So I stood there in my jeans and green T-shirt, sweating in the sun beating down and watching the heavy traffic. The tidy Were beside me smelled nice, and the two warlocks monopolizing the shade of a newly planted tree chatted about nothing. I could tell they were warlocks because their characteristic redwood scent was almost hidden beneath the overdone perfume that was making the Were’s eyes tear.

The more magic you practiced, the stronger your scent, though usually only another Inderlander could pick it up. The same went for vampires, the ones who indulged themselves the most having a more obvious incense smell. Jenks said I reeked of magic and Ivy stank of vampire. And we all lived together in a little stinky church, I sang in my head.

Uneasy, I ran a finger between me and the strap of my bag. Warlock was a designation of skill, not sex, warlocks simply being witches who hadn’t gone through the trouble of learning how to stir a spell by heart. They could invoke them, all right, but stirring them safely was out of their skill level. And as soon as humanity got their head wrapped around that, the entire demographic slice of educated male witches could take the chip off their shoulder and relax.

I had a two-year degree plus enough life experience to get the license to use my charms in my work. It wasn’t skill holding me back from getting the license to sell my charms, but capital. Which might explain the incongruity of my riding the bus with an artifact that could start an Inderland power struggle. With my luck, I’d get mugged on the way home.

A sigh shifted me, and I plucked at my T-shirt, wondering if I should take it off and wear the chemise I had on under it home. It would be fun to watch the guy next to me react when I started stripping. A private grin curled up the corners of my mouth. Maybe I’d take off my sneakers and go barefoot. Muggers usually left dirty people with no shoes alone.

The Were next to me made a long whistle of appreciation, and I lifted my gaze up from my nasty sneakers, blinking at the Gray Ghost limo edging out of traffic and into the bus pull-off. My first reaction of surprise melted into annoyance. It had to be Trent. And here I was waiting for the bus with filthy knees and sweating. Just peachy damn keen.

I peered over my sunglasses when the tinted back window rolled down. Yup, it was Trent, the wealthy bastard looking good in his cream-colored linen suit and white shirt. His tan had deepened with summer, leading me to think he got out into his prizewinning gardens and nationally renowned stables more often than he let on. Smiling a confident, somewhat expectant smile, the elf in hiding arched his thin eyebrows at the dirt on my knees.