How Witch It Is: Wicked Witches of the Midwest Books 1-3 (Wicked Witches of the Midwest Box-Set) by Amanda M. Lee

Author:Amanda M. Lee
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: WinchesterShaw Publications
Published: 2015-03-09T23:00:00+00:00

Nineteen

Getting Thistle home without anyone in town seeing her – especially Marcus –proved to be more problematic than initially thought. At first, we had ushered her out the backdoor and piled her into the backseat of her car for the drive home. When the car wouldn’t start, though, things got more complicated.

“Aunt Tillie strikes again,” Thistle seethed.

“How can she break a car?” Clove looked dubious.

“It’s Aunt Tillie,” I pointed out.

“Good point.”

I left Thistle and Clove in the alley behind the store and ran to the newspaper parking lot to get my car. Unfortunately, I ran into Marcus during my mad dash to secure a vehicle that actually worked – hopefully.

“Hey, Bay,” he greeted me amiably.

“Marcus,” I said nervously.

“Do you know where Thistle is? I tried calling her, but she’s not answering her cell phone.”

“Um, did you check the store?”

“Of course.” Marcus was watching me curiously. He could tell I was freaked out – and out of breath from the sprint to The Whistler. Thistle had warned me, in no uncertain terms, that I wasn’t supposed to dillydally. I don’t know if it was the pox on her face, but I was more scared of her than usual.

“It’s locked up,” Marcus said.

“Did you try the inn?”

“Why would she go to the inn in the middle of the day? No one is sick, are they?”

Define sick. “I don’t know where she is,” I lied.

Marcus looked momentarily lost. I felt sorry for him – and considered telling him Thistle was fine, for the most part – but the mere thought of Thistle’s fury steadied me. This was her business, I reminded myself.

“If I see her, I’ll tell her you’re looking for her,” I said.

Marcus said his goodbyes and walked dejectedly back toward the stables, kicking a few errant rocks as he went. He had it bad for Thistle, I realized. I had no idea how she was going to explain her face to him, though. An allergic reaction? I’d used that excuse several times over the course of my life thanks to Aunt Tillie.

After loading Clove and Thistle in the car – with the latter crouching down in the backseat so no one could see her – I told my cousins what I had found out about Myron.

“No way,” Thistle said from the backseat. All I could see in the rearview mirror was a flash of purple hair from time to time.

“What does this mean?” Clove asked nervously.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Hopefully we’ll be able to call Myron tonight and get some answers.”

“That’s after we fix my face, right?” Thistle asked desperately.

“Of course,” I said. Hey, priorities people!

When we got back to the guesthouse, Clove busied herself grinding up herbs for a poultice while Thistle threw herself on the couch dramatically. “I’m blinded by rage, so I can’t tell if I’m overreacting, but I could kill her and get out of jail time because it’s justifiable homicide, right?”

“Totally,” I agreed.

It took Clove about an hour to finish her poultice. After she spooned

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