Disenchanted by A.R. Miller Page A

berserker—barely fits in the doorframe. The scrawny one actually sniffs the air like a therian. Great, a tracker. Even if I wanted to run, I wouldn’t be able to hide.
    Never in my wildest nightmares imagined an NTF team visiting me. Any crimes involving Enchants are turned over to the Numinous Task Force, or NTF for short, a sort of magical police. The tracker says something about taking me downtown while the berserker grasps my arm. I instruct Jenny to get someone to take over Nancy’s treatment and not to charge her. The others may not be able to finish what I started, but they can at least get the goo off her face.
    A low buzz fills the salon as Frick and Frack escort me through the main floor. No cuffs, but that doesn’t stop gawkers on the street, or those inside from assuming I’m under arrest. Even though they didn’t say, you’re under arrest , I make the assumption also.
    Am I scared? No, more like terrified. Hel, I’ve never even had a traffic ticket, let alone been taken downtown. Guess I should have read my horoscope. It probably says get out of town. Fast.
    Surprise, surprise, across the street stands Mr. Alric Brand, cell pressed to his ear, his companion in giant four – legged form. The dog seems a little more than agitated as Frack shoves me into the back of their car.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER FIFTEEN
     
     
    The ride downtown is purgatory, on the way to my own personal hel. Frick and Frack speak too quietly for me to hear and all I can do is sit and shake, sweating like a pig despite the air conditioner.
    My stomach feels like the time The Sisters let me eat practically a whole bottle of cucumber dressing on my salad then a box of root beer popsicles. Hey, I was five and learned my lesson by spending most of the night praying to the porcelain god. I only hope I don’t have a repeat all over their fancy leather interior.
    I’m having one of those, what did I do to deserve this, moments. Whose hair did I screw up to make them mad enough to sic the NTF on me? Did they have a bad reaction to one of my cosmetics? Not that any of those would rate a visit from NTF; it’s more of an Iowa Department of Public Health issue.
    We’d passed our last inspection with only a minor infraction of one stylist neglecting to sanitize his clippers between uses. As far as I know there haven’t been any complaints filed against us. All of our licenses are up to date.
    A bucket of sweat drenches me. Had they somehow put two and two together and get three victims who visited my salon? Do they think I’m involved with the attacks? That they could think I’m The Collector is enough to make me snort. Frack turns around and glares at me, an educated guess, considering I can’t read his expression through the dark glasses, not that it matters. We’ve arrived.
     
    ***
     
    All the mystery surrounding NTF headquarters is greatly diminished by their decorating choices. It’s like walking into a concrete bunker. No windows, no magazines on the small table in reception, not even annoying elevator music. The only attempt at warmth, a small plant on the front desk. Wilted and brown, but at least it’s a color besides grey. You literally feel your mood hit cloudy–day–depression mixed with a touch of claustrophobia.
    I have the urge to raise my hand and shout, jawohl as the beefy receptionist scowls at me from behind mannishly–thick–framed glasses. Give me credit, I don’t, but I have to bite my lip to keep from giggling. I gently stroke the leaves of the wilted plant as I pass, bringing a look of horror to the receptionist’s face. Geez, it’s not like I could do any more harm to the poor thing.
    One of my escorts opens the only door, besides the one I want to use, revealing what looks like an endless corridor. As I pass through the door, I give that poor browned plant one last look and stumble forward as Frack slams into me. I’m sure my expression mirrors the front desk Nazi’s shocked face. The plant