There was no such thing as an unprofitable disaster.
The local flooding may have ruined basements and holidays plans for some, it made fertile chances for others. Provided, of course, those others knew how to recognize the said chances. Luckily, when it came to having opportunistic vision, Gretel was a prize winning 20/20.
Whistling, the witch tromped out to the water with a light heart and good boots.
It would've been better, she knew, to set up a real weir to see what the local water could yield. Gretel wasn't out to bag a mermaid but...well, where there are big fish there are little fish. Considering the chaotic stew of supernatural breeds stewing in Scarlet Oaks, it was damn ignorant to think there wouldn't some promising minor specimens in the wings. Gretel could do a lot with the right sort of small fry.
The floating trap Gretel had set up was full of clever tricks rather than reliable power. There wasn't a lot she could do about that. It took a week to cook the necessary resin for the netting and that atop of having to carefully, oh so carefully, knit the necessary charms into the tracery. Not to mention that working in water was always a patent annoyance; its conducting properties were equal to its eroding nature. She'd wasted three pots finding the right mixture--and then had to talk her way out of the repercussions each time.
Nobody appreciated the hardship of making good gum nowadays.
Even if it did smell like a chum bucket.
The buttons on her messenger bag jingled merrily as it bumped against her hip. Inside, packed and wrapped with meticulous care of an anthropologist (or a serial killer), was the day's agenda: baggies, a mini-Thermos, gloves ("work" and surgical), two knives, a very modest syringe kit, potion vials, iPod, and thread for any necessary net repairs.
And, of course, lunch.
She was halfway through uncapping her bottle of Sunny D (which had been briskly emptied of the vile substance and replaced with a punch of oranges, elderflower and soda water), when the yarn bracelet on her wrist tightened. Gretel paused and swallowed, bringing up her hand to inspect the knitted band.
Apparently she was A, close enough to the trap for the resonance to kick in and B...something had taken the bait. Capping the bottle, the witch took a half-jog to the water. She was suddenly in a very good mood.
"I love the fishes 'cause they're so delicious. Gotta go fishin'," she hummed. It was cheery and possibly disturbing. The tether of the trap line was poking up ahead. "I could eat them every day and my mom say that's--what the bloody hell."