Page 1 of Up in Smoke

That’s because only lunatics fly.

Friday, May 29, 2043.

Long Island, New York.

The East.

With my last infection conquered,there was no reason to delay heading to New Orleans. Sandro’s mother had helped pick a collar for her son, one he could tolerate for several months if needed. Thanks to the magic of a witch, the silvery platinum weighed less than even a feather. His tags underwent the same magic in the hours before we were due to catch a flight to the South.

We’d gone to the witch’s house, which was on the way to the airport, to make certain there would be no mishaps with Sandro’s collar and leash during our stay in New Orleans. The townhouse, in far better shape than most of its neighbors, radiated a welcoming aura, something the witch had likely cultivated over the years to put her clients at ease.

Her magic failed at its work. I blamed my unease on the whole idea of hurtling through the air at ridiculous speeds to get somewhere in a hurry, although the woman herself added to my anxiety.

The upcoming flight terrified me, which distracted me from the witch fiddling with Sandro’s new jewelry. The necklace featured brown, orange, red, and white stones meant to match my fur, arranged into the shape of a stylized fox. The design amused me, especially since I had a collection of six leashes, one of which had even more shiny stones set into the shape of foxes to make it clear he belonged to me.

Each leash had Sandro’s tag information attached near the clip, just in case anyone had any doubt who owned and held responsibility for the quadrant mage.

My fox loved the symbol and everything it represented. The whole mess irritated me to the point I struggled to keep from chittering.

My fox tolerated the old witch being near Sandro better than I did.

She kept touching his throat to work her magic.

I wanted to draw Peace and cut her hands off.

Rather than inflict violence on the woman for doing her job, I kept a close eye on her, reminded myself I hated everything about the courtesan system, and that I loathed how I’d have to keep the hot ass bounty hunter chained to me most of the time we were in New Orleans.

The truth that I didn’t mind Sandro being kept close drove me crazier than the witch, who fondled a set of three pale talismans while she hovered over him.

I suspected the idea he might never be able to remove the collar if something happened to me bothered me more than it did him. He’d told me repeatedly he wanted to see New Orleans in its full glory and put an end to the choir assaulting Tulsa.

The witch’s warnings insisted on haunting me. If I perished or failed to return to the East, he would be stuck wearing my collar for the rest of his life.

Sandro didn’t mind the risks.

I minded, but I kept my mouth shut about it.

It took work, but I forced myself to focus on our goal of hunting for the choir and eradicating its singers before heading back to Tulsa to find out what the asshole-in-charge, one Benedict Mansfield, had done. Just the thought of the man, who’d opened hunting season on hybrids like me, put my fox on edge and made her want to destroy something.

Considering our current situation, my fox preferred the idea of tearing off Sandro’s suit.

I couldn’t blame her. I wanted to tear him out of his clothes, too.

The longer I hung around him, the harder it became to ignore those impulses.

With my attention snapping every which way, I expected to get a severe case of whiplash before the witch finished setting the enchantments that would keep Sandro safely collared for however long we stayed in New Orleans. The queens would need a lot of luck getting it off him.

Maybe New Orleans rested upon the equivalent of a magical amplification zone, but they’d have to bring out the big guns if they wanted to bust through the witch’s magic.

Her workings would be amplified in New Orleans, too.

“Miss Moretti, finish securing the collar around his throat,” the woman ordered.

I doubted I’d ever get used to someone calling me a Moretti, but the courtesan documentation had changed my last name on me. As my parents had sold me into slavery in the first place, I didn’t mind ditching Tamrin, although it would take a lot of getting used to.

Whenever someone said Miss Moretti, I looked for Sandro’s mother.

Rather than curse or chitter, I picked up the delicate necklace with its jewels shaped like a fox and the small tags dangling beneath it, designed to resemble wards against evil rather than a claim of ownership. I clasped it into place, checked to make sure it was secure, and stepped away.