The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Page count: 11

After another hour of Dean driving, they swapped so Dean could grab some rest. He managed an hour's nap before waking and demolishing half the snacks Hermione had packed. Nearly three hours later, Sam eased the Impala into the car park of a roadside motel.

While the brothers hauled duffels, Hermione went inside to book rooms.

The lobby smelled of stale bleach and damp. Someone had tried to brighten things up with paint — a depressing pea-green — but it barely helped. The clerk looked to be late twenties, with blonde hair, an angular face, and that kind of smile that thinks it's already won.

"Evening," Hermione said, polite and flat. "I'd like to book two rooms for the night."

"Sure thing, sweetheart," he said, tapping the keyboard. He glanced up and let his eyes slide over her. "Looks like you're outta luck. Only one room left."

Hermione exhaled through her nose. "That'll do. We'll share."

He let the grin spread. "We?"

"My friends and I," she said, voice even.

"Heh. Girlfriends?" He chuckled, smirk widening. "Guess I should've booked a bigger room."

Hermione's smile went tight. "No," she corrected. "Two men."

The smirk flickered, then hardened into something more coiled. "Lucky bastards," he muttered.

"I'm sorry?" Hermione's tone went cool; she lifted her chin a notch.

"Nothing," he said too quick. "How long's your stay?"

"One night. Passing through."

He fished a key from the rack and slid it across the counter. His fingers lingered on the edge of the counter as she picked it up. "Room twelve," he said. Then, leaning in, voice oily: "If you get bored with those guys, you come find me, yeah? I can show you a good time."

Hermione's smile was dry. "I'm sure you can."

The grin faltered for a heartbeat before snapping back, sharper. "You sound like you don't believe me."

"I don't underestimate strangers," she said, pocketing the key. "Goodnight."

She turned and left, but the weight of his gaze followed—sticky and slow, the kind that crawled over skin. Hermione felt the hairs along her arms prick. Her magic coiled, an instinctive warning under the ribs; she swallowed the reflex to do anything hasty.

Outside at the Impala, she tightened her cardigan around herself without thinking.

"Everything okay?" Sam called as he saw her face. "You look a little pale."

"I'm fine," she said, voice wobbling a fraction. She glanced back: the clerk still stood in the doorway, watching her leave—eyes fixed on the shape of her as she walked away.

"Let's go. Room twelve. One room again." She reached for both their arms and steered them down the lot.

They followed her gaze. Dean went still; the easy irritation in his face folded into something tighter, colder. "Did he say something to you?" he asked, low.

"Just leave it," Hermione urged, tugging at his sleeve when he slowed.

"What did he say?" Dean pressed.

"Nothing—just stared. Made me uncomfortable. Can we not talk about it while he's watching?" she said, shivering a little.

Dean's jaw worked, the promise in his voice quiet and hard. "I'll kill him."