"She wrapped herself up in an enigma. It was the only way to keep warm." - Karen Elizabeth Gordon
She had come into the bar every night at the same time for about a week. She sat at the same table with her back to the corner, drinking the same thing — gin and tonic with extra lime and no ice. She'd nurse her drink for a couple of hours, then slap a tip on the table and leave without saying a word. No one knew where she went after that. No one cared.
But tonight was different. Tonight her eyes scanned the room over the rim of her glass. Her fingers beat a little tattoo on the tabletop, and she shifted slightly in her seat as if she were trying to make up her mind whether or not to do something.
Bobby Singer had noticed the woman right away. She was the kind of person who could disappear seamlessly into a crowd. Average height, slender build. Sensible wire-rimmed glasses. Just the other side of forty, he guessed. Shoulder-length dark hair that conveniently hid her face when she wanted it to.
She caught him looking at her, and slowly lowered her eyes. With her finger, she wrote in the condensation on her glass and made a point of turning it for him to see.
Hi.
Bobby shifted in his seat, looked around, and mouthed "Who, me?"
The woman nodded, and motioned to the chair next to her. Bobby took the seat opposite, making sure he could see the door in the mirror behind her, and she could see the biggish knife he was carrying at his hip. She'd had him pegged as a checkers player, but damned if he wasn't playing chess. Her hand closed around the handle of the screwdriver in her pocket.
"Dunno about you, but I could use another round. What you drinkin'?"
"Gin and tonic. Extra lime, no ice."
British accent. Interesting. Bobby filed that observation away with the others, followed by a question mark. "Be right back." He picked up her glass and headed for the bar. As he waited for their drinks, he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She glanced at her watch, smoothed her hair, fiddled with her phone. Pretty normal stuff.
"Shit," she said, turning the glass in her hand. "I thought I said 'no ice.'"
"You got something against ice?"
"You have something against manners?"
"You can't be too careful in here, sweetheart."
"What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" She put the glass down and glared at it, then at Bobby.
"You're not from around here, are you?"
"You have no idea," she scoffed, scooping the ice from her drink with a spoon and dropping it into Bobby's glass. "It dilutes the gin." She looked him straight in the eye as she took a long sip. He watched her closely. Nothing happened.
"Point made. And now I've got gin in my bourbon."
"Serves you right for being an asshole, whatever-your-name-is."
"Bobby. Bobby Singer," he extended his hand.
"Susan Campbell," she replied, one hand on her drink and the other firmly planted in her pocket.
Campbell. This could get complicated. "Any relation to the Kansas Campbells?"
"Doubt it. Campbell is my married name. My husband was from London."
"Was?"
"David was a good man," she sighed. "After he died I couldn't imagine being in London without him. The kids were grown and scattered to the winds, so I had nothing to keep me there. I did some traveling. Eventually the money ran out and I needed a job. So I landed here."
"Sorry for your loss," Bobby replied. "So, is that why you're looking for a hunter?"
"I don't recall saying that."
"You didn't. There's only two reasons strangers come in here. They either want us to hunt something horrifying, or they are something horrifying that wants to hunt us.
Susan smiled a little. "I see. I show up unannounced with a funny accent and a taste for gin, and you think I'm a monster."
"Well," Bobby laughed, "they don't sell a lot of gin in here. Even with ice. Sorry about that, by the way. Here, give me your hand."
"What? I..."
"If I'm gonna help you, you need to know a few things." He picked a cube of ice from his glass. "And you can loosen your death grip on that gun, knife, whatever it is you're packin'. I ain't gonna bite you."
"Screwdriver." She smirked. She held out her hand.
Bobby dropped the ice into Susan's palm. "See what happened there?"
She shot him an impatient look. "Wow, a solid can turn into a liquid when heat is applied. Who knew? Can we get out of primary school and on to the point here?"
"The ice is made from holy water. If you were a demon, it would have burned you. Your spoon there? It's sterling silver. Shapeshifters, werewolves, things like that? They'd react to it. And salt...lots of things can't tolerate salt. Particularly ghosts." He picked up the salt shaker from the table and tipped a bit into her palm.
"Demons? Ghosts? That's what you're hunting? Those things aren't real...are they?"
"You're not a believer?"
"I'm a physicist."
"Really? Theoretical?"
"I suppose you'd call it 'educational.'"
"A professor, then."
"Not exactly. I edit physics textbooks for a publishing company. God, that sounds so dull."
Bobby chuckled. "Huh. And all this time I was thinking chemistry teacher."
Susan took a deep breath and finally relaxed a bit. "I deserved that," she smiled. "I've got 'hopeless nerd' written all over my face, haven't I?"
"Pretty much, yeah. But it's a nice face." And he meant it. While not beautiful in the conventional sense, she was really quite attractive. She had large, intelligent grey eyes, and regular features with a vaguely foreign cast. He couldn't put his finger on what made her so different. He only knew he liked whatever it was.
She blushed and took back her hand. "Awkward."
"Pretty much, yeah." Bobby raised his glass. "Cheers."