A grimace tightened my face as it approached, slowing. This was its third time around the block. Bringing the mayor's son in for Wereing outside of a full moon probably hadn't been the best idea.Ī sleek car turned the corner, looking black in the buzz of the mercury street lamp. I hadn't been sent to tag a witch in a month: unlicensed, white, dark, or otherwise. "Who am I kidding?" I whispered, pulling the strap of my bag farther up my shoulder. It was just the luck of the Turn that had put me here in the dark and rain. Everyone who could make it was at the West Coast for our yearly convention, leaving me with this gem of a run. But the streets were quieter than usual this week.
I was way too good for this.Īpprehending unlicensed and black-art witches was my usual line of work, as it takes a witch to catch a witch. This is pathetic, I thought, eyeing the rain-emptied street. I stood in the shadows of a deserted shop front across from The Blood and Brew Pub, trying not to be obvious as I tugged my black leather pants back up where they belonged. But I'd especially like to thank my editor, Diana Gill, for her wonderful suggestions that opened up delightful avenues of thought, and my agent, Richard Curtis. I'd like to thank the people who suffered through me during the rewrites.
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