Chapter 18 #3
It rose around her in layers—lush, loud, unapologetically alive. Birds screamed. Leaves whispered. Something unseen crashed through the underbrush like it owned the place.
“Fine,” she said under her breath. “Be mysterious and dramatic.”
She hired a local guide, because wandering blindly into a jungle felt like a short career move, and followed him deeper into the green maze. Five minutes in, the jungle declared war.
Mosquitoes descended like tiny vampires. The heat wrapped around her like a damp blanket someone refused to remove. Sweat trickled down places she didn’t even want to acknowledge. Victoria clenched her jaw.
Do not complain. Do not complain…
She kept her mouth shut. The people who lived here didn’t get to opt out of the heat or the bugs.
This was their home, not some inconvenient backdrop for her mission.
And after the Long Island dry cleaner debacle, well, she’d learned what happened when she treated someone’s world like it was beneath her.
Lesson received, Goddess. Still miserable, but received.
“Keep moving,” she told herself, pushing through the foliage. “You’ve survived worse—maybe.”
Hours passed. The jungle didn’t thin. It deepened. Every step felt like stepping into a living, breathing organism that was convinced she didn’t belong there.
Good. The feeling was mutual.
Then something shifted. She slowed. For once, she stopped judging and just… looked.
The light filtered through the canopy. The vegetation was layered in different shades of green. The distant laughter of voices she couldn’t see. Life, everywhere, tangled together in a way that didn’t need her approval. Huh. Maybe she had been a little insufferable.
They trekked on. Then her guide stopped. Victoria followed his gaze and blinked.
There it was.
A plant that looked like a hallucination.
Colors rippled across its surface, shifting like it couldn’t commit to a single identity.
Its shape subtly changed, petals curling and uncurling as if it were breathing.
And the scent… “Oh,” she exclaimed. The aroma hit her—sweet, sharp, and intoxicating.
It wrapped around her senses, tugging her somewhere just out of reach.
“Right. Dangerous,” she said quickly, dragging in a careful breath through her mouth. “We respect the plant. We do not inhale the plant.”
She moved fast. Kneeling, she dug into the soil and pulled up several specimens, roots and all, working with precision and without hesitation. Dirt packed under her nails. Sweat dripped into her eyes. But she didn’t stop.
“Got you,” she muttered, securing them in baggies, like evidence. The scent lingered, tempting.
“Nope,” she said, shoving the plants into her large tote bag and zipping it as if she were locking up a criminal.
Mission complete. Almost. Now came the illegal part.
She made her way back to the port, already running through worst-case scenarios. Customs. Questions. Confiscation. Prison. Extremely unflattering mugshot.
“Not happening.” Without magic, she had to improvise.
She arranged the plants carefully in her bag, then flipped small handmade baskets over them, covering them completely. On top of those, she tossed a few more baskets at odd angles, creating a cluttered, meaningless pile.
Anyone peeking inside would see nothing but cheap, empty baskets.
Victoria zipped the bag and gave it a satisfied pat. “Hide in plain sight, little plants. Classic misdirection.”
Then she straightened, squared her shoulders, and headed for the docks.
Next stop: home, and the beginning of an even worse mission.
She disembarked in Mississippi, guarding her tote like it contained national secrets, and made her way north by bus. By the time she reached Tennessee, she smelled like salt, sweat, and slime. Perfect. Another lesson in humility.
She went straight to the crone.
The old woman took one look at the plant and grinned as if she’d just won something expensive. “You found it!”
“I did. Nearly died of humidity, bug bites, and jungle mysteries, but here I am.”
The crone inhaled the scent—carefully—then nodded. “Well done.”
“Bien,” Victoria said. “Now, how about your end of the bargain?”
The crone studied her for a moment, then spoke.
“The woman who took your body is living in your home. In Montréal. Your penthouse.”
Victoria went very still. Of course she is. Rage flared—hot, sharp, and immediate—but she crushed it down. No point exploding at the one person who’d just handed her the target.
“Merci,” she said tightly.
“One more thing,” the crone added, pressing a plant back into her hands. “Take one with you.”
Victoria blinked. “You’re giving it back?”
“You’ll need it.”
Well. That was either helpful or ominous. Possibly both.
Victoria tucked the plant into her bag. “I’m choosing to believe that’s good news.”
The crone only smiled.
Victoria exhaled, squared her shoulders, and turned toward the path back to the mansion.
The bitch was in Montréal. In her home. In her body. Living her life.
“Enjoy it while you can,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m coming.”