Chapter Six
Senán
It’s not that I don’t enjoy a good game. I just don’t particularly like losing them. Lucky for me, the Witch Hunter doesn’t seem to understand just how easy it will be for me to win.
Several centuries of inhabiting my body have brought me to terms the fact that I am, to most people, regardless of gender, an object of desire.
At nearly six feet tall, with long limbs and fine features, my years have taught me a physical grace that seems to draw people in.
And I enjoy it. I enjoy feeling the mundane sort of power that comes with knowing I’m wanted by most everyone who lays eyes on me.
Moreover, I saw the way the Agent looked at me for hours on end the day he arrived.
He looked at me the way one looks at a lavish dessert, or a tall glass of water on a hot summer day.
For the better part of a morning, the Agent looked at me like he wanted to devour me.
And even though the apparent realization that I’m a Witch might have changed the Agent’s opinion of me, I can still see the heat in his eyes.
The Witch Hunter wants me, and it’s terribly unfortunate for him that he doesn’t know how much experience I have in using that to my advantage.
The morning after our “truce” is struck, I spend a little extra time getting ready.
I choose my outfit and accessories with even more intent than usual, donning a shirt that drapes open to the waist. I typically prefer to leave something to the imagination, and today is no real exception, but showing a bit of extra skin will be helpful in making my point.
The sun is high in the sky by the time I sashay to my usual spot next to the pool, and, though I make sure not to look directly, I can see the red swim trunks and messy hair from the corner of my eye. The Agent has been waiting for me, just as I knew he would be.
I take my time settling into my seat, letting the layers of black linen and lace pool elegantly around me as I sprawl decadently on the chaise. I pick up my book, turn to the marked page, and leave my sunglasses on so that no one can see my eyes flicker up to find that the Agent is…
Not watching me.
I look back at my book. Well, this is to be expected. It was the Agent who started the game, who implied that I could be so easily overlooked. I’ll have to put in my best effort to win.
I adjust my posture, letting my lace robe fall from one shoulder as my open-front shirt exposes a gratuitous expanse of torso. I look up again.
The Agent still isn’t watching me.
Alright, so perhaps the Witch Hunter is better at this game than I planned for. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a few more tricks up my sleeves.
And, good Goddess, do I use them. I stretch myself into the most alluring positions I can think of.
I rub lotion sensually over my hands and neck.
I even take off my robe, baring my long, elegant arms. Finally, after employing every tactic in my arsenal, I cast my gaze across the pool to see that the Bureau Agent is definitely—
Sleeping.
The lout is sleeping. Book draped over his face as a makeshift sunshade and dead to the world.
It’s insulting. Infuriating, really. Certainly, I had expected the Agent to ignore me for a little while, just enough to demonstrate he can—that’s the game, isn’t it? But the kind of treatment I’m being given now… well, it’s as though the Agent isn’t even playing.
I pick up my things and leave. If the Agent isn’t going to play at the pool, fine. There are plenty of locations where I can catch him off guard.
The resort’s brochure claims that their restaurant employs the most lauded chef in all of Oregon. I’m not certain that’s true, but the food is delicious, which makes it even easier to take my time eating it while I wait for the Agent to arrive.
Regrettably, I did not have the benefit of my entire wardrobe to choose from when I dressed for dinner, but I feel I’ve done a more than admirable job in creating my ensemble, channeling the energy of Mata Hari and the likeness of Morgan le Fay as I pieced it together from what I have with me.
The result is the sort of outfit that turns heads from every direction, the sort that results in both compliments and scandal alike. Not my best work, but good enough.
The Agent meanders into the restaurant just as the server is clearing away the remains of my main course and I have to refrain from rolling my eyes at the sight of him.
Jeans. Honestly, what self-respecting adult wears jeans to dinner?
Never mind how well they fit, we’re in a Michelin-starred restaurant, not a bloody mineshaft.
I adjust my posture, shifting my body language away from the Agent as he takes a seat at the bar.
He says something to the bartender, and the bartender makes him laugh.
I do roll my eyes this time— idiot. Does he really think that’s going to work on me?
Flirting with everyone in sight just to incite envy?
Of all the vices in the world, envy is not one I’ve ever wasted my time on, so let him cavort and giggle all night if he wants.
The Agent doesn’t look the least bit handsome when he laughs, anyway.
“Would you like another gin and tonic, sir?”
I look up at the waiter and smile, recognizing him as one of the servers from the pool area. He’s young and attractive and has been especially attentive every day I’ve been here, and if the Agent is going to resort to such cheap tactics as jealousy, I can certainly sink to that level.
“I would love another, darling, thank you,” I say in my most charming voice. “Remind me of your name, love?”
The waiter looks like he might blush. “Aidan,” he says.
“Aidan! That’s from an Irish name, you know.”
Yes, he is definitely blushing. “Is it?”
I nod and move my posture to face the lad, crossing one leg over the other with my chin resting in my hand. “Didn’t you know that, love? Aodhán. It means ‘little fire.’ Do you think your mother could see that about you when she named you?”
A shy, sweet little laugh. Surely the Agent must have heard it, but I’m not going to check. “No, I don’t think she even knew it was Irish.”
“‘Tis. Pronounced a bit differently, though, and I’m sure yours isn’t spelled quite the same as it would be in Gaelic.”
Aidan shuffles his feet awkwardly. “How d’you spell it in Gaelic?”
“It would be A, O— you know, it might be easier for me to write it down. D’you have a pen on you, love?”
The boy rifles through his pockets to produce a black marker, then in one smooth, confident motion, I take the pen, grab the boy’s hand, and spell the Irish Gaelic name out on his palm.
Now, I know exactly what this looks like from an outside perspective.
It seems Aidan does as well, for how he glances about nervously as though checking to see who might be watching.
Poor lad. I feel just the tiniest flash of guilt over it, but it would be easy enough for the boy to prove to any inquisitors that I’d only written his own name on his palm, not a phone number.
“ Aodhán. There you are.” I cap the pen, press it into the boy’s hand, and smile winsomely at him, making sure to let my fingers linger longer than necessary. “And take your time with that G and T, pet. I’m in no rush.”
“Uh, sure,” Aidan says, visibly flustered. “Thanks, or… Be right back.”
The waiter scurries off, and I spare a glance across the room to check my progress— yes. The Agent is standing up from his seat. I do nothing to hide my boastful expression as I wait for him to storm up to my table and demand my attention.
But he doesn’t approach. In fact, he leaves the restaurant entirely, sending a friendly wave to the waitstaff with one hand as he carries a take-out bag in the other.
I throw my napkin on the table in disgust. A damned doggy bag, from a three-star restaurant. In jeans. Honestly.
The next morning, I’m in the mood for a bit of fitness, which makes it the perfect time to try out another tactic. My secret weapon? Flexibility.
I don’t use it often. It seems gauche to flaunt an ability to fit one’s legs behind one’s head, but the fact is that I can fit my legs behind my head, and it never fails to impress the men I pursue.
Not that I’m pursuing the Agent, of course.
I’m simply playing the game and playing it well.
And if playing—and subsequently winning—the game happens to lead to a more…
physical altercation, well, that’s just how the cards are dealt, isn’t it?
It’s an auspicious turn of events for me that Nadim happens to be teaching a yoga class this morning.
Ordinarily this would take place in the resort’s yoga studio, but there was a very unfortunate and highly localized pest infestation which has forced the resort to close the studio for the rest of the day.
Or until they can get all the frogs cleared out.
Luckily, I happened to be working (and conveniently close to the studio) at the time the incident took place and was able to recommend an outdoor yoga class as a substitute.
It’s to take place on the lawn near the gazebo, which, incidentally, is in full view of the balcony attached to the Witchfinder’s suite.
I know it’s his because I’ve seen him taking his coffee on that balcony each morning as I gather dew and moss from the lawn.
Today is no exception as I see him with his feet propped up, a mug in one hand and a book in the other.
He must have known I would be here—why else would he be out here shirtless?
“Good morning!” says Nadim as I approach, and for once I don’t mind his cheerful demeanor. “Here for the yoga session?”
“I am,” I reply blithely. “It’s a lovely morning for it, isn’t it?”
Nadim gives me a curious look, and for a moment I worry that he might recognize me, even though we’ve never interacted while I’m in this form. I’m prepared to wipe his memory, if necessary, but I’d really rather not. Memory wipes tend to cause more trouble than they’re worth.
“Hey,” he says, “I recognize that accent…”
“Do you?” I say cautiously.
“Ireland, isn’t it? One of our employees here is from Ireland!”
I relax. “Fancy that! Small world, isn’t it?”
“Getting smaller every day!”
The session starts innocently enough—one might call it beginner’s yoga.
Child’s pose, Warriors One and Two, Cat-Cow.
The class is taking place in an arrangement such that my back is facing the Agent for every graceful shift into Forward Fold or Downward Dog.
I don’t particularly like tightly-fitting clothing, but I’m quite certain that the thin black cotton of my harem pants will do well enough to show what I want to be seen.
But when I check the Agent’s perch twenty minutes into the session, I only see an empty balcony, the curtains tightly shut, with no evidence of movement behind them.
I have no clue how long I’ve been performing without an audience, but the embarrassment of it burns in my cheeks as I pick up my mat and storm away from the unfinished class, not bothering to make an excuse for my early departure.
I don’t embarrass easily. I don’t fluster easily. I don’t lose easily. And I certainly won’t tolerate being put in any of those states by a pompous Witchfinder who seems to think that sweating in public is something to be proud of.
The only reason I’m allowing myself to play this ridiculous game in the first place is because I need to wait until precisely three days before the full moon to begin the complex spell Hecaterina needs.
I have one day left to gallivant about the resort with the obnoxious and boorishly handsome Witchfinder. After that, I’ll have to get to work.
But I can’t walk away from the interaction without proving my point. It’s a matter of principle. And I won’t be able to stop thinking about it, anyway, which will only cause me distraction from my task.
Thankfully, I have one move left to make in our little game of seduction chess, and it’s one that’s certain to take the queen.