Under Wraps by Hannah Jayne
To my second-grade teacher
Vi Sullivan:
I don’t know where you are,
but I’m here because of you.
Thanks for letting me keep writing.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Wasn’t it Hillary Clinton who said, “It takes a village to raise a writer”? Special thanks to my agent extraordinaire Amberly Finarelli and my über-patient editor John Scognamiglio; to the San Francisco Police Department and officers Gardner and Green from the Santa Clara Police Department—thanks for listening to my endless questions and keeping an (almost) straight face as I learned how to shoot. Thanks to the phenomenal staff at M Is for Mystery in San Mateo and Crema café in San Jose for allowing a poor writer to nurse a single cup of tea for hours on end. A special thanks to Heather Woods for always encouraging me to write on (even when I inundate her with six versions of the same scene) and to Prolific Oven Palo Alto for gently shooing us out at night. Thanks to CTS for not evicting me. To John and Oscar for your endless support—I’ll be forever indebted, and to Joan who made all this happen (and brought the toilet paper to boot)—I couldn’t have done it without you.
Finally, a very special thanks to my parents who may not have always understood but always encouraged, and to Jack and Lily who constantly remind me that it’s impossible to feel self-important while cleaning out the cat box.
Chapter One
This was why I didn’t do magic. Well, this and the fact that incidents like this wreaked havoc on my organic cotton-blend wardrobe.
I stood by while Nina perched on her desktop, hands on hips, teeth bared, dodging the singed-hair-smelling puffs of smoke that shot from Mrs. Henderson’s scaled, flared nostrils.
Lorraine, the Gestalt witch and resident UDA Accounts Payable shark, was hopping from foot to foot, muttering a calming spell that made flowers bloom on the desk and then wilt under Mrs. Henderson’s dragon-fire heat.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, reaching out to soothe the eight-foot dragon. “I’m sure Nina didn’t mean anything by her comment. If you would just let me help—”
Mrs. Henderson angled a surprisingly well-manicured claw at Nina and jabbed at the air in front of her. “That woman should not be allowed to deal with the public!” she spat, blowing a fireball from between pursed, candy-pink lips.
“Oy!” Lorraine yelped and scampered out the door, patting her smoking scalp while I watched Nina’s small hands ball into fists, her dark eyes agape, glaring at the bowling-ball-sized hole burned into her hand-smocked blouse.
“This was an original!” Nina shrieked.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I tried again.
Mrs. Henderson clapped a claw over her mouth, but I could still see the snaking smile on her thin dragon lips. “Sorry,” she said. “That one really got away from me.”
“If you think that I am going to change my mind, or wear”—Nina wrinkled her nose in disgust—“fire-retardant fabrics to deal with this, this—”
“Client,” I offered.
“Lizard,” Nina spat, “who can’t hold her fire breath …”
I cringed as Mrs. Henderson’s eyes bulged. “Who are you calling a lizard, Nosferatu?”
I ducked just in time to miss a spout of fire that engulfed Nina and fizzled on her cold, marble skin. She sniffed, the charred remains of her singed dress falling off and crackling to the desk, leaving her stark naked, stiletto heeled, and completely bald.
“Why you—”
I watched Nina rise up on her toes, her sharp fangs pressed against her Resolutely Red MAC lip stain.
“Nina!” I stepped in front of her just in time to catch a blast of Mrs. Henderson’s fire. It balled around me, the orange-yellow flames held an inch from my skin. They crackled, white hot, then fizzled out.
Mrs. Henderson frowned, her tail flopping on the floor and upturning my potted spider plant. “I’m sorry about that, Ms. Lawson.” She shrugged, her slick gray-green shoulders hugging her ears. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re immune.”
So, not only do I not do magic, magic can’t really be done to me. So, exit zombie love-slave spells, demonic possession, and Disney princess movies; enter standing in between a stark-naked vampire and an eight-foot dragon on a Tuesday afternoon.
“Mrs. Henderson,” I said, using my most calming tone. “How about if I personally handle all your paperwork from now on?”
Mrs. Henderson eyed Nina and then pinned me with a yellow-eyed glare. “All of it?”
I nodded, holding out my hand. “Every last form. I’m sure we can get this all worked out for you”—I smiled beguilingly at Nina—“with no further problems.”
Mrs. Henderson slapped her paperwork into my open palm. “Okay,” she said, the heat still in her breath. “But expect me to file a formal complaint with Mr. Sampson about her!”