleeping child’s hair—quiet, unnecessary, kind.

John Merlin stood on a not-shore beside a not-river and looked through a veil that wasn’t there. Far away he saw them: a girl in his coat, a cat pretending not to care, a dragon dog, a strong man trying not to be gentle, and a woman made of candlelight.

“They’ll manage,” he said.

“Of course they will.”

Prudence Blackstone appeared beside him. Here she was softer, brighter. “I told her as much,” she said. “And I told him I’d keep an eye on them—especially that hunk Smith.”

John smiled, the rare one. “He’ll act like he doesn’t hear you.”

“He always does.” She folded her hands. “You did what you had to.”

“I did what I could bear,” John said.

“They’ll teach you the rest,” she replied.

They watched their people step into the rain.

“Do you miss the weight?” she asked.

“I miss the quiet I carried for them,” he said. “But I think they’ve built their own pocket.”

“Still proud?”

“Every second I don’t have.”

She nudged him. “Rest. I’ll keep them alive—and if Chaos acts up, I’ll tell Smith you said he can punch a god.”

“He doesn’t need permission,” John said. “But he’ll like the note.”

“For the record,” she added, glancing sideways, “I meant what I said about keeping an eye on him.”

“I know,” John said.

Light changed like a page turning. The river whispered go.

“Goodnight, John,” Prudence said.

“For now,” he answered.

She left the way light leaves a room—reluctant, inevitable.

John watched until they were the size of feelings, then closed his eyes and listened to the world breathe right on its own.

And if the wind on the far side of time sounded, just for a heartbeat, like a cat muttering oh brother—well, that was only because love has a sense of humor.