Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
The wind whips little pieces of my hair around my face, so I pull on a knit cap as I peek over the edge of the roof.
My breath fogs. Tonight it’s freezing, and frost glitters like diamonds on every available surface.
When the time comes, it won’t do me any good if I can’t move quickly with my limbs stiff from the cold.
So making sure I can function, I’ve sacrificed an expensive heating potion ball. The potion keeps me toasty warm.
It’s the second night I’ve spent watching her house.
I was too twitchy staying at home watching the cameras yesterday, so as soon as it got dark I came straight back and climbed up onto the flat roof of the art deco house.
I could have broken in, but with the equipment that I’m using tonight, it’s best to have a clear line of sight and not have to worry about any windows or anything.
Story is at home running interference with Xander, and she’s monitoring the surveillance cameras inside the house.
She’ll let me know if anything changes as I don’t want to split my attention right now.
Dexter silently watches the quiet street, his head on his paws and his tail twitching. I glare at him.
I can’t take him back. This has to happen tonight.
I groan. Don’t ask me how he followed me here.
One minute I’m walking through the portal and the twenty minutes to Karen Miller’s street—avoiding the neighbourhood watch nosy granny house.
The next, I hop over the fence of the house opposite, not wanting to use the noisy gate, and a furry body follows me. I almost shit myself.
A pitiful meow has me glaring at the floor, and lo and behold, it’s Dexter.
More fool me as I didn’t notice the hairy monster following me. So I pick him up, and lacking any kitty dignity, I stuff him in my coat while I shimmy up the side of the house to perch on the flat roof.
As I triple check my gear, I keep repeating over and over again to myself that he’s not a normal cat and that he’s going to be okay. But his presence adds to my worry.
Bloody cat.
“She’s getting ready now, Tru. She’s got a spell drop-off at midnight,” Story says in my ear.
Unfortunately, we didn’t have any communication spells that would work with Story’s size, so we are using our mobiles.
I lift my hand and tap the earpiece twice, not answering her ’cause I want to keep silent.
The signal tap will let her know I’ve heard her.
My hand reaches into my grandad’s toolbox—I brought the heavy thing with me as it is part of my master plan—and pulls out a tightly rolled foam pad to lie on. I then carefully pull out the bolt-action sniper rifle, which has been modified to shoot high-velocity darts.
My grandad was a specialist in long-distance kills, and he had several weapons that made that possible. It’s a fancy piece of kit, and it’s a favourite of mine.
Creatures don’t use guns, so they’re super rare, and I could be killed on sight if caught using this weapon.
I shrug, needs must. I’m certainly not gonna tap the witch on the shoulder and say, “Hi, you’re coming with me.
” No, that would be a good way of getting your face melted off with a nasty spell.
Tonight I have sleeping darts. One dart will drop the witch and keep her asleep until I give her an antidote. I’m aiming for clean and quiet.
Karen Miller isn’t a nice person. Yesterday we found out she was keeping a vampire in her basement.
I lie on the foam pad in a prone position and make sure my body is perfectly in line with my rifle.
This roof is perfect. It has a small art deco wall that hides me from the ground but doesn’t impede the rifle.
From our observations and listening to their terse conversations, the victim is there as a spell ingredient.
He’s young, recently turned, and so frightened.
We think he’s been there for a while, possibly since his turning as he doesn’t look in the best of health.
To keep him pliable, she’s not feeding him enough.
I swear it makes me want to kill her painfully.
So this mission has turned into not only a capture but also a rescue.
The bipod legs support the weapon, and I rest my cheek on the cheek weld and carefully adjust the scope.
It’s strange. As soon as I’m in position, my breathing gets easier and I get into the zone.
All my worries flutter away as I settle down and wait.
Tonight there is only the slightest breeze, and it’s thankfully not enough to impact the flight of the dart.
“Okay, she’s leaving now. She’s at the front door.”
Karen Miller steps outside.
I take a breath, then I pause as she turns to lock the door. I use the pad of my finger to gently squeeze the trigger.
The dart hits the back of her neck.
I wait and watch her through the scope; she wobbles.
Satisfied, I get to my feet and quickly pack the rifle and the pad back into the toolbox.
I use the rope I’d hauled it up here with to rapidly lower the toolbox to the ground.
Then I scoop up a patiently waiting Dexter and zip him inside my jacket and quickly make short work of climbing down the side of the house.
I tug the rope free, loop it around my arm, and snatch up the toolbox.
I hoof it across the street.
The witch drops to her knees and face plants halfway in and halfway out of her doorway.
She tried to get back into the house. I grab hold of her ankle and pull her sock down.
I cringe as I get a handful of her prickly, hairy leg.
With the skin-on-skin contact, her blood ward lets me have access to her house.
Unceremoniously, I drag the witch back inside.
I gently click the door closed behind us. Dexter meows, so I unzip my jacket and let him out, and he scampers away to sniff the living room. “Be careful not to touch any of her magic crap,” I tell him. He flips his tail as he disappears.
I look down at the witch, and I flip her on her back.
She looks so normal… a middle-aged witch with her dark blonde hair in a bun.
Dressed in smart, middle-class mum clothing.
An expensive winter coat. If I saw her on the street, I’d think she was a teacher or on her way to her coven.
I wouldn’t think, Oh, that’s a scary witch who kills people and that she is a banned potion dealer.
I systematically pat her down, and as I do, I empty her pockets and plop everything into a plastic evidence bag.
That accomplished, I stare at her neck. The professional numbness I was feeling before scatters. I nervously swallow, and my hands shake. Thud, thud, my heart pounds as I lean over her, and I undo the top two buttons on her coat.
I dip my fingers into the neckline. They tingle when my hand lands on the smooth chunky necklace… my horn. I recognised the power—and it recognises me.
I let out a small surprise laugh. My magic, my unicorn magic, playfully buzzes and dances over my fingertips. It almost makes my hand and arm feel numb.
Blinking a few times, I clear the wet haze from my vision, and I realise I’ve fallen onto my knees. I carefully remove my horn from around the witch’s neck and, without thinking, I place it around my own.
I don’t know how I’m going to return the necklace to its original form. There must be some magic that will help me do that, perhaps shifting with my horn in hand? I rest my hand on top of it and close my eyes for a second to allow myself to appreciate this moment. I did it.
Okay, okay.
I open the toolbox and dip my hand inside to find what I’m looking for, a special purchase.
It’s a small breathing regulator, and it has enough oxygen for about twelve hours.
I clamp it over Karen Miller’s nose and mouth and then flip her over and cable tie her hands.
The dart will keep her unconscious, but I’m not taking any chances with the sneaky witch as I also slap a magic voiding bracelet onto her wrist.
Behind her, I sit her up and loop the rope around her torso. I then grab hold of her underneath her arms, and with a grunt, I lift her up so her legs dangle above the toolbox. With a smile, I stuff the unconscious witch with the breathing apparatus into my grandad’s toolbox storeroom.
Slowly, I feed her body inside until she disappears. I then secure the rope so I can easily drag her unconscious ass back out.
Best body transport idea ever. I grab my rucksack, close the lid, and dust off my hands; I smirk down at the red innocuous toolbox. “The witch is in,” I say conversationally to Story, who is still on the phone.
“Yeah, I saw that. That was some freaky shit. How on earth does your imagination think up these things?” she asks with a huff.
I shrug.
I leave the toolbox by the front door. It’s time to rescue the vampire.