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Third-rate witches and warlocks were a dime a dozen in Sedona, but they were mere minnows to this Great White Shark.
My jaw hardened as I wondered what he was after in Sedona. I doubted it was the views.
“Move it,” Erin hissed, getting me in motion again.
We ground crew each took hold of a corner of the basket, steadying it while the guests climbed in. I kept my eyes down and away from the warlock. His kind didn’t have the nose to ferret out a shifter like me, but if he gazed deep enough into my eyes, he’d get a glimpse of the beast within.
“Help me, Harlon,” one of the women squeaked.
Then a pudgy hand holding a clipboard — the businessman’s — slapped the basket an inch from my ear. I glanced up, annoyed.
Robert Hardy. Red Rock Vistas Real Estate,read the embossed letters at the top of the custom clipboard.
A moment later, the real estate guy — Hardy himself? — tipped me off to his boss’s last name. “Can I hand you my briefcase, Mr. Greene?”
I made a mental note to call in to HQ to pull up some research on Harlon Greene.
Then I cursed, because those resources were no longer available to me.
Whoosh!Madden pulled the burner cord a minute later, and the balloon slowly lifted off.
“Oh! We’re in the air!” one of the women squealed.
Erin stalked to the van. I paused with John and Chico, watching the balloon rise.
“Now, that’s a man with a lot of money and power,” John sighed.
“And women,” Chico added.
They cackled all the way over to the van. We packed up the remaining equipment, then slid into our seats. Erin took off, her hands tight on the wheel.
“Oh! It’s so pretty!” A woman’s voice came over the radio.
John crossed his arms, pulled his baseball cap over his eyes, and settled in for his usual nap.
Chico stuck on his headphones, slipping into his own private world.
That left Erin and me listening in to the usual commentary from the balloon. At least, it started out in the usual way. Lots of oohs, aahs, and rediscoveries of familiar places from their bird’s-eye view.
Dragon’s eye view,my inner beast growled.
But then things started veering away from the normal, and I found myself tuning in instead of out.
“Bob, where’s this Painted Rock Creek we were discussing?” Harlon Greene asked.
Erin’s sharp intake of air made me look over. Her lips were a tight line, and the groove between her brows deepened.
“I’ll just open the map…” Bob replied — the Robert Hardy of Red Rock Vistas Real Estate, I assumed.
Erin swung around a turn, looking up. When we hit a bump, her right hand popped off the steering wheel, and her fingers flicked.
“Oh! Grab it! Grab it!” Hardy cried.
Scuffling sounds ensued, and something white fluttered overhead.
One of the women laughed. “So much for your map. That gust of wind is taking it in for a landing on that bush.”
It was almost comical, but Erin didn’t seem amused.
