Pigture Perfect (Magic and Mayhem Universe)

Chapter 1

Don’t screw this up, Jensen.

You know how you have that little voice in your head that talks you through challenges, or encourages you, or reminds you of who you are? That little voice that says, “You can do it!” or, “You’ve got this!” or, “You’ll get it next time!”

Lately, I’m pretty sure my little internal cheerleader has been replaced by my boss’s voice.

Every time I could use a pep talk, I instead get Cressida Caine, Deputy Director of the Falls Creek branch of the MBI—that’s the Magical Bureau of Investigation—pointing out just how many times I’ve managed to mess up even the easiest assignment.

Get yourself together for once, Jensen.

You’re on thin ice these days, Jensen.

Who replaced all the printer toner with magenta ink?

Do I wish the voice in my head was a little less “Why can’t you get anything right?” and a little more “You can handle this!” Of course. But baseless praise isn’t helpful, and it seems like what I really need at the moment is an internal voice that tells it like it is.

Or at least that’s my explanation for why everything that runs through my head is in Cressida’s chilly voice.

Luckily, this isn’t an assignment I can really mess up. All I have to do today is spend a little bit of time in the most charming bakery I’ve ever seen, talking with a sweet little old lady who looks like Mrs. Claus and smells like gingerbread.

And who, if the MBI is correct, is guilty of helping hundreds of women kill their husbands and fathers and bosses.

She’s a witchy serial killer, a modern-day Giulia Tofana, peddling magical poisons that autopsies can’t detect while also making award-winning flan.

Honestly, I had no idea they gave awards for the best flan, but it’s right there in swirly white-and-pink script on the bakery’s big display window: “Voted Falls Creek’s Best Flan.”

It looks like Falls Creek’s second-best flan maker is about to be in luck. Once we get the evidence we need and get Granny Annie Baker off the street, they can seize the flan crown.

I just need to get a look at the illegal goods, and then we can put the old lady behind bars where she belongs.

“What can I help you with this morning?” the old lady in question asks from behind a wide counter painted a frothy shade of pink I’ve never associated with serial killers before.

“Oh, I’m just looking,” I say. That’s what the person I’m pretending to be would say, I imagine.

Emily Brooks, mild-mannered accountant for a local furniture company.

She’s still single at 41, something she never could have imagined for herself, but she does her best to enjoy her life.

She recently got into photography, and she’s even considering joining a climbing gym near her apartment, although she worries she’ll just end paying the monthly fee and never—

Sweet Baba Yaga’s tits, Jensen. Nobody cares. Just tell the old crone you want to off somebody and she’ll sell you the goods.

The point is, Emily is a little nervous. She’s a rule follower, and she’s never done anything like this before. So she’s not just going to walk in and ask for whatever Granny Annie’s version of Aqua Tofana is. She’s going to pretend to peruse the baked goods packed into the display case before her.

It’s obvious Granny Annie knows her way around a kitchen—and not just to whip up some death juice.

The case is packed with drool-worthy creations.

There are cookies the size of a baby’s head, packed with chocolate and peanut butter chips.

A pie with a perfect lattice top revealing a luscious, ruby-red cherry filling.

Macarons in all the colors of a pastel rainbow.

A tiered cake dripping with piped vines and flowers and butterflies.

And, of course, on the top shelf, a glistening flan soaked in caramel.

I’m not normally a flan fan—to be honest, I can’t remember if I’ve ever even tried it—but I’m pretty sure I would enjoy Granny Annie’s flan. My mouth waters, and I remember with a pang that I haven’t eaten yet this morning.

Because would poor, nervous Emily eat before walking into a death bakery to acquire an evil potion from a witch? No, of course not. So I figured I should skip breakfast too.

Jensen, for the love of newts and batwings—

(It’s called method acting, Cressida, I tell my internal voice. Look it up.)

Granny Annie watches me, her thin lips turned up in a smile, her cheeks rosy from exertion, or the heat, or just the joy of making good money off murder. She looks every bit the charming little old lady she’s supposed to be.

But even though her blue eyes sparkle behind gold-rimmed spectacles, there’s something ever so slightly off about them. Just a hint of cunning, a cool slipperiness that puts me in mind of a snake.

A snake that has me fixed in her sights.

I blink and look away, one hand unconsciously brushing the MBI badge tucked safely beneath my shirt as I pretend to be interested in a row of cookies-and-cream cupcakes.

I’m the real predator here. She should be scared of me.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“Are you sure I can’t help you with anything, dear?” Granny Annie says, drawing closer. Her voice is low, reassuring, and her gaze darts to the door as though to remind me that we’re all alone in the bakery together.

Nobody here but us girls.

But also: Nobody to hear you scream.

I swallow. “Actually,” I say, pausing while I worry my lower lip in what I hope comes across as a very Emily gesture. “The thing is, I’m up for a promotion at work. But I’m not the only one being considered.”

Granny Annie’s pupils narrow, becoming almost reptilian slits. “I see.”

“My coworker, Randy, he’s…” I’ve memorized my lines, reciting them over and over in the shower, on my commute to work, while microwaving my cup of noodles in the evenings, but Emily would stumble over what exactly to say, how to best persuade this woman to help her.

“He’s not a great guy. A real jerk. And he already makes more than I do, and I just… ”

Granny Annie gives me an encouraging little nod. “Go on.”

“I just need him out of the picture.”

Who would have thought mousy little Emily had it in her to off a coworker for a better position and higher pay?

I’d initially planned on playing a wife with a terrible husband, but I didn’t want to make the story too sympathetic.

When we charged Granny Annie, it had to be for selling poison to murder people, not for helping abused wives put a stop to their torment.

Granny doesn’t seem at all surprised that Emily is willing to kill for a promotion. She lifts one hand and snaps her fingers. There’s a fluttering sound behind me, and when I whirl around, I see the “Open” sign on the door has flipped to “Closed.”

“I’m happy to help, dear,” Granny says. “Follow me.”

She leads me through a swinging pink door, through a charmingly disorganized kitchen area, to the walk-in cooler.

The door opens with a whoosh, and then closes with a soft bang.

It’s cold (Of course it is. You’re in a goddess-damned walk-in cooler, Jensen), and I wish Emily was the kind of woman who ran cold and always wore a sweater instead of a perimenopausal woman dealing with regular hot flashes.

(Which is one of her biggest problems with Randy, should that have proven necessary to share—the man cannot leave the office thermostat alone. But it turns out Granny doesn’t need much info to be willing to kill someone.)

Granny’s arm snakes forward and she grips my wrist with her bony-but-surprisingly-strong fingers.

A sickly green light pulses from her hand over my entire body, and for just a moment I’m certain she’s guessed that I’m MBI, that the light is some terrible curse, that I’m about to die in a walk-in cooler having never tasted Falls Creek’s best flan.

But the light dissipates, and Granny’s hand drops away from my arm.

“Sorry about that,” she says, turning away. “Had to make sure you weren’t wearing a wire.”

Agent Olive Jensen is, of course, relieved that her boss hadn’t suggested she wear one. Emily Brooks, on the other hand, would be shocked at the very idea. “Oh,” I say, widening my eyes. “Really?”

“Yes.” Granny slips behind a rack. “You’d be surprised how many times the law has tried to catch up with me.”

No, actually I wouldn’t. I’d read through her file.

She pokes her head out from behind the rack. “Well? What are you waiting for? Come on.”

Oh, right. I hurry to where she’s once again disappeared, rounding the side of the rack to see two things.

One is a simple metal cabinet that Granny is unlocking with a key dangling from a chain around her neck, which apparently had been tucked beneath the high neckline of her dusty rose dress.

Honestly, if that’s where she’s keeping the poison, I’m kind of disappointed.

I’d expected, I dunno, something more Raiders of the Lost Ark and less restaurant surplus outlet.

Like a jewel-encrusted box or a stone skull that emits smoke when you lift the lid. Something witchier.

But my disappointment is short-lived, as the other object in that shadowy back corner far exceeds my expectations.

It’s a standing display case, and inside is a bunch of outrageously decorated treats.

Cupcakes and brownies and cookies in a dazzling array of colors, piled high with icing or fruit or chocolate curls.

I know I’m supposed to be focused on what Granny is doing, getting a good look at the, you know, evidence against a serial poisoner. But I cannot tear my eyes away from those fantastic desserts.

I really, really should have eaten breakfast before going undercover at a bakery.

As if in agreement, my stomach issues a long, low growl.

Granny chuckles. “Hungry?”

“No,” I say quickly. But my stomach growls again, and there’s no point in lying. “A little,” I admit.