Zoe

TUMB 01/4

The best potions maker in Los Angeles. A young olive-skinned woman in a thin white silk robe. A sensual smile covered her face, and her long and wild dark hair hung to her waist.

Potted herbs and flowers covered almost every square inch of the living room, with only a few chairs and a faded brown loveseat breaking up the garden. Thick herbal smells clashed in his nostrils. The individual smells might have been tolerable—or even pleasant—but in combination they made James want to gag. The dining room also played host to a variety of plants, including several hanging from overhead hooks. Most looked normal enough, but several glowed. More than a few tendrils and leaves displayed bright geographical lines and other unexpected patterns. One had a raised ouroboros glowing on a leaf. James didn’t even want to know what sort of messed-up magical plant it was. He also doubted Zoe had all the necessary permits for growing non-Earth plants. A simple round wooden table in the center of the room, where several other stoppered glass bottles of different sizes and colors rested next to a mortar and pestle. Dozens of stoppered vials filled with different-colored fluids sat in a rack near the side of the table.

An alcoholic. "The cost of brewing my potions is that I have to make my own little sacrifice to the spirits...of spirits.” Her words were slurred, and her gray eyes were bloodshot. Her breath reeked of alcohol. It always did. When he tried to contact her, "half the time you’re drunk off your shit and babbling gibberish."

Always trying to get Brownstone to have sex with her (letting her bare leg slip out of her robe, ran a hand up her robe, lingering on her ample breasts). He never did. She was about as far from his type as he could imagine, and that was saying something considering he didn’t even know what “his type” was.

TUMB 01/7 Brownstone also calls her the "Lush Queen".