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1
Elena
The otherworldly trills of insects, frogs, and animals too frightening to mention, rose like a thick curtain around me. Their chorus nearly covered the swishing of my thigh-high boots trekking through the brackish waters of the bayou.
I refused to contemplate what else I disturbed under the water's surface because,well, that was the stuff of nightmares.
Artifact hunting sounds like a glamorous profession, but it’s not. More often than I liked, I ended up on my hands and knees, covered in things I never wanted to encounter again.
Tonight was no different.
Water sloshed against a decaying dock as a thick, stinking fog rose from this tributary of the Mississippi River, blanketing the nearby ghost-town port in a gray cloud. I grabbed my low-light headlamp for the third consecutive night and snapped it on before removing my faux-leather gloves. My haphazard coal miner look killed my otherwise kick-ass outfit, but keeping my hands free was essential to my job.
Not that I would call this arealjob.
Technically, I’m an outcast who accidentally discovered a niche within the supernatural black market of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Retrieving was my game, and I am damned good at it.
I’m what equates to a magical bloodhound.
If you need something found that no one else can locate?
I’m your girl.
I've never understood the things I could do, and I've never had parents or a family around to supply the answers I so desperately sought for so long. All I know is that I'm better than good—like fucking awe-inspiring—at recovering magical objects. And for certain people with lots of cash and secrets, it's a talent with a monetary value.
It also has an unfortunate habit of landing me in the crosshairs of the shadiest people in the magical underworld—characters who get what they desire by any means necessary. It's fair to say I will never receive a 1099 form in the mail from any of my clients.
My roommate, Chastity, the only human being to give a fuck about me (and by far the best witch in Baton Rouge) has warned me many times that my job would land me in what she called deepkaka.
Those words reverberated in my head as I waded in the bayou muck as dusk descended around me, surrounded by whizzing bugs seeking the nearest blood source and larger predators seeking meaty snacks.
My client insisted on a level twenty out of ten degrees of secrecy that encouraged me not to play detective. It can make things a real pain in the ass when questions pop up, but a person in my position can't afford to be choosy. I nicknamed my latest sketchy client Mr. X, since he wouldn’t give me anything else to call him.
He’s also the reason I was down here, thigh-deep in the marshes along the coast of Baton Rouge, swatting away mayflies, mosquitoes, and all matter of night creatures as they belt out their nocturnal symphony of chirps, croaks, and the odd squeak or two.
I slapped the annoying bugs from my neck as cicadas escalated their screeching. Then I smelled it. It wasn’t an odor but more like the sensation of approaching rain—right before the petrichor hits.
I didn't experience this the last two nights, so it must be a sign.
Third time's a charm, right?
You see, I can't always predict if my instincts will lead me directly to my target. It may take a try or two—or in this casethree—but in the end, I always get my mark.
And so far, my record of success was untarnished.
But this time, it damn well better be my target, because my client gave me three areas scattered across the bayou where I might locate the object. This was my third and final attempt to find the mystery man's lost valuable.
The first two pieces of real estate wasted my time, lacking even a two-bit talisman I could pawn, so I was down to my last chance to profit.
Mr. X's vague description made me feel less hopeful that I could zero in on my target. And going back to him empty handed wasn’t an option.
So, what precious artifact drew me to these murky waters?
A canning jar.
Not some ancient, beautiful Egyptian funerary canopic vessel carrying the organs of a great pharaoh. No, like a jar that some white-haired grandma filled with strawberry jam or brining pickles.
It's not empty, and I'll know when I see it.
