Page 3 of Witch Bound and Down

"Grown-ups?" Bullseye snorted. "Kid, you're what—barely past your first molting? Come back when your voice stops cracking fire."

Big Scorcher leaned against a nearby pickup truck, which immediately began to smoke. Its alarm went off, screaming in what sounded suspiciously like Elvish. The dragon ignored it. "Son, what have I told you about antagonizing potential employees?"

"To do it with style?" Little Sparky grinned, showing off fangs that gleamed like new chrome."

"Now, now, Junior, we didn't come here to trade insults. We came here because we heard this minotaur might actually have the horns to do a little job for us," Big Scorcher said.

"What type of job?" Snowman asked, creating a small snow flurry between himself and the dragons' heat.

"We've got twenty crates of Bond Buster sitting in our Los Angeles warehouse. Premium grade, laboratory pure. And we'll pay forty thousand gold pieces to haul it cross-country to our New York facility."

"Forty grand to haul potions?" Bullseye's tail flicked with interest despite himself. "What's the catch?"

"The catch," Big Scorcher said, leaning against a nearby pickup truck which immediately began to smoke, "is that Bond Buster is illegal to transport anywhere east of the Colorado River. Every trucker we've approached has either chickened out or gotten arrested trying."

"Bond Buster?" Snowman's expression darkened. "That's the stuff that breaks witch-familiar bonds, isn't it?"

"Who cares?" Little Sparky said dismissively. "Dragons on the East Coast are tired of witches thinking they're so special with their little pets. About time someone leveled the playing field."

"And nobody's managed to make the run?" Bullseye asked, ignoring the implications for now.

"Not a single driver," Big Scorcher confirmed. "Closest anyone got was an orc team that made it to Kansas before the magical authorities caught up with them. They're still in federal lockup."

"So what makes you think I can do what nobody else has managed?" Bullseye drawled.

"Simple," Little Sparky strutted around the Trans Am like he was appraising it. "We heard you were either crazy enough or stupid enough to try anything. Question is, which one are you?"

“For the right price, I’m crazy enough to do just about anything.”

"Tell you what," Big Scorcher said, tossing a bag of gold to the elf whose truck he'd accidentally melted. "Let's make it interesting. I’ll up the payment to eighty thousand gold if you can get our cargo from Los Angeles to New York in thirty-six hours."

"Thirty-six hours?" Snowman whistled. "That's—"

"Impossible," Little Sparky finished with obvious satisfaction. "That’s kind of the point, snow cone. Though if cow boy here thinks he's up for it..." He trailed off.

Bullseye felt the familiar thrill that always came with impossible odds. Thirty-six hours cross-country, carrying illegal cargo. It was exactly the kind of run that separated the legends from the also-rans.

"So let me get this straight," Bullseye said slowly. "You're offering me eighty grand to do something you think is impossible. And if I fail?"

"When you fail," Little Sparky corrected, "You get nothing and we get that fancy Trans Am of yours. Fair trade for wasting our time."

"Well now," Snowman drawled, "that's a hell of a wager. 'Course, I've seen this crazy bull do the impossible before."

“It’s taking him a long time to say yes. I hear there's a nice safe route delivering enchanted Girl Scout cookies up in Portland."

"Junior," Big Scorcher rumbled warningly.

"What? I'm just making sure he understands exactly what he's getting into. And exactly what he's going to lose." Little Sparky ran a claw along the Trans Am's hood, leaving a tiny trail of sparks. "I'm thinking of repainting it when I win. How do you feel about hot pink?"

Bullseye's tail went rigid. Nobody threatened his car. "Touch my paint job again, lizard boy, and you'll be picking your teeth out of next Tuesday."

"Boys," Big Scorcher interrupted, smoke curling from his nostrils in amusement. "Let's keep it professional. What do you say, Bullseye? The cargo's already loaded and waiting."

"Thirty-six hours," Bullseye repeated. "Cross-country. With every magical authority between here and New York looking to bust anyone hauling Bond Buster."

"Now you're getting it," Little Sparky preened. "Are you going to take the bet, or should I start calling you Minivan Mike?"

Bullseye looked at his Trans Am, then at the dragons, then at Snowman who was shaking his head vigorously behind the dragons' backs. Eighty thousand gold pieces would solve every problem they had, set them up for years, and give them the freedom to be choosy about jobs.

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