Page 31 of Wicche Hunt

I put down tarps, not wanting the floors scratched, and then he stayed to help me erect the scaffold again so I could paint the interior. Magic played a part, and it went quickly.

Declan checked the time on his phone. “I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat. You’re buying.”

Laughing, I went through the adjoining door into my studio. “Fair. And I’m starving too. Where do you want to go?”

He followed me, scratching his beard and thinking. “What are your thoughts on Mexican?”

“First,” I began, shouldering my backpack, “I’m enthusiastically in favor of Mexican food. Second, I have a conditioner that’ll help with the itchy beard.”

He dropped his hand. “Sorry. I get sawdust in it. I always take a shower when I’m done working. Until then, though, scratch.” He paused at my back door. “I can go clean up in your bathroom.”

Waving him forward, I said, “Are you kidding? Have you seen me? I’m wearing overalls and covered in paint. Come on. Let’s eat.”

“Oh. My truck’s back at the workshop. Give me a minute and I’ll be back to pick you up.” He was gone before I could protest.

Honestly, though, he was right. I shouldn’t be running across busy roads. I could have a vision at the wrong time and drop right in front of a speeding car. It was why I’d never learned to drive. Too much potential for death.

I took a wide loop around the side of the gallery, checking again that the mural looked the way I wanted it to. Declan’s truck pulled up to the curb and I noticed two other cars, parked and taking pics of the gallery.

A middle-aged man in one of the cars rolled down his window. Brown hair slicked back to showcase a sweaty brow and narrow eyes. He rubbed his lips with his index finger and then said, “Excuse me, miss. Are you the artist?”

I nodded.

“Incredible,” he murmured, looking over my shoulder at the mural.

“I’m glad you like it,” I said, reaching for Declan’s door handle and instead finding Declan’s hand.

He opened the door for me but had his eyes on the man. Once I was in, he shut the door, circled around, and slid in. “There’s something off about that guy. You have alarms and wards, right?”

“I do,” I said, adding another protective spell to my home.

He started the engine, waited for a break in cars, and then reversed and swung around, driving back toward the center of town. “You should hire a guard too. Your artwork is worth a lot of money, so it makes sense, but if that guy’s any indication, you need a bodyguard.”

“He just liked the wall. Maybe he has a thing for octopuses. There are lots of completely harmless sweaty, obsessed people in the world.”

“His scent was off. He had the sour tang of the long unwashed and desperate. His car and clothes were nice. The stench emanating from his body was not.” He turned up a hill, away from the water. “He smells sick. Maybe physically, but it feels mentally.”

“Okay,” I said, having felt a darkness around the man as well. The thing was, most people weren’t bright, shiny, and smelling of soap. We all had personal baggage we dragged around while trying to present a stable and contented version of ourselves to the world. He might have been struggling with a new diagnosis or spiraling after losing a job or partner. It hadn’t felt like he was an imminent danger, but Declan was right. My artwork was worth a great deal. I needed a security guard to make sure my smaller pieces didn’t walk out the door while I spoke with other patrons.

He pulled into the parking lot of a small Mexican restaurant off the beaten path.

“Hey. I thought you were new around here. How did you find Mariana’s?” I slipped out and slammed the truck door.

He met me at the front of his truck and took my hand. “Juan recommended this place when I was working with Phil’s crew on your deck.” He pulled open the door to a busy restaurant.

“Juan didn’t steer you wrong. This is one of my favorites.”

The hostess, a young Latina with beautiful brown eyes, had her hair pulled back in a messy bun. I understood the challenge of tying up thick hair. Wearing black pants and a white blouse, she held up a finger, asking us to wait a moment while she spoke with another customer.

Checking the lock screen on his phone and then looking around Mariana’s, Declan said, “I think we picked the wrong time to come.”

“Eh. It’s worth it.” I pointed to his truck. “I’ve got protein bars in my backpack if you need something now.”

The hostess waved us forward. “Arwyn, right?”

I’m sure the confusion was clear on my face. “I’m sorry…”

She waved away my embarrassment. “We went to the same high school. I was a few years behind you. I remember your hair, though.”

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