“Miss Katia, I understand how disappointing this is for you. But what do you expect me to do?” I ask, leaning back in my office chair. “Even on my best day, your powers are still stronger than mine. All female witches are stronger than their male counterparts.”

            Katia rubs her thumb over the knuckles of her other hand and looks up at me through her thick black hair. “Mr. Ryker, we both know that’s not true. Yes, you are young for a witch, but that doesn’t diminish your power at all. Most witches stop taking care of their bodies once they hit the century mark. You didn’t.”

            I shrug. “I still fail to understand what it is you’re asking me to do.”

            She sighs and runs a hand through her already wild hair. “That witch hunter killed my sisters. I want her to be taken out. And I want my sisters to be brought back from the dead.”

            I lean forward on my desk and fold my hands together. “And how do you suggest I do that? Even if I were as powerful as you seem to think I am, bringing people back from the dead is an impossible task.”

            “And yet, here you are,” she says, pointing her wand at the desk.

            “Those are rumors,” I reply coolly, rising from my chair and looking out the window. The sun’s out today. Not a cloud in sight.

            “So you will not help me?” she asks.

            “There is nothing for me to do. If you cannot handle one witch hunter by yourself, one must wonder if your coven should even be allowed to stay here,” I answer.

            I hear a stifled cry and the sound of the heavy chair scraping back across the tile floor. I wait until I hear the steel door close before I breathe a sigh of relief. I rarely associate with members of any coven, but I try to avoid the Belaya coven at all costs. They’re extremely weak witches with limited powers. Even in peak physical condition, a Belaya witch cannot cast better than a tree.

            I run my hand over my face and close the blackout curtains. Hiring myself out as a witch hunter hunter is not traditional work, but it is work that I enjoy, much to the chagrin of the rest of my coven. Most witches are lazy, only doing enough to keep themselves in good enough health to cast enough spells to keep themselves alive for two centuries before they begin to become bored with their lives. Having passed my two-hundred sixtieth birthday and still being in peak physical condition is enough to warrant attention, let alone being of the Lawrence Coven.

            I look over my clothes and snap my fingers, the three-piece suit I wear for consultations changing into skinny jeans and a plaid shirt. A grey knit hat materializes and I pull it down over my head, covering most of my thick blonde hair. Another snap changes my skin into a human’s, smooth and flawless, with ice-blue eyes. After all, the black teeth and deeply cracked skin are only marks of witches.

The End

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