The club was called The Velvet Veil, tucked between a cursed tailor shop and a butcher that didn’t sell meat anymore. Constantine could feel the hexes baked into the bricks before he even lit his cigarette. Thick glamour clung to the place like perfume—cheap, heavy, and absolutely intentional. He hated it already. Which meant he was definitely in the right place.

He was looking for a witch. Not just any witch—the witch. Vanished from her coven, rumored to be hiding in plain sight, draped in sequins and secrecy. The job was simple: find her, confirm she’s alive, don’t get hexed into a teacup. Easy.

Until she stepped onto the stage.

He froze mid-pull of smoke. The air didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as her voice unfurled from the mic—low, molten velvet. It didn’t just echo through the club, it sank into the bones of everyone listening. Including his. Constantine had heard sirens that didn’t hit this hard.

And those eyes. Gods, those eyes.

They scanned the room like they already knew who everyone was, what they were hiding, and how fast they’d fold. When they landed on him, she didn’t flinch. Just raised one eyebrow—barely—and kept singing. It was the most elegant “sod off” he’d ever received without a single word.

She was too poised to be hiding. Too calm to be scared. She wasn’t the witch who ran. She was the one who chose to disappear. That made her either very smart… or very dangerous.

He liked both.

Constantine found his way to the bar, eyes still on her. The bartender was undead. That was fine. The whiskey was alive, which was all that mattered.

As the song ended, the applause didn’t seem real—like it wasn’t for her, but some version of her everyone else could stomach. Constantine knew better. She wasn’t the act. She was the one pulling strings behind the curtain.

And judging by the shimmer of magic humming just beneath her skin, she knew he was there for her.

Which meant the real show was just about to begin.