Page 47 of Witch's Wolf

“That’s because you’re thinking like a human,” she says with a smirk.

“This won’t be a gunfight, my dear Monica. It will be a battle of wills.” A flicker of something dark flashes in her eyes. “And I always win.”

“You can’t be su—” Monica says, but Helena cuts her off with a dismissive hand.

“I won’t get into details. They’d mean nothing to you,” she says, then tilts her head at me. “A fellow witch might find my methods intriguing, but a modern-day doctor? You’d probably rather not know.”

“I’m not a doctor or a witch,” I say quietly. “I’m a singer. I know I have witch blood in me, but I’m an artist. I don’t intend to practice witchcraft.” The words feel like an anchor, a desperate hold on my identity. “I was approached by Platinum Tunes. A rep, Alfred Jenkins, saw me perform at Michelle’s. He asked me to audition, and I did.” I take a steadying breath. “He loved me.”

“Oh Erica, that’s great! Why didn’t you… oh… yeah, but still, that’s amazing! It’s what you’ve always wanted,” Monica says.

I still hear Alfred’s words and feel the weight of his approval.

“I’m pretty sure my phone will ring soon,” I continue. “If I sign, I’ll get one hundred-fifty thousand dollars upfront.”

The second the words leave my mouth, Monica’s expression shifts from joy to a frown. I don’t like it. She shakes her head.

“One-hundred-fifty thousand? For your signature?”

“Yeah,” I say, clenching my jaw.

“You’re serious?”

“That’s what they offer new artists. What’s wrong, Mon? You were happy…”

“You’re very perceptive,” Monica says, pursing her lips as if she’s holding back what she really wants to say. The sarcasm grates.

“That’s more than most people make in a year, Erica,” she says, folding her arms, gaze unyielding. “Are you sure that’s all he wants? Just your signature?”

“What are you implying?” I ask, heat rising in my chest.

“I’m saying one-hundred-fifty thousand isn’t a signing bonus. It’s a price tag,” Monica says, refusing to back down.

“I can’t believe you,” I say, turning away.

“I’m sorry, Erica, but this is what friends do. When they see you walking into something blind, they stop you.”

“What the hell do you think he wants?” I snap, whirling on her. “You think he wants to sleep with me? Wants me to shoot porn? What, Monica?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, but her calm fuels my frustration. “But if you think he’s handing you one-hundred-fifty thousand out of the goodness of his heart, you’re in for a rude awakening.”

I open my mouth to fire back, but before I do Monica lifts a brow.

“Do I need to remind you what you told me? About the music industry?” Her voice drops into a near-perfect imitation of mine. “‘Nothing is free. Nobody is going to give you anything just because you’re talented. You’ll have to bleed to become somebody in a world of nobodies.’”

My breath catches. Damn her. Damn her memory. She remembers everything.

“This Alfred Jenkins,” Helena interjects, her tone deceptively light. “Is he still in New York?”

I swallow hard, turning to her.

“Yeah. He’s at the Ritz,” I say, feeling smaller than before. “He’ll be there until Thursday. Why?”

Helena’s smirk returns, but this one is different. Calculating.

“Let’s just say I have an idea.”

A pit forms in my stomach.

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