Hounded

chemical signature of a skunk instead. Unless this guy was a closet skunkophile, she’d be looking at a wet noodle all night. On top of that, I was going to make sure she didn’t get excited either, throwing in some natural monoamine suppressants. I had made this sort of brew before: I sold it to sorority girls as Humili-Tea. They used it on their exes or their stalkers or sometimes to end a relationship when they had no good reason to do so.
    Back when I first learned how to make a tea like this, I didn’t have names for all the chemical reactions caused by the herbs—the herblore was just as magical to me as my bindings were to a layperson. Science had taken away some of the mystery of the process but none of the utter coolness I felt knowing that I could whip up compounds the pharmaceutical industry could only dream of.
    But I will not pretend I was helping Emily to feel cool. I figured to come out far ahead in the deal, because having a coven in your debt was serious mojo, and I could use plenty of that if the Morrigan’s casting were to come true.

Chapter 8
    It actually turned out to be quite a busy morning, making my opening of the second register seem like genius. Perry never found time to mess with the Tarot display until much later, and I never got time to read the full article about the park ranger. But I figured Hal would fill me in once I got to Rúla Búla.
    Come on, Oberon. Lunchtime .
    › Burgers? ‹ He lifted his head up hopefully.
    Fish. And we’re going to be in a restaurant, so you need to behave and stay out of the way .
    › Same rules wherever we go. Behave and stay out of the way. ‹
    I waved at Perry and told him I’d be back in an hour or so. » Mind the fortress, will you? «
    He waved back. » No problem. «
    I slipped out the door and opened it wide so Oberon could follow me, then unlocked my bike from the stand and hopped on.
    No stopping to smell the trees and fire hydrants , I said. I can’t be calling back to an invisible dog every few minutes to hurry it up .
    › When do I get to have some fun? ‹ he whined.
    After I close up shop. You can play around at the widow’s house. You can chase her cats in camouflage and totally freak them out. Heh!
    Oberon made chuffing noises, which was the canine equivalent of laughter. › Oh, now that sounds like a good time! I can sneak up on that calico one and bark right behind it. It’ll hit the ceiling. ‹
    We chuckled about it together as we made our way up Mill Avenue, passing the bars and boutiques and the occasional gallery. Oberon told me about his plans to just put his paw down on the Persian’s tail and watch what happened.
    Hal Hauk had already secured a table inside Rúla Búla near the window, and he had ordered a pint of Smithwick’s for each of us. I was both pleased and disappointed by the gesture, for it meant I wouldn’t get to go to the bar myself and take a whiff of the barmaid.
    That’s not as creepy as it sounds.
    Granuaile, the redheaded siren behind Rúla Búla’s bar, was not entirely human, but I still didn’t know what she was, and her scent was my only clue. She was a mystery to me, and a beautiful one at that. Long locks of curly red hair cascaded over her shoulders, which were always covered in a tight but otherwise chaste T-shirt. She did not earn tips from her cleavage, like many barmaids do, but rather depended on her green eyes, her pouty lips, and the light dusting of freckles on her cheeks. She had pale, creamy skin and a few fine golden hairs on her arms, which led eventually to fingernails she had painted green to match her eyes.
    She was not one of the Fae: I could see through all their glamours, and in any case she never blanched at my iron amulet. Neither was she undead, or she would hardly be working the day shift. She wasn’t a were of any kind, which Hal had mentioned but I had already determined using my own methods. I had thought she might be a witch, but she didn’t have the telltale signs in her aura. If she had been anything sent from hell, I would have smelled the brimstone, but instead she gave off an ineffable scent that was not quite floral, more like a pinot grigio and mixed in with something that reminded me of India, like saffron and poppies. I was left to conclude that she was a goddess of some sort, masking her true nature and slumming here incognito like so many other members of the supernatural community, displaced from points all over the world. The bonny Irish lass