By Caitlin Kittredge
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Sure thing,” he said, grabbing his wallet, badge, and keys off of his desk. “You doing okay, Wilder? ” I found my own wallet in the depths of my bag and shoved it into my suit jacket—this one was an old Valentino dinner suit from the seventies that I’d repurposed into something for the daytime by adding a severe red blouse and my trusty combat boots peeking out from under the wide hems of the pants. J. Maxx. The thought filled me with no small amount of horror. “A little bit, yeah,” said Batista.
I threw a shoe at him. ” “Fine. ” He threw me a wink and ambled out. The nurse remained, glowering at me. “Miss Wilder …” “Lady, I’m leaving. ” My morphine hangover wasn’t doing anything to improve my outlook, and combined with the pain it made for a potent Bitch Cocktail. Her face curled like a sour pug dog. “Fine. ” “Yeah, I’ll be sure to sue you if I drop dead,” I told her. She huffed and moved to leave. “Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry—well, not really—but the man who came in with me, the burn victim.
Morgan. ” His jaw twitched. ” I shoved back the rolling chair so it hit the whiteboard mounted at the front of the room, and grabbed Morgan by the elbow. ” At the elevators I turned us left and pushed through the old door sprayed with the symbol for a fallout shelter. It was supposed to be locked, but I’d learned that some long-ago janitor had jammed the lock open during my time on SWAT. The old tunnels lead a quarter of a mile down the road to the Nocturne City morgue, spitting halogen lights and exposed pipes creating slices of light and dark.
Witch Craft by Caitlin Kittredge