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“You’re deluding yourself if you think that,” he growled, then nudged his chin at the market up ahead of us, eyeing the food truck selling hot dogs. “But I’ll get you one of those.”
I grinned at his behavior.
Moments later, we were scarfing down the hotdogs that came with sauerkraut and mustard. I’d been starving and went back for another round, having forgotten to eat all day.
“Okay then,” Daxon started, wiping his lips. “What does that virgin chick look like? How do we find her?”
I turned to look at him. “What virgin?”
“Man, earlier you said that guy you killed told you to visit the virgin or some shit like that at the markets. That's why we're here.”
“Its Vrajitoare, not a fucking virgin,” I said, exasperated.
“Same shit. How do we find her?”
I shrugged, realizing in my haste to shut up the guy who’d been crying to be spared, I didn’t get all the information I needed out of him. “Um, we’re gonna ask the vendors. Someone’s gonna direct us to her.”
“Okay, get going and ask them.” He nudged me in the back, his pissed expression twisting his face.
“If you’re going to go into the killing game, you should at least watchDexter,” he muttered nonsensically as we walked. I shook my head, and we moved across the Suceava main square—the place where the markets were held. Stalls ran across two sides of the large cobblestone square. Beyond the stalls were storefronts and lofty apartment buildings.
People were all around us, and I started asking them where I could find Vrajitoare.
After getting a few strange stares, and people shaking their heads angrily at me to leave their stalls, I paused at one with a brunette in a fluffy blue jacket who pointed warily at an alleyway behind us. That was when I noticed the markets extended in that direction too.
But right as I started to leave, the woman called me back. “Sir, just be careful what you ask for. She is known for tricking anyone who doesn’t do exactly as she asks.” She spoke in a heavy Romanian accent, sounding slightly like Count Dracula.
“Thanks, I’ll be careful.” Unlike the rest of the others I spoke to tonight, she seemed to care, so I dug into my pocket and took out a fifty dollar bill to hand to her as it was the smallest I had on me. She shook her head though. Instead she picked up a small rabbit’s foot from her table of wares, handing it to me.
“You’re going to need all the luck in world if you so quickly flash your wealth here. She’s going to rob you blind.”
Daxon was chuckling to himself beside me. “Yeah, my friend here needsallthe luck.”
I ground my jaw, accepting the rabbit’s foot because I didn’t feel like I could refuse, and shoved it into my back pocket. “Thanks. I’m sure Vrajitoare will be happy to help us.”
“Sir, Vrajitoare isn’t her name. That’s the Romanian word for witch.”
I frowned, growling on the inside because I’d had enough of dealing with anyone who did magic.
“We love witches,” Daxon exaggerated. “Let’s go.” He wrenched me by the arm, pulling me past the woman’s stall.
“Wonder if this one is the real deal, or just a fraudster? They have them all over the place here. Dealing with Fae and their magic is enough for me. I’m not up for a witch at the moment.” He coughed again, his face pale.
I cleared my throat. “We have no other choice.”
The witch was easy to spot from a mile away, now that we knew who we were searching for. She sat at a stall decorated with wind-chimes made of bones, the tablecloth a deep purple, and she had several piles of tarot cards around her, along with a crystal ball. All cliché items I’d expect from a standard fraud, but as long as she had an answer for us, I didn’t give a shit if she was claiming she could fly.
The alleyway had only three tables, the first two with customers, and the woman we sought sat the farthest away without any clients.
At her table, she raised her head, appearing to be in her late fifties, maybe older, her silvery hair pulled off her face by a black floral scarf that was secured at the back of her neck. She wore a thick, velvet style dress with long sleeves, the top part buttoned up to her throat, the whole outfit black. She was definitely going for a theme.
“Share a drink with me,” she offered upon our arrival, her voice croaky, as she made quick work of getting three small plastic cups and setting them up on the table in front of her. Then she retrieved a clear bottle from under the table, half filled with a pale yellow liquid.
“No thanks,” Daxon answered. “I made myself a promise to not drink anything yellow from bottles,” he mocked.
The woman started filling the cups to the rim regardless. Even from across the table, the overwhelming waft hit me, and I almost choked on its strength.
“I didn’t ask,” she pressed. “I hear you’ve been asking for me.”
