Adrian Blackwood

After his meeting with Margo, Adrian had returned to the hotel to change and grab Boston and Bran, and they headed out to the other woodland that they'd spotted during their exploratory hike around the island. Immediately upon stepping into it, there was promise. For one thing, it lacked that oppressive feeling of old, deep magic. That was the same feeling that most Blackwood groves had, but a forest having that already didn't make it conducive to actually creating a witchwood.

He walked through the trees with his broom in his hand and Boston trotting in front of him, sniffing the ground with his cat nose like a bloodhound, though he'd be offended to his core by the comparison. ( The late summer sun was high and hot )

"Well, I guess this place has Bran's vote. Boston?"

"Obviously."

"Then it's unanimous. Let's mark out how big we want the plot to be so we can make a bid on it," he declared.

It felt right here. Not quite like home - but like it could be.

[Bits and pieces of the description and discussion adapted from Rachel Aaron's Hell For Hire.]

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 )

"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.]