by Michelle Fox
The woman wiped poop off her hand with a plastic bag and glared at me. "Hey! Watch your dog, lady!"
"Let's go, buddy." I clipped his leash on and headed for the exit. The water had to be boiling by now, and Blart had worn out his welcome.
Back in the attic, I pulled out the plastic jewelry organizer that held the hair and nail clippings used to make my tracking charms. I didn't have many clients at large at the moment, so there were just three baggies.
I had Hunter Stevens, a lion shifter who'd been arrested for shifting in the middle of a bar dance floor. Going into the human district and letting your magic fly was a no-no. He wouldn't do time, but there'd be a big fine. That baggie held a coil of tawny hair and a thick nail clipping from Hunter's thumb.
There was Claire Smythe, who'd been caught charming men into paying for groceries and mall shopping sprees. She'd groused to me that having magic meant witches shouldn't have to pay for anything. The law saw it differently, and I couldn't relate since that kind of charm was way beyond my skill level. Her baggie had a black curl and a nail clipping that was painted red on one side.
Last came Sheridon Thorne, a werewolf and master thief arrested for stealing antiques and treating his arrest like a UFC match. His baggie...
I rummaged in the box, frowning.
His baggie was gone.
"What? That can't be right." I took out every drawer, and checked to make sure the baggies hadn't been doubled up, and turned the organizer upside down, giving it a good shake and nothing. His baggie wasn't there.
I went to my desk and searched it, thinking perhaps I'd forgotten to put his baggie away. Despite going through all the drawers and a pile of paperwork I'd been successfully avoiding for months, I came up empty.
I looked at Blart. "Did you eat Thorne's hair and nails?"
He sat and cocked his head at me, his ears up high.
It wasn't that Blart wouldn't eat something like that, but I was careful not to give him a chance. There'd been nothing unusual in his poop. Not that I examined it closely, but I would've noticed anything strange.
Blart had once swallowed a small glass figurine whole, and it had come out three days later, still in one piece. Thank the Goddess, it had survived Blart because it had been a custom sculpture of my mom's astral phoenix familiar.
After triple-checking every place I thought the baggie could be, I had to admit it wasn't there. Going down to the hearse, I rooted around in there and nothing.
Stomping up to the attic again, I turned off the stove. No point in boiling water if I didn't have the DNA I needed for the charm. Without a piece of Thorne and with Vitor gone, I'd have to find Thorne another way. Pulling his file, I went over his information.
Single. Well, duh. He hadn't exactly been a charmer when I'd bailed him out.
No physical address, just a P.O. box. All shifters used them. They were paranoid about people finding their dens.
Except...I thought back to the call Vitor had made. The barbecue place. It was a shifter hot spot. Maybe I could track down his den and grab a hair sample from that. Then I could make the charm, and with a little luck, no one would know I'd almost had a huge fail on my hands.
Ducking easy, right?
"Come on, Blart. Field trip time." I headed for the closet and pulled out my leathers. Most days I wore jeans, but when things got serious, so did the clothes. The jacket, vest and pant set had been a gift from my mother and they'd been charmed to the hilt. The only problem was that the leather pants took a lot of yanking to get on. I ditched my jeans and shirt and sat on the bed, preparing to do battle.
Blart jumped up on the bed with me to watch, his head cocked, ears flopped, ready to provide his version of assistance. Namely licking me when I wasn't looking.
Too much information: My familiar wasn't above licking my ass.
I moved away from him a bit, giving myself a longer lead time on dodging his tongue, and then I went to work. Getting the pants up to my knees wasn't so bad, but as I got bigger, the pants got smaller. I suspected there was some kind of slimming charm at play because once I got them on, they were fine.
I yanked. The pants inched up and we did this back-and-forth tug-of-war for several minutes. The pants so resisted my efforts, I felt like they were judging me.
Finally, I got the damn things over my booty bump and up to my waist. Laying back and sucking my curves in for everything I was worth, I zipped and buttoned the pants.
Sitting up proved impossible as the pants wouldn't let me bend. I rolled to my side instead and slid to my feet. If I didn't know better, I'd think I'd gained weight, but it was just the pants being an ornery, magical asshat. After a second, they gave and became less likely to cut me in half.
The vest came next. I zipped it up and shimmied the girls into place. Slinging the jacket over my shoulder, I checked the full-length mirror on the wall. Everything looked good. Which was to say, nothing bulged or showed signs of muffin top.
Although the really important part was the outfit was bullet proof, knife proof, fang proof, dragon fire proof, and absorbed hits, keeping the full force of blows away from my body. I just wish it came in a comfy yoga pant and oversized t-shirt. A stretchy elastic waist would've been nice.
Going to my desk, I grabbed my emergency credit card and some twenty-dollar bills. I zipped those into a small pocket in the vest's lining. I didn't carry a purse when I was looking for a skip trace. Purses could be lost or left behind, leaving me without money when I most needed it. I'd gotten into the habit of carrying everything on me.
Next, I stocked up on weapons and cuffs. My silver handcuffs charmed to be unbreakable went into my back pocket. My Glock, I tucked into the side holster built into the vest. I added my tazer and small knife to my gear. Could I actually fight with these weapons? Kind of. I'd taken classes and was a decent shot.
The knife was more of a tool as opposed to a defensive weapon. I used it for all sorts of things, like helping to pop the tab on my soda and cut those annoying plastic tags off new clothes. The taser was my go-to, and I hadn't had any major mishaps with it.
Basically, the whole outfit was overkill. My job never got as exciting as my outfit could handle. But I'd found people respected the look, and if anything was going to go south, it would be this case. I hoped I didn't need to be this prepared, but I was ready for anything.
I waved Blart over. "Let's go."
We bounded down the steps and then outside. Blart took his usual spot in the front passenger seat while I fastened my seat belt. Starting the hearse, I headed for Alpha's Grill.
The Supernatural Quarter wasn't large, and I arrived at the bar five minutes later. I parked in the back and cracked the windows for Blart.
"Stay here and guard the car."
He woofed, and I doubted he understood a word I'd said, but he was mildly territorial. He'd at least growl first before kissing anyone who tried to get into the hearse. On really bad days, I half hoped he'd leave me for some other witch. He was that friendly. But then I'd miss him. Maybe he was a shit familiar, but he was mine.
The truth was, witches with crap magic like me couldn't work in the witch world and humans didn't want us either. To boot, my mom had a high-profile job in the witch community. I couldn't just go be a waitress somewhere—my mother would be horrified.
My options were limited. Owning a house or spiffy car like my mom's was out of the picture. All I had was Blart and the hearse.
It was enough, except for days like today when my mom and the High priestess were all up my ass.
Chapter Six
Alpha's Grill wasn't busy. This time of night, shifters were out running around in their furry forms. Snack time wouldn't start until later. The parking lot held just one motorcycle and some vintage muscle cars, decked out like they were going to star in a parade. Shifters took their wheels very seriously. They loved custom rims, running lights, lots of chrome and elaborate paint jobs. Humans didn't know it, but easily half the people at old car shows were shift
ers.
I entered the restaurant and quickly scanned who and what was in the place. A bounty hunter always knew their exits, entrances, and who's in the room. That rule had stuck with me because it had been a tricky multiple-choice question on my licensing exam.
Who wasn't the hard part, but what was tricky. Unlike shifters, I couldn't smell someone's animal, but there were clues in their human bodies that gave their animals away. Lions always had thick, untamed hair and a prowling gait. Panthers had jet black hair and sleek physiques that moved like liquid. Leopards tended to have blond hair and lots of moles as their spots stayed with them in their human form.
Werewolves had straight, soft hair that came in different hues of brown. They bounded more than they walked, constantly sniffed the air, and their body language reminded me a lot of Blart. They cocked their heads when curious and were obsessed with food. I had yet to determine if they farted as much as my familiar, but with as much as werewolves ate, it wasn't an impossibility.
As for dragons, they were easy. They always ran hot. On cold days, they steamed.
I didn't see any dragons around, though. Just a mix of cats and wolves. In the back, a group of lions shared pitchers of beer. They noticed my arrival and shrugged me off as unimportant. Good.
A werewolf couple canoodled in the booths that ran down the center of the restaurant, oblivious to the fact that everyone could see them. Mating made shifters lose their minds. The smart ones locked themselves in hotel rooms until they worked the mate lust out of their system.
Opposite the booths, a lone panther sat at the bar, a row of empty shot glasses lined up in front of him like sentinels. A pang of sympathy went through me at the slump in his shoulders. Shifters were proud people; they didn't show their wounds unless it was serious. Poor cat.
The main thing, no one was fighting or looked like they wanted to fight—shifters liked to brawl. Still, that didn't mean I was safe. Shifters didn't like outsiders, not even other supes.
"Just one?" The hostess sniffed to take my measure. When I didn't register as shifter, she shot a pointed look to a table behind me in the glass atrium at the front of the bar. I half turned to follow her gaze to a burly, bald man sitting at a table.
I gave him a half nod. "Evening, Tex. I heard the food here was good." Tex was alpha of the small werewolf pack that ran the place.
We'd crossed paths when I bailed one of his wolves out of jail after a fight had spilled over into the human world. There'd been a car chase through the heart of the city that crashed into a light pole in front of the theater where people were leaving after a show. The shifters involved had shifted in the street and tried to tear each other's throats out. I never found out what caused the fight, but it had made national news, so the police made a big show of arresting supes and sending them to prison.
Tex had been angry about that and threatened to rip my face off a few times, but water under the bridge and all that happy jazz. I didn't hold grudges, especially when I needed something.
After staring at me like he wasn't sure if he wanted to eat me or punch me, he gave a slow nod to the waitress. I had his permission, but not his approval. His gaze hit mine and flashed yellow, his wolf coming to the surface. He'd be watching me.
"So just one?" The waitress asked again, picking up a menu and a roll of silverware.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, feeling uncomfortable about turning my back on Tex. "Yeah. A booth in the back if you have it."
She nodded. "Follow me."
I scanned the place as we walked. Pine plank tables gleamed with veneer. Televisions had been mounted in every corner, each showing a different sport. Shifter footraces on one. Shifter mixed martial arts on another—fighters were allowed two shifts per fight. Dragon acrobatic flying and another dragon show about who could melt the most metal. I didn't get the appeal of watching that one—it was just a bunch of fire shot at metal—but I wasn't a dragon either.
Settling into my booth, I ordered a rack of ribs, and while I waited for my order, I sauntered up to the bar.
"Hey." I waved to the bartender and hopped onto a bar stool, fishing in my vest for some cash.
A large man with a ragged scar that went from his forehead down to his cheek but somehow left the eye intact, came over.
I slapped a hundred in twenties on the counter. "Witch wine please."
"And?" He picked up the money, and it disappeared in his pocket.
"A little information. I'm looking for Sheridon Thorne's lair."
"What for?"
"He's in a lot of trouble. I can help him out." The classes I'd taken for my bounty hunter's license came in handy more than I liked to admit. One of the big lessons was not to be aggressive. Look like you care, pretend you're helping, and then slap on the cuffs. It was amazing how often that worked. Or maybe I just had an honest face.
The bartender snorted as he pulled a wine bottle out from under the counter. "You? Help him? You're the witch with no magic. What are you going to do for him?"
"It's not no magic. I have magic." The problem with being the only supernatural bounty hunter in the city meant almost everyone had heard of me. Some of my more embarrassing secrets had become public knowledge.
He leaned in and sniffed. "You smell weak."
"Thorne really does need help." I tried to keep us on topic.
"I don't know anything about Thorne, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you." He poured the witch wine into a glass and set it on the bar.
"Then give me back my money."
"What money?" He held up empty hands, and with a laugh, walked away.
"I won't forget that. Someday you might need..." I trailed off because the threat wasn't going to a good place. No one needed or wanted me. If I was on their ass, it meant they were going to jail. "I'm going to send you a special hex. You'll never see it coming."
Head held high, I spun off the bar stool. Ignoring the fact every shifter in the place was watching me and had heard everything, I strutted back to my table, my steel-toe boots clomping on the floor.
I nursed my witch wine, enjoying the way the bubbles burst with a touch of magic on my tongue, and tried to convince myself I wasn't the least bad ass witch in history. My ribs came, hot and sticky with sauce. I sucked them clean in minutes, my stomach suddenly waking up and realizing I hadn't fed it in a while.
More shifters arrived, and the tables around me filled. No one looked at me now. My scent had faded into the background and they were too busy with their friends. I settled back and debated which one would be my target.
Who would be the most likely to know Thorne in this crowd? A werewolf obviously, but not someone too far up the food chain. An alpha would be hard to control. I needed someone several levels below an alpha.
Also, someone who wouldn't care that I was a witch. Shifters didn't like mixing with other supes, let alone among different species of shifters. Flirting was fine. Friends with benefits was also fine. No one cared who you had fun with, but babies were a no-no.
They didn't want lion-wolf babies, and they really didn't want witch-wolf ones. They came down hard on anyone who broke the taboo, although some made it work...assuming the packs didn't tear them to pieces first.
I spotted a possibility at the bar—a lanky werewolf, too scrawny to be attractive to any female not fated to be his mate. I might be a terrible witch, but I looked all right. I had some boobs and an ass. I could flirt. Before word had gotten out that my magic was a no-go, I'd been popular in school. So this shifter should be easy.
No magic needed, just some tits and ass.
Abandoning my table, I returned to the bar. As I climbed up on the empty stool next to him, I brushed against him. "Oh. Sorry. It's the witch wine. Goes straight to my head and," I lowered my voice, "you know, other places." I gave a knowing wink and giggled as I touched his shoulder.
He turned and his eyes widened as he caught sight of me. "No problem."
A red flush crept up his neck, though. Poor guy had prob
ably never had a real woman give him the time of day before.
"Let me buy you a drink and make up for my rudeness." I banged on the bar. "Two witch wines over here."
The bartender rolled his eyes but obliged. When he lingered, looking for payment, I waved him off. "Deduct it from the hundred bucks you stole."
His eyes narrowed, and he leaned in close. "Careful I don't deduct you from this bar, witch. Pay up or I set the security hounds on you."
"Fine. But no tip." I pulled a twenty from my back pocket and threw it at him. He snatched it out of the air and then left us alone.
"He stole a hundred dollars from you?"
I shrugged. "He's kind of a dick. But you, you're different. You'd never use a girl and throw her away, would you?" I lifted my glass. "A toast to the good guys."
We clinked glasses, and I watched as he threw back the wine. He was still a little reserved, but once the bubbles hit his system I hoped he'd loosen up.
"Hi. I'm Sylvie." I stuck out my hand. "What's your name?"
He took my hand and shook it. "George. People call me Geo."
"Ooo I like Geo. That sounds badass." I reached down and squeezed his upper thigh."What are your plans tonight?"
His ears turned red, but a slow smile spread across his face. He actually was cute, but shifter women preferred muscle-bound angry alphas, so his dating prospects had likely been dim. "Hanging with you, I think."
"Damn straight."
I bought a few more rounds of wine. At some point, I stopped drinking and just moved my glasses to the side. Eventually the panther shifter to my right noticed I wasn't drinking them and took them off my hands.
Geo drained his glass. "It's hard to tell because there are so many scents here, but you don't smell like a shifter."
"I'm a witch." I held my breath, wondering how he'd take that.
He jerked his head back and gave me a confused look. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to help my friend. Maybe you know him? Sheridon Thorne."
