The difference here was that since she was trying to send away a specific person, she needed an identifying marker. In a note that looked to have been added to the journal later, since it was in a different color pen, Gran had scribbled, hair works—no fluids needed!
Thank god.
Needing to collect some of Clark’s hair （uninvited） wasn’t ideal, but at least she’d seen enough episodes of Criminal Minds to know what to look for. His hairbrush would be the path of least resistance to securing the goods.
Normally, Riley wouldn’t consider breaking and entering a casual part of her curse-breaking practice, but it was kind of hard to feel guilty after Clark’s repeated attempts to screw her over. Especially when she considered that he’d made up an elaborate scheme aimed to take advantage of her reluctantly extended trust—which, it was worth noting, was the exact thing he’d accused her of doing in the first place! Pot, kettle—it all came out in the wash.
While Riley waited for Clark to abandon the scene of the heist, aka head inside the castle to work for the day, she continued foraging for other fresh supplies she’d need for the charm.
She couldn’t find dill among the overgrown gardens’ vast array of flora, but luckily, she’d brought along her collection of dried herbs. Airport security had not loved her collection of vacuum-sealed bags, but ultimately, because of the size and weights, they couldn’t find any reason within their jurisdiction to take them away.
Picturing that Ina Garten meme, Riley muttered to herself, “If you can’t forage fresh herbs for a charm to repel your enemies, store-bought is fine.”
When Clark finally came outside, familiar pack slung over his not-particularly-remarkable-in-any-way shoulders, he looked even more surly than normal. Riley gave a sarcastic little wave as their eyes met, and he dropped his own gaze quickly. Good. She wanted him to know she was still pissed. Even though she’d already ignored him the entire return trek last night and then tossed back his helmet with a little more force than strictly necessary. He looked back at her once over his shoulder before disappearing inside the castle—that same piercing, rebellious pain taking on new dimension in his face. Not that she cared about his emotional wounds anymore. Fool me twice and all that.
Once the coast was officially clear, she headed straight for the side of the camper where she’d seen him leave a window cracked for the cat. After a quick inspection, her hopes for easy entry dimmed. No way was her ass fitting through a space that tiny.
The front door was no friendlier, lock firmly in place. That left one decidedly undesirable option: the escape hatch over the bed.
Here goes nothing.
It was a process. First, finding a set of logs big and sturdy enough to give her a boost so she could climb onto the camper. Then lying on her stomach and slithering across the top of the thing, her whole outfit going damp from the morning dew covering the metal exterior.
No one ever said curse breaking was glamorous.
The hatch didn’t actually open from the outside. But—small graces—Clark had left it cracked, presumably for ventilation. After much trial and error, Riley managed to slide a stick in and flip the latch.
When she finally got the hatch open wide enough, she pitched herself through, falling in an undignified heap onto his bed. Riley sprang up as quickly as possible. For all she had hatred as armor against his beauty, she didn’t need to test herself by rolling around with her nose in his sheets.
It made sense to start her search for the brush in the bathroom. Unfortunately, the stray cat had once again chosen to occupy the space, this time curled up in the sink. It gave her the stink eye complete with a brow furrow powerful enough to rival Clark’s when she opened the door.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Riley did her best to return the steely glare. “You’re an interloper as much as I am, so just be cool and no one has to know I was here.”
As soon as she took a step forward, the cat opened its jaws and started yowling.
“You fuzzy bitch,” Riley said, not without some respect.
She doubted the passionate cries would carry all the way inside the castle, but still, she didn’t need a feline narc sending up audible signal flares while she attempted burglary.
Quickly backing up into Clark’s kitchen, Riley started opening cabinets and lifting the lids on jars, hoping to find some food to bribe the animal into silence.
Unfortunately but unsurprisingly, none of the stuff Clark ate looked very appetizing.
Why did he have so many different kinds of seeds?
Finally, she settled on a banana. After hastily peeling the thing, she offered the cat a piece, which it took only after a noticeable pause that said it was doing her the favor.
Of course, the second its mouth closed around the fruit, Riley realized she had no idea what kind of people food was bad for cats. Her house had never had any pets growing up. Just last summer she’d learned grapes were lethal to dogs after some regular came into the bar sobbing about an incident involving unsupervised fruit salad. Shit.
“Drop it, drop it,” she said with as much authority as she could muster, pointing to the ground from the safety of the doorway.
The cat covered the part of the banana not currently in its mouth with both paws and hissed.
Great. Now she was gonna have to wrestle Garfield to get the thing back.
“Hey, just relax,” she said placatingly, taking a few careful steps toward the sink. “I’m trying to save your life here.”
Shocking no one except Riley, the second she moved within claw radius, she received a set of long, mean scratches from her wrist to halfway up her forearm.
Riley cursed, spinning in a circle while cradling her wound, trying not to scream.
Okay, in hindsight, taking food from a wild animal was pretty friggin’ ill-advised.
“I deserved that.” She whimpered. “I did.”
Clearly she had to find some food of equal or greater value to replace the banana.
She must have done something good in her childhood, because way back in the bottom of the fridge, she managed to uncover some plain cooked chicken breast.
Perfect. Riley figured that if cats could eat tuna, they could eat chicken—since tuna was the chicken of the sea. Shout-out to Jessica Simpson and elder millennials.
“Here. Look at this.” She shook the Tupperware containing the poultry with the hand on her uninjured arm. “Mmm. Meat.” She rubbed her belly, feeling like a clown of the highest caliber.
Once she had the cat’s attention, she threw the chicken into the shower, hoping it would drop the remaining banana and fetch.
“Okay, go get it,” she coaxed.
What the animal actually did was look at Riley like she was a doofus, which at this point seemed fair. Blood from the scratches had pooled down her arm, catching in the crease of her elbow and dripping to the tile floor below.
Yikes. This place was looking more and more like a crime scene by the minute.
Grabbing some toilet paper, Riley tried to mop up and then stem the flow, wrapping the wound as best she could one-handed.
After that, she went to pick up the chicken from the shower, since Clark might not miss a banana off his counter but would probably notice leftovers randomly flung about his washroom.
Apparently, her interest was all it took for the cat to decide it did want to eat that—Thank you very much—since it leapt down from the sink and stalked forward.