He shrugs, and I swear one of his pecs winks at me. “Fortunately, all I have to do is strip off my clothes and shift into my pig. No studying necessary.”
I swallow. He’s not going to demonstrate right now, is it? I mean, he’s not about to rip off those gray sweatpants, right?
I’m trained in withstanding torture, but I’m not sure my heart could survive that.
“Good for you,” I say weakly. And then, because his hands have somehow made their way close enough to the top of those pants to make me nervous, I edge around him toward the door. “I should probably, um…I need to…” My eyes flit to the waistband of his pants, where a line of dark hair arrows down to his lower stomach.
Sweet Baby Baba Yaga.
“I’ll meet you at the barn,” I say.
And with that, both Agent Jensen and Sally flee the room and the dangerous man-pig it holds.
CHAPTER 8
I’m feeling better after a quick breakfast at the diner, and the weather is perfect as I walk over to the park. But where yesterday I was the only participant at the barn, today it appears more people have shown up. A handful of people are working with pigs in the show ring, or polishing their pig’s feet, or examining their pig’s teeth.
Or something. Look, I’m not an expert in pig-related care.
Something Wayne promised to change today.
But I hang back for a moment, studying the barn. It’s a big building, with the main door at one end and a couple of alarmed fire exits in the middle and far end. That’s a positive—only one way in or out, unless The Witch has a spell to get past the door alarms, which is certainly possible. Bleacher-style seats surround three sides of the show ring, which means once I’m in the ring, I won’t be able to see past the seats to the rest of the barn.
That’s less than ideal, but Cressida said the event has its own security. I make a note to have her coordinate with them to keep an eye on the pens outside the show ring area.
All in all, it’s not a dream location for catching The Witch, but it’s doable.
I’m not sure when and how Grayson got there, but he’s in his pen, lying on his stomach on the straw bedding lining the pen, his eyes registering my appearance but otherwise not moving as I approach.
I don’t see Wayne yet, but with other people around this morning, it appears that I am officially on.
“Good morning, Petunia,” I croon.
In his pig form, Grayson doesn’t have eyebrows, but I swear I see them slam together anyway.
I don’t dare reach into the pen to pet him or anything—one, because I don’t think I should be stroking my partner in either of his forms, and two, because I’m pretty sure he has teeth and a grudge about the whole Petunia thing. So I merely stand there, pretending to study my pig but really trying to get a look at the other people currently in the barn.
As difficult as it is for me to believe, anyone here this week could be The Witch.
I dismiss the handful of teenagers milling about, casting furtive but obvious glances at members of the opposite sex. They’re too young to be The Witch. A couple rows up, a guy who seems to have borrowed Ken’s hairstyle (along with a metric ton of hair gel) is expertly guiding a pig back into its pen.
I’m so busy watching him—he really does seem to be good with a show stick, which Wayne says is what people on the pig show circuit call the switch—that I don’t see the loose pig until it emits an ear-piercing squeal right next to me.
Clutching my chest and swearing up a storm, I whirl to see a giant pink pig eyeing me with deep suspicion.
From his pen, Petunia makes a chortling noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
“Milton! You naughty pig!” a woman cries as she reaches us. “Sorry about that. I can’t wait for this guy to be turned into sausages. He’s literally the worst pig I’ve ever had.”
The chortling noise from inside the pen stops.
Collecting herself, the woman flashes me a bright smile. She has bouncy blond hair, high-heeled pink cowboy boots, and teeth so white that for a moment I imagine she’s somehow bedazzled her mouth. “I’m Dani Lewis,” she says, holding out an impressively well-manicured hand. Her fingers are tipped in bubble-gum pink studded with tiny pink crystals. When I shake her hand, it’s as soft as veal. “But you probably already guessed that.”
I realize she expects me to know who she is, but I don’t have a clue. I shake my head.
“I was Miss Buttermilk? Back in 2015?”
“Oh, sorry. I don’t follow the Miss Buttermilk pageant,” I say, but the way her face falls makes me feel terrible. “I mean, I didn’t follow it that year,” I add hastily, and that seems to help matters.
