by Ami Diane
So much. There was this bug—
“Related to the bad human,” she cut in before he could get too carried away.
Oh. No.
“There are too many competing scents out here,” Marge said.
She looked up at Marge. “I don’t suppose we got lucky, and Brent has laundry hanging up outside.”
“It’d never dry if he did, but no.” The leash twisted in Marge’s hand as Max stretched out to sniff a bug. “We found an old rag, but it had too many grease stains for him to pick up anything else.”
Libby sighed and dropped her voice, realizing that they were probably being too loud. “We need to get him closer to Brent.”
“How?”
Standing, Libby looked around for inspiration, her gaze eventually landing on Max. Slowly, a corner of her mouth curled up. “The same way they lured us out of hour PMS meeting.”
Chapter Twenty
“WHY’S IT TAKING so long?” Libby asked in a loud whisper then nervously glanced back at Brent’s dark trailer.
“Because you made him go back at the house. He’s got nothing left to—oh, I was wrong. Well, that’s just nasty.”
Libby and Marge stared down at the mess Max had just made on the lawn.
“What on earth have you been feeding him?” Libby asked.
“Just your normal kitchen scraps.”
“You’ve never owned a dog before, have you? You have to give him actual dog food or else it’ll mess up his digestion.” Libby pointed down at the steaming pile to underscore her statement.
Grumbling, Marge did her best to scoop the mess into the wrinkled fast food paper bag they’d found in the trash, using one hand. The other was currently occupied pinching her nose.
Libby held Max’s leash. She patted his head in praise at a job well done then immediately turned her face upwind.
They set the bag at the bottom of the trailer’s fold-out steps. While Marge fiddled with the fire potion she had retrieved from her purse—why the woman needed to carry one in the first place had remained unclear despite Libby’s several questions—while Libby and Max crawled underneath the trailer. She positioned them directly behind the steps, hidden in the shadows. It wasn’t comfortable, but if all went according to plan, he’d have front-row sniffing privileges.
“Stay here,” she instructed the dog. “When he comes out, smell him but don’t move from here. Okay?”
He tried to lick her face. Yeah, sure. Okay. Then we play?
Libby opened her mouth. The trailer shook, and she heard footsteps through the thin floor. Waving her hand frantically at Marge, she gestured at the trailer. The potionist’s eyes grew wide in her ski mask, and she double-timed her efforts to get the bag to light.
Libby whispered to Max, “We’ll play tomorrow. This is really important, Max. Do you understand?”
His tail thumped against the pavement, then he nudged his wet nose into her hand which she took as an affirmative. She scooted back, a few stray rocks digging into her skin as she did.
Overhead, the muffled voices grew louder. Closer.
“I heard something, Brent. I swear.”
“It’s just your imagination. Go back to sleep.”
They were coming. A cold sweat prickled Libby’s skin. She hissed as softly as she dared to warn Marge, but the apothecary’s attention was solely on getting the bag to light.
An amber-glowing liquid dripped from a tincture, wetting the paper bag. A split-second later, there was a whoosh as the bag went up in flames.
The flames jumped to the height of Marge’s knees. Then to her chin as they continued to climb.
Marge scrabbled back, crab-style across the lawn and disappeared. If it weren’t for the now ten-foot-high bonfire shooting up before Libby, she would’ve been impressed.
Flames licked higher than the trailer now, but mercifully remained in a pillar instead of spreading out. The heat blasted Libby like a furnace, and beside her, Max whimpered. She threw her arm over the pet, cursing Marge under her breath.
The trailer shook as if under the power of an earthquake.
“What was that?”
Footsteps pounded over the floor followed by the distinct sound of the door flying open.
Shirley shrieked. “Fire!”
Libby retreated further back, pulling Max with her. Light from the inferno would expose them were anyone to peek underneath.
Would Max be able to sniff Brent’s scent over the smoke? Obviously not burning the park down was a great concern, but they might as well get what they came for.
Pale, hairy legs bounded to the grass, bypassing the steps altogether. She assumed they belonged to Brent because if they were Shirley’s, Libby would need to introduce the woman to a good razor. And some tanning spray.
The air roared with the sound of a fire extinguisher being let loose, a noise Libby knew all too well. She nudged Max with her elbow. “Well?”
Despite his cowering posture, the brave little canine’s nose worked back and forth in the air. While she awaited his verdict, she scanned around, despite limited visibility, for Marge. The geriatric ninja potionist was nowhere to be seen.
I smell smoke, Max panted beside her.
“But do you smell the human?”
I smell… food. And those beasts with the claws. Oh! Can I chase it?
“You’re smelling me.” She pointed at the hairy legs running around. “Focus on that human.”
After a long pause, he said, Ah, yes. He smells like outside.
“So, it’s the same scent as the bad human?” Excitement caused her voice to pitch higher. Or it could’ve been the smoke inhalation. Probably both.
No. It smells of a different outside. Like vanilla and ginger and those purple flowers my human loved.
Libby squinted in thought, her eyes burning even though Brent had a good handle on the flames now. “Lavender?”
Yes. Lavender.
She frowned. The scent was all wrong. “So, just to be clear, this scent is not the same scent as the human who hurt your human?”
Uh-huh. Max’s tail twitched. Hey, did I do good?
“You did great, buddy.” She scratched behind his ears, sending his tail into an enthusiastic wag that bruised her leg.
The moment was interrupted by another loud blast from the extinguisher. The final stubborn flames from their poop-potion infused lure died.
The canine wiggled beside her. Can we play now?
“Not right now,” she whispered, backing them away so they could sneak out the other side of the trailer. “We can play tomorrow, remember?”
They had just shimmied past the fishing poles Marge had mentioned were stored under the trailer when Libby tuned in to what was happening on the patch of grass with the charred remains of the bag. Brent and Shirley had been arguing for the last minute, but what had pricked Libby’s ears was what they were arguing about.
“The shovel’s not over there,” Shirley bit out.
“I didn’t say it was in the shed,” Brent spat. “I said it was under the trailer. Why can’t you just follow simple instructions—”
“Because I’m not your slave to boss around!”
Some of the smoke had dissipated, giving Libby the perfect view of Shirley’s stomping footsteps approach.
“Crap!” she breathed out, quickening her army crawl. Her elbows were sure to be bleeding by now.
She rolled the last bit and stared up into a blissful, open night sky. A second later, Shirley was rooting around underneath the trailer, near the steps on the other side.
Libby held her breath and didn’t move. Max seemed to sense the urgency of the situation because he lay still.
This lasted a moment.
Across the narrow lane of pavement, a cat slinked under a nearby RV. The dachshund leaped to his feet and let out what, for him, equated to a fierce bark, but came out as a scratchy yip.
It’s one of them furry beasts with the claws! I’ll get it!
He bolted, the leash rippin
g from her grip. She grabbed for it, but it slipped away, a snake on the pavement.
Shirley, who was on her belly, reaching for the shovel, saw all of the commotion and hollered, “There’s someone over there!”
Libby popped to her feet and ran. She darted around a large RV while Max dove underneath the one opposite it in search of the cat.
Libby’s chest heaved as she darted from shadow to shadow, putting as much distance between herself and Brent’s trailer. Max would be okay for the time being. He didn’t have two humans chasing him.
Brent’s and Shirley’s shouts caused a few lights to come on inside surrounding trailers.
“Call the cops,” Brent hollered at his wife. She yelled back that she was already on the phone with them.
That’s not good, Libby thought.
Libby skirted around the back end of a small camper. A few spaces away, Brent ran in her direction, a bobbing flashlight in his grip.
She double-backed and aimed for the perimeter of arborvitaes. When she reached it, she turned left. It was a longer way to the exit, but following the hedge was as far from Brent as she could get. With any luck, Marge would already be at the car.
While she ran, she risked a few calls and whistles for Max but stopped when Brent’s flashlight shone a row away. He was heading for the exit too.
The cool air wicked the sweat propping up on her forehead as she rounded the backside of the clubhouse. Almost there.
Brent’s shadow stretched out from the corner behind her. Had he seen her duck around the building?
The shadow paused. Slowly, it moved away.
Her back pocket began vibrating with the silent alarm letting her know that Pet Whisperer had run its course. Cursing, she frantically pressed buttons to get it to stop. The buzz from the vibration wasn’t exactly silent.
Brent stopped, changed direction, and came straight for her.
She changed tactics. The shortest distance to the exit was directly under a tall streetlight. She clenched her jaw and went for it.
Behind her, Brent roared. “Get back here, you witch!”
A black-clad figure stepped out from the side of the building, holding something glowing.
“Get down!” Marge warned.
Unsure of what exactly that meant, Libby decided not to take any chances and dove for the pavement. Something in her spine popped, and the friction from sliding on a surface not meant to be slid on caused several holes to burn through her clothes.
Marge blinked down at her. “What was that for?”
“You told me to get down,” Libby groaned.
“I meant, ‘duck’, but I guess that works too.” With a grunt, she lobbed the glowing bottle towards the charging Brent.
Libby rolled over and watched it sail through the air like a firefly. The way it twisted in the night was beautiful. The way it arced down was masterful.
It landed several yards shy and to the left of the red-faced AWC member.
The glass vial shattered, and luminescent lavender-colored gas billowed out like a smoke bomb.
Brent side-eyed the cloud but wasn’t even forced to course correct. From a few yards away and with limited visibility, the pulsing vein in his forehead stood out.
Libby jumped to her feet and growled at Marge, “Next time, I’m throwing the potions!”
They sprinted towards the gate. Pounding footsteps told them Brent was closing the gap.
It didn’t take a mathematician to calculate their probability of making it to her car before Brent made it to them.
Up and to their left, Tiffany squinted out her window in the registration booth at the purple cloud in confusion. Libby redirected her aim for the booth, a glowing beacon of refuge. Her lungs were too starved for air to afford her any words, but Marge caught on. Together, they reached Tiffany.
Gasping, Libby jiggled the knob to get inside.
“What’re you doing? Get back!” Tiffany’s eyes darted from them to a point past them. Whatever she saw must’ve scared her more than the two strangers (one still wearing a ski mask) trying to break in because, a moment later, the door flew open. “Hurry! Get in!”
Libby and Marge dove inside. The door shut with a thud, and Tiffany flipped the lock. Hopping to the windows, she slammed them both shut.
Libby breathed out a thanks.
“No problem. I hate that guy.” Tiffany flicked off the light and joined them on the floor. “You must’ve really pissed him off.” She giggled before clamping her hand over her mouth. “I like the smoke bomb.”
It took Libby a moment to realize that she was referring to Marge’s misaimed potion. “Yeah, heh. It was a leftover from the Fourth of July.” She jammed her elbow into Marge, drawing a yelp from the older woman. Her voice dropped so the attendant wouldn’t overhear. “What was that, anyway?”
Mage rubbed her side. “Heavy Weight. It’s basically the opposite of my Defying Gravity one.”
“Heavy Weight, huh?”
“What?”
“No, it’s just, maybe Gravity Well would’ve been cooler.”
Marge rolled up her mask, revealing damp skin. “No, it wouldn’t have. Heavy Weight makes sense.”
Two things happened simultaneously that brought an end to their argument. Brent pounded on the metal door like it was a steel drum, and beside Libby came the metallic, yet satisfying noise of a Glock’s slide being racked and released.
Libby’s head swiveled to find the blonde-haired worker clutching her weapon. Her finger wasn’t on the trigger, but the barrel pointed at a disconcerting angle towards the door which happened to be on the other side of Libby and Marge.
“I know you two witches are in there,” Brent screamed, his voice growing hoarse. “The police will be here any minute. Tiffany, open this door!” The pounding ratcheted up a notch, now accompanied by a litany of curses.
Tiffany’s hands trembled slightly, her expression less sure than it had been a moment before.
Carefully, Libby reached over and pressed her index finger against the barrel, moving Tiffany’s aim a fraction so it wasn’t pointed straight at them as she said to Marge, “We can’t let Jackson find us here.”
Marge rolled her mask back down. “I got this—wait, where’s Max?”
“Chasing a cat.”
The older woman tutted. “Yeah, he’ll be fine. We’ll call for him when we’re at the car, engine running.” She dropped her purse to the floor and shoved bottles aside.
Banned or not, Libby really wished she had an invisibility potion in there.
“You can’t,” she said pointedly, jerking her head towards Tiffany.
“It’ll be fine.” Marge tipped the vial of a turquoise liquid over the threshold.
The liquid oozed between the narrow gap, and a moment later, Brent’s pounding on the door ceased. Libby glanced sideways at Tiffany. If Marge had used something that caused Brent to sprout several arms or to look like a chipmunk or resulted in anything that compromised their secret, a whole lot of problems would follow.
“What are you doing?” Tiffany squeaked out as Marge opened the door.
“Yeah,” Libby said, attempting to grab the back of Marge’s shirt to stop her, but the fabric had become a second skin. “What are you doing?”
“Relax. See?” Marge kicked the door all of the way out, revealing Brent sprawled on his back like a starfish. A rivulet of drool slid down his cheek.
“Is he… dead?” Libby prodded the man with her shoe. His eyes flicked to her, and a growl trembled his throat, but he was otherwise immobile. “Nope, not dead.”
Their freedom lay feet away through the open gate. Suddenly, every surface around them flickered red and blue from an inbound patrol car.
Libby shoved Marge towards the clubhouse. Back in the registration booth, Tiffany still gripped her gun. “Sorry to get you involved,” she threw over her shoulder. “And thanks for the assist. The police are here now, so you might want to, you know—” she gestured at the weapon.
“W
ait! What’s your name?”
Was she asking out of curiosity or for when the police questioned her?
“Stacy. Stacy Blackwood.”
If Brent had gotten a good look at her, then the jig would be up because he most certainly would tell the sheriff’s department who had lit his lawn on fire.
After running across the pavement, they hid behind the clubhouse as the patrol car pulled in, party lights flashing. Libby couldn’t tell who the officer behind the wheel was but guessed, with her luck, it had to be Jackson.
The car screeched to a stop at the booth, and a quaking Tiffany ran out. With the LEO preoccupied, Libby and Marge crept out through the gate and sprinted to her car.
On the sidewalk beside her Honda, Max sat on his haunches, his leash snaked over the sidewalk.
“You beat us here. Good boy.” Libby held the back, passenger-side door open for him so he could jump in.
His tongue flopped out, and he seemed perfectly content, happy even, which meant that there was probably a very frightened kitty somewhere on the property.
Once all three were inside, she slowly pulled out, careful not to attract attention. It took a few minutes of her constantly checking her rearview mirror to ensure they weren’t being followed before she eased her grip on the steering wheel.
“Okay, I got to ask, what on earth did you pour underneath Brent?”
“It’s an elixir for tight muscles. A muscle relaxer, if you will. In high quantities, it works a little too well, if you catch my drift.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Let’s just say Brent will be needing a change of underwear.”
“Ew, okay.”
“Because he’s no doubt soiled—”
“Nope, I got it,” Libby said louder, drowning out the rest of Marge’s sentence. “Wow. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
The moment they were a mile from the resort, she pressed her foot on the gas.
Marge sensed the urgency. “We don’t have much time before Brent throws our names out.”
“You think he knew it was us?”
Marge shot her a patronizing expression that said, Oh, sweet summer child.
“Right.” The car lurched as she floored the gas pedal.