Chapter 1 #2
Granny is fiddling with some small glass bottles, though I can’t see much as her back is to me. “Those,” she says, waving one hand toward the display case, “are a practice run for a catering job I have at the end of the month. What do you think?”
I can’t help myself. I move closer to the case. “They look amazing.”
“I’m trying out a new recipe so I’m a little nervous.
It’s a bit out there.” There’s the tink of two bottles bumping against each other, and then the clink-clink-clink of a stirring rod mixing liquid in a glass vessel.
“You know, you would be doing me a huge favor if you sampled it for me. Let me know what you think.”
The clinking sound stops as she pauses, looking back over her shoulder at me. “It’s the brownie right there on the second shelf.”
Now, I’m an undercover agent of the MBI, alone with the target of a multi-year investigation, a fugitive in seven states, a woman with a list of victims longer than the legs on Baba Yaga’s legendary hut. I’m a professional, and a professional does not eat snacks offered by a serial killer.
That’s, like, MBI Handbook Rule #3.
But I’m pretending to be Emily, who is gradually relaxing now that she knows she’s going to get what she wants and who is very obviously hungry.
Emily would absolutely try that brownie. And right now, this investigation depends on Granny believing that I’m Emily.
At least, that’s how I’m justifying it to myself as I realize my hand is already reaching up to open the door of the display case.
The brownie is right there, so thick and fudgy and—well, everyone hates this word, but moist. My mouth waters as I lift the brownie, inhaling that perfect chocolate scent, and then take a bite.
OMG.
It’s so good. Definitely worth breaking Rule #3 for. The texture is perfect. The flavor is sweet and rich with a hint of something I don’t recognize. It’s a little salty and…something.
“Well?” Granny asks, watching me closely.
“This is incredible,” I say around a mouthful of brownie. It’s mouth-wateringly good, actually. Like, my mouth literally cannot stop watering.
Wait.
My mouth cannot stop watering.
I move my hand back, looking at the brownie as if that might help me understand what’s happening.
“Is everything okay, dear?”
My lips tingle, and as I try to swallow down some of the excess saliva, I realize my throat feels thick. Way, way too thick. “Um,” I say, giving a weak cough as if that might help. “What…?”
“Oh, my gracious.” Granny rushes over, her eyes fixed on my face. “Are you having an allergic reaction?”
“No, no,” I say, but it feels like my mouth is full of cotton and I’m not sure how clearly I’m speaking. “I’m only allergic to shellfish.”
Granny winces. “I should have asked. There’s shrimp in there.”
I drop the hunk of brownie still in my hand. “Who the hell puts shrimp in brownies?” I manage to wheeze.
“I told you the recipe was a bit out there. But no worries, dear. I’ll have you fixed up in a jiffy.”
And despite the way my throat is rapidly closing, I find myself relaxing. I’m with one of the most powerful witches on the MBI’s radar. She might be a murderer, but as far as she knows, I’m a paying customer—one who hasn’t paid her yet. Treating anaphylactic shock is child’s play for her.
But then her hands are at my throat, helpfully loosening the collar of my shirt. They freeze as she catches sight of my MBI ID badge hanging from my neck.
The concern vanishes from her eyes instantly, and her small mouth curves into a wicked smile.
“Well, well, well. Looks like the MBI has sent another crackerjack agent after me.” She steps back, and I realize only at that moment that I’d been letting her support me.
Without her strong hands on me, I slowly sink to my knees on the cold, cold floor.
Wow. I’m going to die in a walk-in cooler after all.
“A pity. I hate starting over, but I suppose I have gotten complacent.” She walks over to the metal cabinet and begins packing up the contents with all the urgency of a Southern grandma leaving a non-dysfunctional family get-together.
“I do appreciate your feedback on the brownies.” Turning, she gives me a toothy smile.
“Delicious and deadly—in the right circumstances. Not bad for a brownie.”
As a trained agent of the MBI, I can’t just let this criminal mastermind walk away. But everything I know how to do relies on me being able to, you know, breathe.
And see. My vision is starting to darken ominously around the edges.
Still, I crawl forward, reaching for her ankle with one hand.
To my chagrin, all she does is step over my outstretched hand.
I think she looks down at me—I can’t quite see her face between the blurring vision and the fact that I’m now lying face-down on the floor of the walk-in cooler.
“Please, Agent Jensen. Have a little dignity.”
Her orthopedic shoes squeak as she walks away. The last I hear of Granny Annie is the door of the cooler shutting behind her.
Well. So this is how it ends. Death by shrimp brownie.
The whoosh of the cooler door opening again spurs me to at least roll over. Is she coming back to finish me off with a dastardly spell? Or has she changed her mind about leaving me to die?
As it turns out, it’s neither of those things.
“Jensen,” a blurry figure hovering above me snaps. “What did I tell you?”
I couldn’t speak to answer, but I was all too aware.
Don’t screw this up.