Chapter 21
“Oh, Agent Jensen. What a little fool you are,” Cressida coos as she lowers herself to straddle my stomach.
“Now, I don’t want you to worry. You’ll be remembered at the agency as a hero, sacrificing yourself to save everyone else at the show.
It won’t work, I’m sorry to say. Here’s something you need to understand: If I want someone dead”—she bends down to put her face right next to my ear—“they die.”
She straightens up, her hands coming up to work a spell intended, I’m sure, to kill me. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have backup. I don’t even have use of one arm. And the only thing my gut is telling me at the moment is to keep her talking.
“Why a pig show?” I gasp through the pain.
She runs one hand down my cheek in a mocking caress.
“Surely Grayson mentioned that we were in love once? He was everything I ever wanted—besides the deputy director position, of course. I was even tempted to give up being The Witch for him. I could have, you know. I could have settled into a life as a regular witch, waiting around for people to die instead of making it happen when I wanted it, doing…” She focuses on my face.
“What is it you boring witches do when you’re not at work?
Make salads? Give wind-surfing a whirl? I could have done it. I would have done it for him.”
Her face hardens.
“But he didn’t give me time. There were people who knew too much, and I couldn’t leave loose ends hanging.
And then Grayson said I wasn’t putting energy into the relationship.
” Her hands come down around my throat, and she squeezes, her eyes clouding with rage.
“Not putting energy into it? What did he think I was doing? I was making everything perfect. Not for me—for us.”
I’ve been expecting a spell, but it seems like the greatest witch of our time might be prepared to strangle me with her bare hands like a common murderer. “Cress—” I manage to choke out.
“You’ve slept with him. I can tell, Agent Jensen.” She squeezes harder. “Not very professional of you, but then, what did I expect from an agent I only kept around for this moment. I needed someone to fail. I so appreciate you obliging.”
I wriggle, but she’s so much stronger than I would have thought. My vision is tunneling, the light fading at the edges.
“And once I’m done with you, I’m going to make sure Grayson Michaels never leaves this building. It’s over, Jensen. You’ve lost.”
You’ve lost.
It’s over.
You’ve screwed everything up for the last time.
“No,” I whimper, or at least try to whimper. I can’t let her get away with this. Can’t let her get to Grayson, can’t let her kill Wayne and Dani and even stupid Reg.
When I hear the roar, I assume it’s Cressida roaring in triumph. But the roar is still going when I hear her make a little squeak, and the hands around my throat loosen.
It’s a pig. A pig is ramming Cressida, being careful not to step on me with its hard little pig’s feet.
Grayson. He came back.
But it’s not Grayson. It’s a pink pig. A big, beefy pink pig.
Milton.
And he’s not alone. I guess Grayson rallied a little pig army for me. A dozen market boars swarm Cressida, who has been pushed to the ground and is desperately trying to keep the pigs from trampling her.
I guess she doesn’t have a spell to ward pigs away.
Forcing myself up, I blast her with a containment spell. There’s no dodging this time. Cressida Caine, aka The Witch, is caught.
I slump to the side. “Wayne, are you okay?” I call, looking around to see where he is.
He’s off to my left, sitting up. “I’m okay.” He rubs his head. “I think.”
I sag with relief. It’s over. We survived.
“Olive!”
It’s Grayson, throwing himself down at my side, his hands running over my arm. “You’re hurt. Let me—”
He’s naked. Well, not totally naked. He has a strip of red, white, and blue bunting wrapped around his waist like a patriotic version of Tarzan.
“Does this hurt?” he asks, and then he yanks on my arm.
“Ow! Yes, that definitely hurts.” His prodding hands aren’t exactly gentle, and I use the last of my energy to pull away. “You have a terrible bedside manner, do you know that?”
The dimple flashes in his cheek. “You’re the first of my patients to ever complain.”
“They’re lucky they’re all dead,” I grumble. “You’d be a terrible doctor.”
Beside me, Milton finishes grunting at the chained-up Cressida and nudges me with his nose. “He’s checking on you,” Grayson says softly.
I rub his cool head. “I’m okay, buddy. Thank you. You saved the day.”
He lifts his head, his piggy eyes meeting mine. And I can’t be sure, but I’m pretty sure he understands. Then he flops down onto his side, wriggling his body a little.
“He wants belly rubs,” Grayson tells me.
“Then he gets belly rubs,” I say, reaching out with my good arm to scratch at the pig’s massive underside.
Grayson finishes messing with my hurt arm long enough for me to mutter a healing spell. Wincing at the wave of pain that accompanies it, I pull myself up until I’m not sagging like a sack of potatoes.
“It was you, you know,” Grayson says. “You were the one who saved everyone. If you hadn’t figured out it was Cressida behind this all along, she would have gotten away with it. We would all be dead.”
I can’t bear to think about it. Not now when we’ve managed to avoid the worst. I don’t want to think about Cressida ever again. I don’t want her voice in my head.
I want to think about what comes next, now that we know there is a next.
I want to think about Grayson picking me up after work on a Friday for dinner at the local Thai place and a little Netflix and chill at my place.
I want to think about waking up in the morning with him, and arguing with him about the best way to load the dishwasher, and secretly steal his socks because they’re better than mine.
I want to make salads with him. Maybe give wind-surfing a whirl.
I want the boring, remarkable life that Cressida knew, deep down, she would never be able to stand.
But I suppose we should probably start with a first date.
Wayne gets to his feet and walks over to where his belt buckle landed. “It’s all melted,” he says, scooping it up and bringing it over to show us.
Poor Wayne. His prized belt buckle. “Don’t worry,” I say, reaching for it. “I think I might be able to fix it.”
But Wayne isn’t looking at me. He’s looking toward the bleachers, where a group of preteen girls have emerged from hiding, their eager faces turned his way, giggling and blushing, one of them pointing at him and whispering to her friends.
“Uh, no, that’s okay,” he says, pulling it away from me and working to reattach it to his belt. “It, uh, looks cooler this way.”
Grayson meets my gaze and smiles, obviously thinking the same thing I’m thinking.
And there, surrounded by pigs and pig show people and my pig shifter in his Fourth of July-themed fig leaf, I realize that everything is going to be okay.