John knew magic.

He knew the greasy, back-alley kind that reeked of sulfur and desperation. The ceremonial, blood-stained sort that required circles drawn just so. The whispered bargains, the contracts written in things no sane man should read aloud.

He did not know this.

She didn’t chant. Didn’t summon. Didn’t threaten the veil between worlds.

She simply stood there—barefoot, hands loose at her sides—while the air shifted around her like it recognized something ancient and chose to behave.

John narrowed his eyes, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “Right,” he muttered. “That’s new.”

There was no flare of hellfire. No dramatic crack in reality. Just a quiet, steady hum that settled into his bones and refused to be intimidated.

Spiritual.

Not transactional.

That alone made him uneasy.

He took a slow step closer, testing the space like he might test a ward. The energy didn’t push back. Didn’t bite.

It simply… was.

“Most magicians,” he said carefully, “borrow power.”

His gaze flicked over her again, sharper now.

“You don’t.”

That realization crawled under his skin in a way demons never managed to.

Because if she wasn’t bargaining with something—

Then whatever she carried was hers.

And John had just met the rarest kind of danger there was.

The kind that didn’t need permission.