JACULUS’S EYES SNAPPED OPEN, SOFT MORNING LIGHT FALLING ACROSS HIS FACE. He rose in a rush, sweating dripping down his brow. He was suddenly back into action, the adrenaline surging back into his veins, ready to fight whatever was in front of him.

However, instead of a hound at his throat, he found a small blanket draped over his chest and a pillow propping up his head. A new, clean shirt wrapped around him, several sizes too big but just small enough to stay on his shoulders.

He was lying on a couch in the center of a small, quaint living room, the ceiling fan above him spinning listlessly and the hum of heater the only source of noise. His leg poked out from the blanket, a bandage wrapped around his calf. A quick pat to his pockets confirmed that the orb was still in his pocket. He breathed a sigh of relief. His treasure was safe.

“Ah, are you awake?” a raspy voice asked.

Jaculus’s blood ran cold, suddenly remembering that he had trespassed into the garden of something that was very, very powerful. Was he being held captive?

A hand appeared on the back of the couch, attached to an intimidating figure. Two glassy eyes watched him from behind a bone mask, the rest of his figure hidden by saggy robes.

Jaculus lashed out, letting his fingernails turn to claws as he raked them across the man’s arm. He leapt off the couch, only for pain to blaze down his leg. He stumbled and fell into a heap.

“Oh my goodness,” the figure said meekly rushing to his side, “That looked like it hurt. Your wound hasn’t healed entirely yet. My spell removed the venom, but that nasty gash needs to heal on its own. I’m sorry.”

Spell? Jaculus thought, heart pounding.

“You’re a witch,” he questioned, almost accusingly.

The man held out a hand, the same one Jaculus had scratched. “Witchmaster, actually. You can call me Abiathar,” he said, helping Jaculus back onto the couch. “Are you hungry? You must be hungry,” he paused, flustered, “You look hungry.”

Jaculus watched Abiathar with cautious eyes.

Abiathar produced a small notebook, sitting on the armrest of the couch. “May I ask what kind of diet you have, as a higher spirit? And, if you could estimate, what percentage of your body weight are you able to consume?”

“I eat whatever I can find,” Jaculus muttered, “And I don’t even know how much I weigh.”

Abiathar put his notebook down, shuffling through the fridge. Tentatively, Jaculus flipped through a few pages. Each page was filled with hastily scribbled notes, paired with a small sketch of a spirit. Jaculus flinched when he came across the same hound that had attacked him.

“I hope chicken’s okay. I was planning on cooking it today, but I think you need it a little more than I do,” Abiathar stated, placing a styrofoam tray on the coffee table, “I assume you eat raw meat, since your teeth are pointed.”

Keeping his eyes locked on Abiathar, Jaculus nibbled on a piece of tenderloin. “You said you were a witchmaster,” he said slowly, “Does that mean something to you humans?”

“‘Witchmaster’ is the highest rank a human witch can reach. It’s a pretty rare title to get, and there’s only about six of us in the area. Usually, we govern over the other witches around us, but…” Abiathar paused, blushing, “I don’t really get out much.”

Jaculus stared down at the worn notebook. “You study spirits?”

“I allow them to live in my garden, where my aura keeps out most dangers. In return, I ask to document them for my research. I have no real magical contract or control over them, but my spirits enjoy my presence and are willing to do chores for me. I take care of them, and they take care of me.”

Across the room, Jaculus saw a small rabbit-like spirit in the sink, dunking plates in soapy water. “Your aura keeps out everything, right?”

Watching Abiathar speak was almost uncomfortable, as the only inch of his head Jaculus could see was his eyes. “Nearly every magical creature knows it’s unwise to intrude upon a witchmaster. Except, of course, for you. May I ask why I found you on my front porch? Did someone tell you this was a safe haven?”

He shook his head, rubbing the wound on his leg. “I just...I just needed somewhere that they couldn’t-” Jaculus cut himself off, “I didn’t have anywhere else to go. I figured I could deal with whatever lived here.”

Another spirit appeared at the table, pushing a tray of tea in front of Abiathar. He handed Jaculus a cup, and then sipped out of his own. “I’m very sorry if this is intrusive, but where are your parents? If I may assume that higher spirits reproduce like humans.”

“We do, it’s just,” Jaculus averted his eyes, looking injured, “They’re not here anymore.”

Abiathar rubbed his wrists, becoming tense. “I see. I’m very sorry,” he mumbled, words clumsy. “I’m sorry I asked.” He patted the tops of his legs, and Jaculus saw a slip of brown hair fall across his shoulder. “If you have nowhere else to go, you may stay here as long as you want. It feels wrong to send you out into the cold.”

Jaculus looked down at his tea, letting the steam lap at his nose. “Do you really want to do that? You know I’m not a human.”

“It doesn’t make a difference to me.”

For the first time that morning, a small smile crept onto Jaculus’s lips.