The House of Libations was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a subtle or polite drinking establishment.

It was a temple of Dionysus that happened to function as a nightclub—half ancient Greek revelry, half neon-soaked homage to grinding techno and industrial bass. Marble columns wrapped in LED light strips. Bronze reliefs depicting ecstatic rites, reimagined in glitter and lasers. Incense braided with vape smoke. Somewhere between a sacred rite and a questionable life decision.

Not exactly my usual kind of place.

I’m not an extroverted dance club kinda guy. When I drink, it’s more like a whiskey sour at a brick-in-the-wall bar with sticky floors and a bartender who minds his own business. Not… whatever this was.

I sighed and approached the entrance.

The bass thudded through the stone beneath my boots, the rhythm syncing annoyingly well with my pulse. The signage over the doorway was a clash of aesthetics—half Bronze Age artistry, half modern glam typography. Grapevines carved in relief twined around glowing script that promised ecstasy, liberation, transcendence.

All for a cover charge, I assumed.

The doorman—or rather, the door fey—was a satyr.

Of course he was.

He stood half a head taller than me, shirtless, muscles carved like a sculptor had been very motivated and mildly competitive. The kind of abs that made me reconsider my gym routine and then resent the concept of cardio entirely.

Horns curled back through wild dark hair. Beard thick. Eyes bright with mischief. Furry legs ending in polished hooves that clicked against the stone. He smelled faintly of wine, cedar, and the sort of confidence that bordered on weaponized.

The embodiment of masculine passion dialed up to eleven and left there.

He looked me over slowly, gaze lingering just long enough to be deliberate.

“Well,” he said, voice smooth and amused beneath the bass. “You look like you’re here on purpose.”

“I am,” I replied evenly.

His eyes flicked to my coat. To the subtle weight beneath it. To the way I carried myself.

“Not here to drink,” he observed.

“No.”

“Not here to dance.” he added.

“Also no.”

He grinned, sharp and knowing. “Pity.”

I held his gaze. Didn’t look away. Didn’t puff up either. Just steady.

“I’m looking for four men in suits,” I said. “Bad at pretending to be human. Recently acquired a taste for enchanted baked goods.”

The satyr’s brows lifted a fraction.

Then he laughed.

It wasn’t mocking.

It wasn’t friendly either.

It was the laugh of someone who had just realized the night might get interesting.

The laugh did not exactly fill me with hope.

The satyr snorted, then stepped aside with a theatrical sweep of one arm, granting me entry like I’d just passed some unspoken test. The scent of wine and sweat and charged magic rolled out past him in a warm wave.

I gave him a short nod in thanks and moved to pass.

“Not saying what you’re looking for is in there or not,” he called after me, voice carrying easily over the bass, “but have fun. The finding is the seeking.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

“Poetry’s extra, I assume?” I muttered.

He grinned wider.

I stepped inside.

The music hit like a living thing—drums layered under synth, rhythm braided with something older, something primal. The floor thrummed beneath my boots. Lights strobed in colors that didn’t exist outside Market Space, catching on glitter, sweat, and bare skin.

It was packed.

Maenads moved through the crowd like priestesses of chaos, hair wild, eyes bright with sacred intoxication. Satyrs laughed and leaned in close to whisper things that sounded like bad ideas wrapped in velvet. Nymphs drifted between tables, luminous and dangerous in equal measure.

And the clientele…

Powerful.

You could feel it. Threads of magic humming under skin. Auras brushing against each other like dueling perfumes. This wasn’t a place for amateurs. You either had enough control to indulge safely, or you became part of the ambiance.

I adjusted my coat and let my senses stretch—not overtly, not aggressively. Just enough to scan.

The bar curved in a wide arc to my left, bottles glowing faintly with contained enchantment. A mezzanine level overlooked the dance floor, private booths shadowed and discreet. A stage at the far end held a live percussionist who might’ve been mortal once.

I kept moving, slow, deliberate, letting the crowd part just enough to mark me as neither prey nor participant.

Four men in suits.

Uncanny.

Trying to look human.

In a place like this, that should stand out.

In a place like this, they should have stood out.

I could have leaned into magic. Let my senses stretch past the visible, skim the emotional residue in the air, trace the static hum of something pretending to be human. But the problem was saturation.

This place wasn’t just loud with music and sweat and perfume—it was loud magically. A dozen different auras pressed against mine at once. Fae glamour braided with mortal desire. Old gods humming under basslines. Ritual intoxication layered over recreational vice. It was like trying to pick out a single violin in the middle of a thunderstorm.

If I pushed too hard, I’d drown in it.

And worse—someone would notice.

I also stood out like a sore thumb.

The clientele here had planned their night. They looked good. Intentionally good. Glitter. Silk. Velvet. Bare skin and curated decadence. They’d outsourced debauchery and dressed for it.

I looked like a tired guy cosplaying as a noir detective who’d walked out of a pulp magazine and desperately needed an IV full of coffee to function. Long coat. Serious expression. Zero glitter. Very little joy.

Subtle was not my strong suit tonight.

Which meant I needed to adjust the approach.

If I couldn’t scan magically without lighting myself up like a flare, I’d have to do this the old-fashioned way.

Pattern recognition.

I leaned against a column—stone wrapped in grapevine carvings—and let my eyes track the room without staring. Watching the watchers. Watching who moved through the crowd without getting bumped. Who people instinctively gave space to.

Power creates gravity.

And things pretending to be human usually overcompensate in one of two ways: either they hug the edges, stiff and awkward, or they move with a precision that reads as wrong in a room built for chaos.

A pair of satyrs nearly collided with me, laughing, then veered away mid-motion as if they’d felt something off and didn’t want to test it.

Good.

The mezzanine caught my eye again. Private booths. Controlled lighting. A place where deals would be easier to make than on a dance floor.

I pushed off the column—

—and immediately felt someone enter my personal space.

Not magically. Just that subtle human radar that goes off when someone stands half a step too close and knows exactly what they’re doing.

“Well, well,” a voice like honeyed wine said from my left. “Didn’t expect to see Toronto’s infamous meddling mage at the House. And given you look like you’re working… that makes me curious.”

I turned.

Dark skin luminous in the shifting lights. Eyes a crisp amber-brown that caught and held. Hair a riot of braids, beads, and coiled ringlets arranged in something that felt both ancient and aggressively modern—neo-Grecian, deliberate, artful. Bracelets chimed softly as she shifted her weight. Rings caught the glow like small promises.

She was dressed to distract anyone with eyes and a heartbeat.

I didn’t need magic to know what I was looking at.

Maenad.

A Bacchae. A priestess of Dionysus. Human—technically. Enhanced by devotion and ritual and the kind of ecstatic theology that turned wine into sacrament and frenzy into prayer.

I straightened subtly, resisting the urge to adjust my coat or swallow like a teenager caught staring.

“You seem to have me at a disadvantage,” I said, aiming for smooth. “You know who I am. I don’t know you.”

“Oh, good,” she purred, smile sharpening into something capable of shaving ice. “I like having men at a disadvantage.”

My pulse ticked up half a beat.

Professional. Stay professional.

I reminded myself gently: I was here for work. I had a girlfriend. A very specific, very chaotic, very wonderful girlfriend. And Maenads were dangerous.

Not in the lazy, Roman-propaganda way. Not in the hysterical caricature sense.

In the real way.

They were initiated. Trained. Devoted. Students of secret rites and ecstatic magic passed down through centuries of cult practice. Many were witches in their own right. All were touched by their god’s favor.

And yes—the stories about physical strength? Not exaggerations.

A typical Maenad might be five feet tall, ninety-five pounds soaking wet—and fully capable of pulling a grown warrior apart with her bare hands if the ritual demanded it. The power wasn’t brute muscle. It was divine frenzy sharpened into precision.

She stepped half an inch closer. Not enough to touch. Enough to test.

“You’re not dressed to indulge,” she observed, eyes flicking over my coat, my boots, the tension in my shoulders. “You’re hunting.”

“I prefer the term investigating.”

“Of course you do.” Her smile widened slightly. “So. What are you investigating in my House?”

My? Interesting use of words there I noted silently to myself..

“Four men in suits,” I said evenly. “Uncomfortable in their skin. Bad at pretending to be human. Recently acquired enchanted baked goods.”

Her gaze didn’t flicker—but something in it tightened. A fractional shift.

Ah.

So she knew something.

“Why would such men interest you?” she asked softly.

“Because they’re causing problems for someone I like.”

“Ah.” Her bracelets chimed as she folded her arms loosely. “Altruism. How quaint.”

I almost laughed. Luka would have had a fit hearing that word again.

“I’m not here to disrupt your House,” I added. “If they’re guests, I won’t start anything on the floor.”

“Wise.” She leaned closer, breath warm against my ear without actually touching. “We are very protective of our atmosphere.”

“I noticed.”

She studied me for a long moment. Not appraising my body. Appraising my intent.

Maenads didn’t just revel. They read.

“You have control,” she said finally. “You’re not tempted. Not enough to be dangerous.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“For me,” she corrected lightly.

I exhaled slowly.

“So,” I said. “Are they here?”

A beat.

The bass swelled. Lights strobed violet and gold.

Her smile returned—but this time, it was less teasing and more strategic.

“Come,” she said, turning toward the stairs to the mezzanine. “If you are going to hunt in my House, you will do so under supervision.”

I hesitated exactly half a second.

Then followed.

Because if the Maenads were involved, this wasn’t just a nightclub problem anymore.

This was theology with a liquor license.

I followed, doing my absolute best to keep my eyes at a respectable altitude while she walked like a woman who took deep personal joy in rendering “respectable” a theoretical concept.

There is a specific kind of confidence that bends posture. She had it. Not exaggerated. Not forced. Just… owned.

“I still haven’t caught your name,” I said, aiming for conversational and not mildly flustered. “Care to enlighten me?”

She didn’t look back as she ascended the stairs, bracelets chiming faintly over the music.

“Kori,” she said. “Korina Makris if you want to be proper about it.”

She glanced over her shoulder then, amber eyes catching the light.

“Though I much prefer my boys acting improper.”

My brain, traitor that it is, briefly offered several unhelpful responses.

I chose none of them, despite some part of my psyche screaming flirt with the sexy dangerous Greek lady.

“Good to know,” I said evenly. “I’ll file that under ‘relevant but not actionable.’”

She laughed softly. Not mockery—approval.

“You’re disciplined,” she observed as we reached the mezzanine. “Most men either preen or stammer.”

“I do both,” I said. “Internally.”

That earned me another look. A longer one.

“You are loyal,” she said, not as a question. “There’s someone.”

“Yes.” I answered truthfully because I decided saying I had a girlfriend might provide me some kind of armor against her interest or advances I was probably wrong of course but it was worth a shot right?

I paused half a step. “That obvious?”

“Devotion leaves a flavor,” she replied lightly. “And you taste… anchored.”

There are moments in life where you feel both deeply seen and mildly dissected.

This was one of them.

“Should I be concerned you’re tasting me metaphysically?” I asked.

She smiled, sharp but not unkind. “Relax, wizard. If I wanted you intoxicated, you would already be dancing.”

“Careful with that threat,” I shot back. “My dancing is bad enough to cause second-hand embarrassment.”

That earned a small, genuine smile from Kori. Points for self-awareness.

We reached the upper level. The music dulled here, filtered through velvet drapes and clever acoustics. The air was cooler. More controlled. Private booths curved along the wall in crescent shapes of low gold light and shadow. Deals happened here. So did seductions. Sometimes both at once.

“Four large men,” she said calmly, leaning her forearms against the railing. “Suits. Moving like it was their first day being human?”

I joined her at the edge and looked down over the dance floor. Bodies moved in ecstatic rhythm. Lights strobed. A maenad below laughed as a satyr spun her in a reckless arc.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “They knocked over a very nice lady’s bakery. Threatened her. Took a sack full of enchanted goods.”

Kori’s jaw tightened—just slightly.

“The baker,” she said. “Short. Flour in her hair even when she tries to look serious.”

I blinked. “You know Bailey?”

“This city is not that large,” Kori replied. “Not when you pay attention.”

That was… interesting.

“She is not under Market protection,” Kori continued. “She sells independently. Refuses to rent a stall.”

“She doesn’t want the obligations,” I said. “Or the fees.”

“A noble stance,” Kori said dryly. “Expensive, though in its own ways.”

“Yeah. I’m noticing.”

She watched the crowd below another moment, then spoke without looking at me.

“They met someone in Booth Seven.”

I followed her gaze to a shadowed curve along the far wall.

“Who runs Seven?” I asked.

“Tonight?” she said. “A representative.”

“That’s vague.”

“It is meant to be.”

I studied her profile. “Representative of what?”

She turned her head slightly, amber eyes catching the light again.

“Tell me, wizard,” she said softly, “if independent magical businesses begin experiencing pressure… thefts… intimidation… who benefits?”

“The Goblin Market,” I answered, because it felt obvious.

She shook her head. The beads in her braids chimed softly—audible even through bass and laughter. Either that was magic, or I was hyper-focused on her.

Possibly both.

“Jumping to conclusions, Wizard,” she chastised, tone warm but pointed.

“The Market likes healthy competition. They skim profit through stall fees, influence, and reputation. They haven’t campaigned to ruin independent operators in over a century. Why would they start now?”

That landed.

Because she was right.

The Goblin Markets were greedy, yes. Ruthless at times. But systemic greed was different from chaotic vandalism. Markets thrived on trust—predictable vice, structured risk. If independents got squeezed too hard, fewer people would enter the ecosystem at all. Fear was bad for long-term liquidity.

The rational part of my brain started chewing.

“So this isn’t consolidation,” I murmured.

“No.”

“It’s destabilization.”

Her eyes flicked to me approvingly. “Better.”

I leaned against the railing, thinking it through.

“Four operatives steal enchanted consumables. Deliver them here. To someone not Market-aligned. Someone adjacent.”

“Four operatives steal enchanted consumables. Deliver them here. To someone not Market-aligned. Someone adjacent.”

I frowned—then stopped myself.

“Or,” I corrected slowly, “someone who wants the Market to soak up any heat they generate.”

Kori didn’t smile this time.

She just watched me.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

The bass below us thudded like a pulse. The House was still alive with revelry, but the conversation had shifted into something colder.

“If independents get hit,” I continued, thinking it through aloud, “they assume Market pressure. If stolen goods surface here, rumors start. People whisper. The Market looks complicit even if it isn’t.”

“And when reputations destabilize,” Kori added, “trust weakens.”

“And when trust weakens,” I said, “alternative systems look attractive.”

She nodded once.

Now we were somewhere unpleasant.

“So whoever’s in Booth Seven isn’t strengthening the Market,” I said. “They’re eroding it.”

“Yes.” She noted calmly.

“And using the House as neutral ground,” I offered.

She gave me a sidelong glance.

“Whoever pays the price may use my House as they wish.”

There was no apology in it. No defensiveness either. Just policy.

I nodded slowly.

Neutral ground only stays neutral as long as the gold keeps flowing.

“I have bills to pay,” she continued, voice smoothing into something almost mundane. “Wine to purchase. Waitresses and bartenders who work hard for their checks.”

She flexed her fingers, bracelets chiming softly, and her gaze drifted over the dance floor below. Not possessive. Protective.

That told me something important.

“Understandable,” I said. “Then why tell me anything?”

If Booth Seven was paying, she had no obligation to tip me off. Neutrality cuts both ways.

She pursed her lips for a moment—then exhaled a single word like a lover whispering something dangerous in the dark.

“Chaos.”

I narrowed my eyes slightly.

“Chaos?”

“Chaos,” she repeated. “Change. Growth through the world becoming wine-drunk and stumbling into enlightenment, Mister Blackwell.”

That was… poetic. And evasive.

“Enlightenment doesn’t usually require stolen cookies,” I said dryly.

She smiled faintly. “No. It requires imbalance.”

Now we were getting somewhere.

“You’re not defending them,” I observed.

“No,” she answered calmly.

I let the silence stretch a beat before I spoke..

“You’re not endorsing them.”

“Correct.” she replied crisp and far more sincere then I might have expected.

The music below surged, bodies moving in ecstatic arcs of light and shadow.

“And what exactly am I to you in all this then, Miss Makris?” I asked, though I already had a suspicion forming.

Her lips curved slowly.

“You are a dose of chaos yourself,” she said. “A man with a reputation for wading into the strange with nothing but a grin and a partly formed, half-assed plan.”

I blinked.

“Hey. My plans are at least seventy percent assed.” I grumbled.

She ignored that.

“To be frank,” she continued, stepping just close enough that the air between us warmed, “you are my kind of wizard.”

There it was again—that dangerous, delighted smile. The kind that suggested she enjoyed lighting matches just to see how quickly the room reacted.

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” I said carefully.

“It is,” she assured me. “You destabilize. You ask questions where others accept spectacle. You disrupt narratives.”

“Im just trying to help people and pay my own bills,” I muttered.

“Exactly.” She tilted her head, studying me as though I were an interesting vintage.

“Chaos is not destruction,” she said softly. “It is transformation. You do not burn systems down for pleasure. You pressure them until they reveal their weaknesses.”

“That’s a very flattering reframe of ‘habitually sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong.’”

She laughed quietly.

“You are not anyone's shill,” she said. “You are not aligned to any stable organization. You are not recruitable. You are inconvenient.”

“That sounds more accurate.” I had to admit she wasn’t wrong here.

“And inconvenient men,” she finished, “are useful when rot begins under polished floors.”

I followed her gaze toward Booth Seven again.

“So you’re not just curious,” I said. “You’re testing.”

“Yes.” she said almost approvingly of my observations.

I took a small breath “You want to see what happens when someone pushes back.”

“I want to see what survives,” she corrected.

The velvet drapes stirred again, slower this time.

They knew we were talking.

They were waiting.

I looked back at her.

“And if this goes sideways?” I asked.

She shrugged lightly, bracelets chiming like distant bells.

“Then we will discover whether your chaos is refinement… or simply noise.”

I snorted softly. “No pressure.”

Her eyes gleamed.

“Oh, there is always pressure, Mister Blackwell. Pressure, however, is what makes men like you diamonds rather than lumps of coal.”

She reached out and adjusted my jacket—calmly, casually—but it was closer than my brain had budgeted for. Fingers smoothing fabric over my shoulder. A deliberate, intimate correction.

There was a spike of something in my chest. Heat. Instinct. The very human reaction to proximity and perfume and attention from a dangerously self-possessed woman.

If she felt it—and I was fairly certain she did—she gave no sign.

Polite of her.

Professional, even.

She leaned closer, voice slipping just beneath the bass.

“Go knock,” she murmured. “Let us see who answers.”

And with that, she stepped aside—not retreating, not abandoning—but granting me the floor.

Which, I realized, was exactly what she’d wanted from the beginning.

A catalyst.

Fine.

I adjusted my coat, felt the familiar weight of the iron-and-copper rod beneath it, grounding and solid. No wand tonight. No theatrics. Just iron, geometry, and a bad habit of asking questions in rooms that preferred applause.

Time to shake this tree and see if any rotten apples fell down.

The walk to Booth Seven felt longer than it was. The music shifted subtly as I moved past other booths. Conversations dipped. A couple of patrons clocked me and then looked away in that deliberate, not-my-problem way.

The velvet drapes were heavy. Dark. Threaded with faint sigils that hummed just below perception—privacy wards. Sound dampening. Emotional buffering.

Professional.

I stopped an arm’s length away.

The air around the booth wasn’t wine-sweet or incense-thick.

It was structured.

Measured.

Like someone had brought a boardroom into a bacchanal.

I raised my hand and knocked once against the carved wooden frame.

Not loud.

Not timid.

Measured.

There was a beat.

The music below swelled, then dipped, like the House itself was holding breath.

I exhaled once through my nose.

Right.

This was going to be Bad for my health.Bad for my well-being. Possibly bad for my reputation or state of being alive. 

So standard operating conditions for Chance Blackwell.

I reached for the curtains and steeled myself despite my nerves and heart beating louder than the bass.