An hour is plenty of time.
Time for me to not show up.
Azir’s remark about my scent has given me a great idea. I know precisely what I need to do to ensure the werewolves can’t track me down. Well, they can if they want to bother with trailing my house. It’s a good thing I don’t have local haunts, although Ye Ole Chestplate had been a fun time.
I can’t do anything about my house, but I can do something about my own scent.
Deep within Pittsburgh, there’s a bookstore. It’s a front for a witch. We’ve bartered and traded items before, so I call for an Uber and give the driver the address.
The driver glances over at me a few times. Finally, she asks, “Do you want to go to the hospital instead? Or an urgent care or something?”
“No.” I’m confused until I remember my cuts. With dried blood all over me, I have to be a sight to see. “Don’t worry about me. This is nothing. I’m an actor in a play, and I didn’t have time to wash up. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad you’re all right. Man, it looks so realistic! I thought I could even smell the blood.”
“Yeah, that’s the props master. She’s insane about it looking as real as can be.”
She asks a few more questions about the play, but I steer the conversation around until she’s talking about herself. People tend to prefer that, and she grins when I arrive.
“Have a good night!” she chirps after I pay her. “And thanks for being such a great rider. Some just sit there, and it’s awkward, and I don’t like to drive just a guy, you know? Makes me feel paranoid.”
“Then why be an Uber driver?”
“For the money. I’ve tried to get other jobs, but with my course load this year, I just don’t have fixed, available hours. This I can do when I have the time.”
“Ah.”
“Plus, I have Mace.”
“Get one of those Maglites.”
“Maglites?”
"Yes. Super heavy-duty flashlights that can be an awesome, handy, and convenient bat just in case."
“I don’t know,” she says doubtfully.
"You clearly want to be safe if you have Mace. Why not have something as a backup? Or, better yet, take self-defense classes."
“I don’t know,” she repeats. “I don’t have time—”
“And if your worries and fears actually happen? You’ll wish you would’ve made the time,” I say softly.
“You take karate lessons?” she asks.
I nod.
“Are you the only girl?”
“Not by a long shot.”
“Hmm. Maybe. I’ll look into it. Thanks.”
I wave as she drives off. Hopefully, she’ll listen. I think all girls should learn self-defense. It’s just smart, and without it, I never would’ve been able to know how best to lift a massive werewolf.
To my shock, the bookstore is empty. No one is here. I slink toward the back, to the concealed door for the witch when a teenager walks through the door. She stops short when she sees me.
“We’re closing up shop now,” she says.
“I’m here for Yolinda.”
Her eyes widen. “Didn’t you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“She’s moving. I’m helping to pack up the rest of her items.”
“Moving where? Why?”
"She wants to start getting more into the floral aspects of potion-making, and there just isn't an area here in the city for her to grow and cultivate them herself." The teen shrugs. She has Yolinda's eyes and mouth. My guess is that she's the witch's granddaughter.
“Great. Wonderful.”
“You need a witch?” the teen asks softly.
I crack a smile. “No, I need this.” I don’t look away from her as I grab a book off the nearest shelf.
“A cookbook about grilling all kinds of meats that’s marketed to men.” She grins. “I’ll ring that up for you.”
"Haha." I put the book back.
“It sucks that I’m not older. Grandma isn’t willing to defy my mom and teach me anything, and my mom is so strict it’s not even funny. At least next year, I can attend Magical Hunters Academy and… and…” She eyes me curiously.
I burst out laughing. “You just now realized I’m ordinary.”
“Not ordinary,” she says sheepishly. “Just…”
“Normal.”
“No one’s normal,” she argues with a grin. “But as opposed to paranormal, yes, normal fits. But you know about the door.”
“I’m Rebel. I don’t know if she’s told you—”
“The supernatural bounty hunter! I didn’t realize Rebel’s a human!” She gasps. “That makes what you’re doing that much more dangerous…” The teen blinks several times. “Um, do you want to wash up in the bathroom? I’ve cleared out nearly all of the herbs, but I might be able to find a healing potion or salve.”
“That would be great,” I tell her.
I quickly wash up, wincing as the soap and water make contact with my broken skin. The teen—Penelope—finds a salve as well as an ointment that makes the blood on my clothes congeal together and float as a ball right off my shirt and pants. Insane.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you more. Yolinda has already moved. She’s not here, and she’s not planning on coming back.”
“That’s all right. She has to do what’s best for her.” I tilt my head to the side. “Do you know of any other witches within the city?” I ask.
“There have to be other witches, but Grandmother—sorry, Yolinda—she hates it when I call her anything but her name in a professional setting, but it’s so weird. Anyhow, Yolinda never mentioned them to me by name. She would just rant about them all being hacks and hags.” Penelope grimaces. “I really am sorry I can’t help you out more. Is there anything else I can help you out with?”
“If you have more of that blood be gone stuff, that would be great.”
She giggles. “I’m sure you get a lot of blood on that.”
“I do have ten of these,” I say dryly. “I don’t wear this every day.”
Two minutes later, my pouch is a little lighter, but I’m stuck trying to find another witch to help me. For the most part, I don’t trust witches.
I'm not halfway down the block when I realize there's a woman standing on the corner. With a cowl over her head, her shoulders slumped, her ratty dress, the word that comes to mind is hag, and not because Penelope just used that word.
We make eye contact, and she shuffles toward me. "I don't mean to pry, but I happened to be walking by the store when I heard who you're looking for."
I say nothing.
“I can help you.”
“Can you now?” I ask dryly. This is far too convenient for my liking.
“What is it you need, child?”
“First, to not be called child.”
She purses her lips. She really is a witch, she's a really old one. Wrinkles mark her weathered face as she glares up at me.
I glance around to make certain we’re alone. “Second, I need a potion.”
“What kind?”
“Not saying here in public.”
“Hmm.” She crooks a gnarled finger at me and lumbers away.
I fall into step beside her. Her gait is so slow that it’s difficult for me not to overtake her. Considering I don’t know where we’re going, she has to go first.
Several streets over, she finally stops in front of a small floral shop. We head inside, and she snaps her twisted fingers.
Instantly, the shop transforms. Gone are the pots of flowers, replaced with vials and jars. She’s changed too, a woman with long, black hair that looks like silk, taller, thinner, younger, far more beautiful than before. Her eyes remain the same, dark and a little on the small size. Her nose is likewise small, but her purple-painted lips stretch wide across her face even when she isn’t smiling.
“Looks can be deceiving,” she says.
"Very true, but I'm guessing the other appearance is your real one."
She laughs, and I consider it a good sign that she’s not insulted.
“What is it you need? What kind of potion?” She walks forward and trails her fingers along a shelf’s horde of vials.
“I need to buy a potion to permanently change my scent.”
That way, the pack won’t be able to find me. I don’t trust Wyatt at all, and I’m certain that’s mutual.
“A potion like that is rare,” the witch says.
“Can you make it or not?”
“Can I? Yes. I even have all of the ingredients on hand. That’s not the right question.”
I nod, doing my best not to scowl. “How much?”
“How much is it worth to you?”
I consider. I don’t want to lowball her, but I also don’t want to set a precedent that I’m willing to spend a ton on her stuff because she’ll only jack up her prices even more.
After scanning the nearest shelf and seeing the prices, I venture, “Three hundred.”
“Five,” she counters.
“Two fifty.”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s not how you negotiate.”
“It’s how I do it.”
“Four.”
“Three.”
“Three fifty,” she says.
“Three twenty-five.” I lift my chin.
“Very well, but I want it upfront.”
“Half upfront.”
The witch grumbles. “I need to be in a good mood, not a foul one, if I’m to conduct my magic.”
“That’s a new one by me. The other witch’s I’ve worked with just let money do the talking,” I comment airily.
“Go and have one of them do it then.”
I remove the short stack and peel off fifteen tens, reconsider, and add two more to the pile I hand her. “Just over half.”
She counts the money, and I scowl inwardly. The witch doesn’t trust me. I don’t blame her, but she should’ve at least turned around to count the bills.
“Wait here.” The witch grandly turns around, and only now do I realize her clothes have changed from rags to a beautiful and severely overdressed, elegant blue gown.
I wander around the shop, looking at the various potions—strength, endurance, vitality, love—and sigh. She’s probably a charlatan. What do you want to bet she’s long gone, running away with my money and laughing all the way to the bank?
“Easy come, easy go,” I mumble.
Right when I’m considering checking out the back because it’s been almost an hour, the witch returns. In her hand is a large jar, green with black specks inside. She halts before me, a table between us. The witch removes a large bowl from beneath the table and places it on top of a vial. With practiced care, she pours the contents of the jar into the bowl. The green liquid filters through to the vial.
Her boots clack against the floor as she walks around to stand in front of me. “Here. It will burn, but it will work.”
I don’t accept the vial just yet. “And I will smell like?” I ask suspiciously.
“Lilac and cinnamon.” The witch smiles then. “I suppose I can’t be hurt that you’re skeptical of me. I never did tell you my name.”
“I didn’t tell you mine.”
“Ah, but everyone with half a brain knows you’re Rebel.” She smiles at me. “I am Morena.”
“Morena…”
“Morena Moriarty.”
The name means nothing to me, which is not necessarily a bad thing. People are more likely to speak negatives than positives.
“If you know I’m Rebel, then you know that I will come for you if this doesn’t work,” I warn her.
“I do realize that. You will be most satisfied, but I must repeat that it will burn. To permanently alter any part of your body, even your scent—”
“Yes. I understand. It will hurt. Good thing I have a high pain tolerance.”
She smiles faintly and lifts the vial higher.
I finally take it, but she snatches my other wrist, yanking off my glove and lifting the palm high, tracing her fingers on it, reading it.
Unnerved, I pull free, noticing that she kept her face carefully blank as she read me. Just what did she see? I’m so furious with her at her intrusion, but nothing can be done about it now. She saw what she did, and I am not pleased.
Even so, I still drain the vial. I paid for it, and I need it desperately. It had better work.
Ugh. She’s not kidding. It burns something fierce, and I grimace and force myself not to cough. My forehead actually sweats, and I might tremble a little, but finally, the sensation passes.
Hmm. Fairies have a decent sense of smell. I wonder if Vinca can tell me if the potion worked or not.
I give her sixteen more tens. “Keep the change,” I mutter. It’s only an extra five. No big deal.
“Can I interest you in anything else? I have far more offerings than these.” She sweeps her arm in a grand gesture. “Some are far more… potent.”
“Love potions aren’t real.”
“Magic and emotions is a difficult combination, yes, I’ll grant you that, but—”
“I don’t need anything else.”
“I have ones more suited toward combat,” she adds in a rush. “More than the endurance-enhancing ones. I’m talking—”
“I’m sorry, but I’m really not interested.”
"No more money, I take it. Well, how about this? I can hire you for a job, and pay you either in cash or in potions. What do you say?"
“That depends on the price and the job.”
“Price more important, I see. I like you, Rebel. You know what you want, and you know how to work the system to gain it.”
“It’s why I’m alive even though paranormals know I know about them.”
“All I want you to do is collect some herbs and other items. What do you say?”
“I say you need to cut the crap and tell me what those items are.”
“Eye of cyclops, tear of mermaid, and stomach of dragon,” she says quickly.
“None of those are herbs,” I say dryly. Just what in the world can she use with those items?
“No.” The witch quirks an eyebrow. “Five grand or all the potions you can ask for an entire month.”
“Ten.”
“Five,” she grounds out.
“The dragon’s stomach alone is worth five!”
“Ten then.”
We shake.
I really am crazy, but if this were a video game, I would gain a ton of experience points. But real life isn’t a game. This is just training, and I need all the training I can get. That training is why I became a supernatural bounty hunter in the first place. I have a quest I need to fulfill, and in order to finish it, I’m going to need to be the strongest, most dedicated, and fiercest fighter I can be. My time to move ahead with my quest is nearly at hand. Ten grand will go a long way for me to learn who exactly it is I need to kill to get my revenge. The spell I require will cost so very much and most likely more than just money.
A dragon’s stomach, mermaid’s tear, and cyclops’ eye. This is so not going to be easy, but I am so up for the challenge. After all, I’m a bounty hunter, emphasis on the hunter.