“Thanks.”
“And you’re going to find a witch, right?” Remus’s bright eyes bore into me.
“Yeah,” I promise. “I’ll find someone to help. I won’t quit until we have someone.”
“Good.”
Patrick shows him out, and I grab my keys.
“Should I call William, sir?” Patrick asks.
I shake my head. “Not this time. I’ll drive myself.”
“Are you sure that’s safe?” Patrick frowns.
“Safer for William,” I quip. Patrick starts, his expression filling with fear. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll check in regularly and stay on high alert. Is it okay if I borrow your truck?”
“You’re paying for it.” He shrugs.
“That may be so, but I’d still like your permission. It’s less conspicuous.”
“Take it.” Patrick grabs his keys out of the dish near the door and tosses them to me.
I jog out to the garage and skim past my Venom F5 to the much less flashy Ford Maverick and slide behind the wheel, praising the creator when I find the tank full. Then, I take off toward East Hollywood.
The truth is, I already know Zoe Willow’s address. While she was playing her set, I cornered the manager and, with a little psychic pressure, got it out of him. I didn’t want to admit it to Remus, but I found the witch enchanting and thought the address would come in useful at one point or another. Part of me may have even fantasized about standing outside her bedroom window, perhaps attempting to enter her dreams. But no, that would be wrong. Tempting but wrong. Still, she fascinates me, now more than ever. I’m not entirely put out at having to see her again.
But when I roll up to her address, I think I have to have the wrong building. The place doesn’t look inhabitable. There’s garbage on the front lawn and graffiti sprayed across the corner of the brick. I check the address twice. It’s correct. Unit 304. I park the truck and walk in a door that doesn’t close properly, into a lobby with a brown stain on the ceiling ringed with wet plaster, as if whatever problem is causing it has been festering for months. None of the security features on the building are maintained. The door doesn’t lock. There’s no one at the front desk. A sign on the elevator door says it’s out of order.
I duck into the stairwell, climbing past peeling paint and loose handrails. As I pass the second floor, an older woman sticks her head into the stairwell and seems surprised to see me. She scans me from head to toe, her eyelids flaring when she sees my watch. When I give her a look that says mind-your-own-business, she disappears back behind the door. I continue to the third floor. The hallway is in similar disrepair. Wallpaper peels from the walls, and a few lightbulbs are out, making the entire place look shadowy and dated.
What. The. Fuck. This place should be condemned.
I knock on the door to unit 304, wishing that this is all a big mistake. Maybe the manager gave me the wrong address and Zoe does not live here. But I hear footsteps and then a familiar voice.
“Can I help you?” Zoe asks through the door.
I clear my throat. “It’s Seb… I need to talk to you.”
Several long moments go by. “I, uh…thank you for the pancakes and everything. I enjoyed spending time with you, but, uh, this isn’t a good time. I’m sorry.”
I stare at her door for a minute, until something scurries across my toes, and I break my staring contest with the peephole to follow a blur of brown into the corner. “It’ll only take a minute, I promise. Please don’t leave me out here in the hall with what I hope isn’t a rat. I’m not particularly scared of rats, but what I have to ask you is none of his business.”
She snorts, and then I hear a beleaguered moan. “Um…just…hold on a minute.” My dragon hearing picks up a flurry of activity inside. A shirt flutters through the air. A glass clinks into a sink. Some papers rustle. A cabinet door opens with a squeak and closes with a thunk. I snicker when I realize she’s picking up the place…for me. Entirely unnecessary. If I thought it could convince her to help me, I’d dig her out of the bottom of a dumpster.
At last, the lock clicks and the door opens. This is not the Zoe Willow I saw the night before last. Her eyes are puffy and red, and she smells like she hasn’t showered today. It’s not a judgment, just a fact. She’s dressed in white joggers and a burgundy sweatshirt that reads College. Not a specific college. Just the word College. Her dark blond hair is in a messy bun at the top of her head.
My dragon rouses, and heat flutters along my skin. We could clean her, he rumbles. Lick her clean.
“Well?” she asks.
Fuck, I’m staring. I shove my inner dragon down deep and step inside. She closes the door behind me. “Is everything all right?” I ask softly.
She looks down at herself and then at me. “Hunky-dory. Fan-fucking-tastic.”
I slide my gaze to the left, where I find a collection of Chinese takeout containers shoved behind the microwave. “It seems like, maybe, you’re being sarcastic right now and that something is, in fact, amiss.”
She tips her head to the side and narrows her eyes on me. “Don’t judge me. I’m sure that in whatever ivory tower you live in, everything is perpetually pristine, but here, in real life, sometimes people get busy and forget to take the garbage out.”
