by Heather Long
“Aye, lassie,” Angus said as he joined us. At least Rika had convinced him that wearing a shirt was less distracting for the other women in town. The man might be a highlander, but he had the lush, bronzed and buff torso of a romance novel hero. Sliding an arm around Rika, he pulled her to him as he completed our weird little quartet. “We’ve definitely a problem.” The thickness of his accent eased in the weeks since he’d been freed from the book.
Which was awesome, because Rika might be in love with the mouth full of marbles, but I was much fonder of understanding more than every fourth word.
“Maybe we should take this discussion elsewhere.” Martin stood and tugged me to my feet. “They’ve got a lot of questions and minor hysteria going on here. The less distracting we are, the better.”
In other words, if today’s events drew the attention of the Baba Yaga, well…yeah, that wouldn’t be a fun conversation. I made it a point to not encourage non-fun conversations with witches who had the power to take my head off without chipping a fingernail.
We prepared to adjourn from the gathering just as a shirtless man in dark gray sweats stumbled out of the forest accompanied by a red panda. Angry red welts marred his skin, and his eyes were wild and a little bit angry. Kind of like the red panda’s.
Neither belonged here. They were earning a fair amount of attention from the populace.
“Not our problem,” Martin whispered against my ear. Truer words had never been spoken because not only was the man a train wreck walking, he possessed an aura of power. Never a good thing. Nope.
Reaching for Rika’s hand, I let her weave the snap of spell which carried us back to our place—our hidden little getaway in the woods, near enough to town to walk, far enough to avoid the madness.
I didn’t have to look far to find the source of all ills. A green haired witch with two different colored eyes and a full set of pouty lips sat on my front porch.
Seriously, whose Wheaties had I peed in, in a former life?
Georgiana
THE SCRATCH of the nail file worked to shape what had been square tips into rounded. She managed to blow all the paint off her nails with that last trick. Which was good, now she could give them a shiny, buff job. She’d just reached her pinky nail when a splash of light dazzled her eyes. When the glare cleared, she found Bridget returned along with the group she’d begun to think of as Bridget’s posse.
Her handsome man was Martin. Too academic by Gigi’s standards. Rika was the impudent witch who’d stolen the man Gigi had spent over a century trying to coax out of the novel. Then there was hunky Angus himself, with his waterfall of perfect hair, chiseled jaw, and mouthwatering chest muscles. The man wore a kilt like he meant it.
Rika made a low sound of disgust. “You.”
“Rika,” Bridget interceded, stepping between them. The witch singer wore the most spectacular dress. “She’s a guest, remember?”
“Not a welcome one.” Though Rika sounded more irritated than hostile.
“Angus, why don’t you and I go get some food on the grill and leave the ladies to chat?”
“I should stay and protect them from the witch.” The Scots’ brogue rolled off his tongue, thick and lyrical.
Clearing her throat, Rika gave her highlander an adoring look. “We’re all witches, beloved.”
“True, but you are a good witch.” Angus deposited a kiss on the other woman’s upturned face.
Acid curled through Gigi’s gut. The lusty man was supposed to have been hers…she’d even cast the spell to leave him in the pages of a book until he’d work out his wild oats. Only, it hadn’t worked out for her. The book went missing, Rika uncorked the spell, and now she had Angus and Gigi had…
Wiping her hands together, Bridget let the others sort themselves out as she made her way to where Gigi sat on the porch swing. The house spells wouldn’t let her in the cottage, but she’d gotten used to the tingle of their zapping her where she sat. It was kind of like a massage.
“Good morning, Georgiana.” Bridget was always so nice, even cheerful when she spoke to Gigi. She didn’t carry an ounce of rancor or disdain, unlike Rika. Nor fear like Angus. Or even impatience, which echoed clearly in Martin’s tone. No one else in town seemed interested in talking to her, which left her with Bridget.
Maybe they could be best friends. “I don’t think it’s such a good morning.” It had started out pretty well. She’d managed to sneak into the bridal cottage before the bride arrived. The witch in question, however, with her foofy rainbow hair, had proven a lot tougher than she’d expected.
Collapsing the cottage hadn’t been on the agenda. Not exactly.
“No?” Bridget leaned against the railing rather than joining her on the swing. Gigi tried not to let her hurt her feelings. Of course, Bridget was wearing a fancy dress so maybe she didn’t want to get it dirty. Clinging to that reasonable conclusion, she resumed filing her nails. There were a few scorch marks around the edges. She’d need a serious manicure to clean up the damage.
“No,” she said, after Martin and Angus disappeared into the house. Gigi half-expected Rika to follow them, but she paused on the steps, leaning against one of the roof posts instead. The lack of emotion in her expression warned she wasn’t on Gigi’s side.
Not a surprise.
“What’s wrong?” Caring coiled in Bridget’s words, beckoning Gigi to confide in her. She’d been like that since Gigi’s first appearance, even taken her out for coffee a couple of times. She never invited Gigi into her home though, but Gigi could forgive the oversight.
Rika still lived with her and Bridget was loyal. She probably didn’t want to upset her housemate in favor of the witch who could be her bestest friend. Chick should realize she can’t have the hot guy and the best witch friend at the same time. No need to be greedy.
Blowing out a breath, Gigi curled her fingers into her palms. “I took your advice and I’m working on my own happiness.”
“That’s fantastic,” Bridget said with a smile, and leaned forward. They’d discussed this both times they’d had coffee. Bridget had a theory that the only happiness a person could possess was the one they made.
Flushing, Gigi sat up straighter. “Oh, I am so glad you agree. The bride this morning was difficult, but I managed to scoop her up like the last two.”
There was a distinctive pause. “Come again?” Bridget’s lashes fluttered rapidly.
“The brides. If I can’t get married, no one is getting married. You said make my happiness, so I am. I witched away those brides and they’ll stay gone until I find my guy…” Determination filled her, but she hesitated. “I’m still not sure how to find my guy, but you were right. I’m the only one who can make it happen.”
Unfortunately, Bridget’s smile faded. Worse, a tight grouping lines appeared between her eyebrows and her lips pursed.
She didn’t look as pleased for her.
“That’s what you meant, right?” Gigi bit the inside of her lip. If she’d made Bridget cross with her, it was going to make asking her if she wanted to go get a mani/pedi uncomfortable.
CHAPTER THREE
Bridget
THE POUNDING in my skull was a dozen little chipmunks playing with maracas. The chipmunks were Rika’s familiars, a wild, unruly lot raced through the house like they were wild cats. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I concentrated on swallowing the first words which led to mind.
Screaming “Are you insane?” at the top of my lungs wouldn’t accomplish much—or maybe it would turn Gigi into a pile of nuts if I hit the right note. Pausing, I peered at her. Would it be so bad to turn the green-haired bag full of cats into a pile of nuts? I could make them fancy nuts—some salted and some candied—the perfect dish.
Hope bloomed in Georgiana’s worried expression, but it wasn’t her face I focused on. It was the stern, yet sympathetic look Martin focused on her via the living room window. He raked his fingers through his mullet, and left my hands itchy with the desire to fist his hair while he
took me to bed.
Yep, I’d so much rather be doing him than dealing with Georgiana. For her part, Rika had gone stock-still. Her mouth moved, but no words came out. So maybe her control wasn’t as good as mine. My jaw was rigid.
Okay. Not helping, Bridget. I pinched the bridge of my nose until tears sparked in my eyes and said in as calm a voice as I could manage, “You made the brides disappear?”
Maybe I’d heard her wrong.
“Yep.” Georgiana’s smile blossomed once more.
Son of a witch cracker’s balls… She might blast her after all. Not that blasting her would bring the brides back or solve Bridget’s other issues, but it would sure as hell do something about the seething boil of frustration in her gut. “Just to make sure I understood your reasoning—you kidnapped the brides because you want to be a bride?” Because kidnapping brides was not the first thing that I would put on my to do if I wanted to get married.
“I did.” Another fervent nod, and she scooted forward on the swing. She’d traded her long dress for a pair of furry boots, skintight leggings, and an oversized shirt with a fancy belt. A challenging fusion of fashion, particularly when you took in her pig-tailed hair.
It was right about then, that I noticed the missing bits at the ends of her hair. She’d done more than scorch her fingertips; she’d lost some hair to her little escapade.
Good.
She could lose a whole lot more.
Rika still hadn’t moved or said anything—traitor. My beloved Martin continued to watch over us, but he was also not interfering.
Had someone stamped a sign on my back that said kick me, I like it, or something?
Clenching my hands together, I concentrated on my breathing. A gifted singer had powerful breath control. I needed every ounce of it here. “Are you in love with one of the grooms?” It was a stretch, but she was knocking off brides like they were targets in a shooting gallery.
“Oh, blegh. No.” Georgiana’s pixie face crumbled in distaste. “Not even a little bit. Besides, I’d be really worried that this morning’s creature feature had fleas…no, I just want my own wedding. Rika took the man I’d set my cap out for and I’ve accepted it—graciously I might add.”
Graciously? Dumbfounded, I couldn’t say a word.
“So I think it’s only fair that the next wedding we celebrate be mine. I want you to be my maid of honor. You can be there for me and after. I could be there for you—I’d even be willing to do a joint wedding, you and me. Not Rika.” The deliberateness of the last line earned a snort from Rika. When I glanced at my so-called best friend, I found her struggling not to laugh.
This was so beyond not funny.
I’d rather be sprayed by a skunk. You know, I’ve been sprayed by a skunk twice and it was a lot more pleasant than this. I went back to pinching the bridge of my nose. It seemed the safer response.
“Do you have a groom in mind?” I didn’t look at her. I wasn’t really sure I could school my features. Georgiana was an enormously powerful witch. She couldn’t get through my wards—that much I knew—but she was also capable of some really big booms and cataclysm like fallout.
Cottage turned to matchsticks type fallout.
“No. That’s where you come in.” The perfect amount of straight face delivery coupled with her clap of hands sent a jolt up my spine, detonating somewhere behind my eyes because, I swear to the goddess of all, I felt mushroom clouds go up in my vision and haze everything over.
“Drinks!” Martin announced as the screen door slammed behind him. “Angus is setting up food on the picnic table out back. Why don’t you go out and join him, Rika? And Georgiana? Just follow Rika.”
I didn’t look up, I just wanted to set her on fire. No nuts. Just pure flame. Burn, baby, burn. Hell, I could hear every note to Disco Inferno in the back of my mind and it wouldn’t take much to…
“Here you go babe,” Martin murmured, his soothing voice quenching the fiery tempest of my anger. He wrapped my hand around a cold glass, and I drained the contents in one gulp. Sweet wine.
Too sweet.
“Give me another.”
The sugar would definitely help.
“You might want to keep your wits about you,” he suggested, until I glared at him. Then he just handed me the bottle, after removing the cork.
I drank about a third of it, before I took a breath and sagged against him. “Did you hear her?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, patting my arm. “That’s why I thought it best to separate the two of you until you got it under control.”
“How the hell am I ever going to get her under control?” Not to mention, why was she my problem? I could make a huge argument about not fair, and crazy witches, and an already top-heavy list of big ticket items weighing me down, but I didn’t. Martin espoused the lovely adage of one didn’t get presented with a challenge unless one was up to it.
In this moment, however, I refused to be the one. Just hell to the no. I didn’t want to be a whiner, but I didn’t want this responsibility. “Martin, I just want to sing at my weddings, get the answer from the Baba Yaga, get Mr. Nasty-Face off my back and then run away with you.”
“Well, I’m glad I made the list.” The indulgence in his tone neutered any possible sting. Then he brushed his lips to my forehead. “So, think about this way…what would Nanny do?”
Goddess love him. He had a point. Still chewing on that thought, I wasn’t ready for a newcomer to charge up the steps to our porch—not to mention it being the half-naked newcomer who’d stalked into the wedding clearing, his red welted chest starting to blister in a few places.
With furious eyes, he glared at both of us and Martin straightened. My beautiful man was more thinker than brawler, but I could almost feel the magic rippling over him.
“Where is the witchnapper?”
Oh, that couldn’t end well.
Then it hit me.
Maybe it could.
Kirk
THE WAY the purple haired witch narrowed her eyes at him gave Kirk pause. He’d charged over to the witch singer’s house because the insanity at the wedding grotto had given him an altogether unpleasant headache all the yelling, growling, and weeping had bestowed upon him. His feet hurt after tromping through the wilds. He’d run into another cluster of bushes, and now had an unbearable itch crawling along his arms.
So, he probably could have been more polite to the two occupants all snuggled up with their bottle of wine, but he just wanted to bag the bridenapper, get his debts paid off, and leave before he caught something permanent. Yet, the moment he snapped at her, she went from a look of cool fury to utter speculation.
Dread coiled in his stomach. Witch singers weren’t bad witches right? Not that he could recall.
“Hey,” the trash panda announced from his feet. “You should start by introducing yourself, bub.”
“Oooh,” the witch singer let out a soft exhale of wonder, and went to her knees. “Hello there, you beautiful thing.”
The red furred little bugger puffed up and all but strutted over to her. “Hello, pretty lady. Forgive my brutish companion, he fell into a mulberry bush then crashed through a poison sumac patch. He’s in a very bad mood.”
“Is he?” The witch singer didn’t even look in Kirk’s direction. Instead she opened her arms and the trash panda hurtled into them and snuggled her. The man who’d been standing next to her watched the whole exchange with a bemused smile. The red furred head rubbed against the witch singer’s chin, a distinctive cuddle, and then she rose pressing a tiny kiss to the creature’s head.
Sure. The rodent got a friendly greeting. The longer he stood there, the more Kirk had a chance to admire the stunning red dress the singer wore, and the way it made her skin glow and emphasized her…zap! Pain shocked him back a step and he jerked his gaze to the mild-mannered man still standing near her whose gaze now focused on him.
The faint tilt to the corner of his mouth told Kirk all he needed to know. Nodding once to the other wa
rlock—because he definitely had the power to be a warlock—Kirk folded his arms. The urge to scratch was driving him crazy. They shared a long moment of masculine understanding. The witch singer belonged to the man with the white stripe in his hair, and he’d defend what was his.
“Look, Martin. Isn’t Firefox adorable?” The singer was still cooing at the trash panda and it was all besotted with her, too. Sparkles filled the air, and he could almost hear the ringing of the bells. The little rodent was her familiar. Well, it could have said something when he fell on it.
“He’s perfect for you, lover.” The man settled a possessive hand on her hip and drew her and her newly accessorized trash panda to him. The critter wrapped around her shoulders like a fur stole and it matched her dress. Even her purple hair began to change colors until it fell in an ombre wave that ended red as the raccoon’s fur.
“Congratulations,” Kirk announced, determined to play the cards he’d been dealt. He summoned a bottle of champagne and held it out. “Allow me to present you with this token upon discovering your true familiar. A day worth remembering.”
“Uh huh,” Martin grunted as he accepted the bottle. “Now, introduce yourself and maybe summon a shirt since you’re half naked and not even an appealing naked at that.”
The witch singer giggled, and it held all those wonderful notes of a perfect concerto. For a moment, Kirk completely forgot why he was there. Even the air around her seemed to shimmer.
“Bridget, darling,” Martin murmured. “Why don’t you take Firefox in and get him comfortable while I take care of our guest?”
The witch spun and gave Martin a kiss that had Kirk’s ears turning red before she whispered something against the other man’s lips and vanished. The moment she disappeared, Kirk remembered how to breathe then took a step back.
Raking a hand through his hair, he stared at the other warlock. “Holy hell.”
“And all mine,” Martin reminded him, even as a little fireball began to dance on his fingertips.
“No problem. I’m not even going to look next time, I swear.” He was a gambler, not stupid. Remembering the warlock’s earlier request, Kirk mumbled a quick summoning spell and held out his hand. A clean t-shirt landed in his palm and he quickly tugged it on. The cotton was like blades sinking into his skin after his tumbles through the woods, but he’d live.
