The massive black cat crouched inside his plastic carry crate, fluffy tail lashing with indignity. "I can't believe you stuck me in the middle seat."

"Would you rather I carried you in my lap?" asked the black-dressed man sitting in the window seat beside him. "And keep it down. Normal cats don't talk, remember?"

The cat lowered his voice to an angry hiss, which wasn't much of an improvement. "I'd rather not be on this flying death contraption in the first place. There's no anti-falling ward, no safety charms, no magic of any sort! We're just hurtling through the air in a metal cylinder powered by explosions." He turned his green-eyed glare on the happy family sitting across the aisle. "I'm amazed there are any scalies left if this is how they travel."

"Don't be rude, Boston," the man scolded, though he was secretly wondering the same thing as he stared through the window at the summer clouds drifting far, far below. He'd lost his fear of heights ages ago, but soaring through the sky on a broom you controlled was a very different experience from being strapped into a much-smaller-than-advertised chair while scale-eyed humans he'd never met decided his fate.

That was the part that bothered him most, actually. Some of his sisters hated the magic-blind portion of humanity, but he'd always tried to be open-minded. It wasn't the scalies' fault they'd been born with blinders over their eyes, and the things they came up with to compensate for their lack of magic were ingenious. He'd been legitimately excited for his first airplane ride--at least until they'd left the ground and he'd been thrust face-to-face with the reality that his life would be in the hands of someone who couldn't see for the next six and a half hours.

"I'm sure it's perfectly safe," he said, as much for himself as for his cat."

You could have at least sprung for first class," Boston grumbled, settling onto the plastic floor of his carrier with his paws tucked under his chest. "It's bad enough that we're having to travel this way in the first place, but what sort of self-respecting witch flies coach?"

"The kind who doesn't want to be noticed," the man replied, tightening his grip on the pointed black hat resting in his lap. "Now pipe down before you crack my Nevermind spell."

The people across the aisle were already starting to give him odd looks. The scales in their eyes kept them from seeing the delicate soap bubble of artificial unimportance that surrounded the man and his cat, but the witch could see the magic - and the cracks that were starting to spider across its rainbow surface - just fine. Fortunately, the captain chose that moment to announce they were beginning their descent.

The Nevermind spell seized on the interruption just as he'd crafted it to do, redirecting all the curious human minds toward checking their luggage, finishing their drinks, buckling their seatbelts, and anything else that wasn't the man and his talking cat carrier. Satisfied that he wouldn't have to fight a kick demon in the air today, the witch leaned back in his seat and gazed eagerly out the window for his first look at the city he'd gambled everything to reach--only to discover he couldn't see it yet.

Apparently, mechanical planes didn't go straight down like brooms did. Their descent was a long, slow coast, forcing the witch to endure thirty more minutes of white-knuckled anxiety before the winged tin can finally touched down, its wheels bumping so hard against the pavement that his cat carrier would have slid off the seat if it hadn't been buckled in.

"I am never doing this again," said the miserable voice inside.

The witch wanted to assure him this was the last time, but he didn't dare. Now that they'd landed, the scalies were everywhere, grabbing their carry-ons and hunching their bodies like sprinters at the starting line as they waited for the plane to finish its taxi. The moment the contraption stopped moving, they shot out of their seats, pushing one another out for a spot in the aisle despite the fact that the door wasn't even open yet.

It was clear foolishness, but the witch had to restrain himself from joining in. Now that the plane was finally on the ground, he wanted out of his cramped seat in the worst way. But patience was a core principle of witchcraft, so he blew out a breath and bided his time, waiting until the plane was nearly empty before he dismissed his Nevermind spell, tucked his pointed hat under his arm, and began unbuckling Boston's carrier.

"Finally," the cat huffed as they stepped off the plane into the strange, collapsible hallway that connected it to the airport. "We were so close to death up there, I practically saw the Holy City."

"Pray to the Old Wives that you never see that," the witch replied, slipping his hand into the left side of his long black coat. The right concealed over a hundred pockets, each of which was spelled to jump to his fingers with a thought, but the left was for quick use items—wallet, phone, that sort of thing. It was quite full at the moment with all the documentation required for commercial air travel, but a little digging turned up the cell phone he'd purchased at Logan earlier that day.

The phone rang twice, and then an amused voice that sounded like it belonged to a teenaged girl answered. "Look at you, using modern technology. I take it you've arrived at your destination successfully?"

The witch glanced at the colorful "Welcome to Baltimore!" advertisements covering the connector hallway's flexible beige walls. "I'm here."

"Proud of you. Your chapero--err, chauffer is already waiting for you in the Portalocity Lounge." He could practically hear her grin. "I believe there's a sign involved."

"We both know that you haven't misspoken since before I was born." The witch sounded amused and exasperated--a common mix of emotions when talking to one of the many, many women who made up his family.

"Well, we can't all be out having adventures, Adrian." She still sounded amused, but the reminder of why Adrian was here and what was riding on it had him straightening his spine a bit, his own amusement fled. "Payment's been taken care of from the family coffers, but it would be great if you could start sending money back home as soon as possible."

"I will," the witch promised and hung up.

"Did she hire a bodyguard out of an abundance of caution or because she...?" Boston asked from his carrier.

"Cute that you think Aunt Muriel has ever given me a straight answer in my entire life," the witch snorted as he slid the phone back into his pocket. "Now be quiet. I can't do a Nevermind while walking, and this place is packed." The cat grumbled but didn't say another recognizable word as the witch began marching down the disembarkation tunnel toward the sunny, crowded airport terminal. Time to find a bodyguard with a sign. "Could have given me a little more of a description, Aunt Muriel," he muttered.

And just like that, his phone chimed with an incoming text. He dug it back out of his pocket and saw the message was just a phone number and a name. Yelena Belova.

[Adapted from Chapter 1 of Hell For Hire by Rachel Aaron. NFB for off-island, and for the grumpy Russian babysitter bodyguard.]