Must Love Charms: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel (Witching Hour Book 3) by Christine Zane Thomas

Author:Christine Zane Thomas [Thomas, Christine Zane]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2020-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

18

In Witch Potions are STILL the Worst

I woke up on Kalene’s couch with Trish hovering over me. There was concern etched on her face.

The sun had set. Kalene’s living room was lit by a single lamp beside a rocking chair across from the couch. She had no TV. A monstrous bookshelf took up most of the wall. It was filled with old paperbacks—mostly romance.

The couch was about as uncomfortable as couches get. The cushions were hard and the fabric dug into my skin even through my clothes.

I blinked, bleary-eyed. This wasn’t good.

“Ah! You’re awake.” Ivan flashed a smile and tapped Kalene on the shoulder. “It worked. I told you it’d work. How do you feel? Are you still cold?”

“No.” The opposite. Heat radiated through me. They’d covered me with an old afghan, and I unwrapped it, sitting up. I felt great. “What’d you do? What happened?”

“It’s more like what did you do?” Ivan retorted. “Lucky for us, Vertigo was able to decipher your mumbles—something about a spell you used at the League Den. Did you really relive the memory of the room?”

“I, uh… I guess so.”

“Constance, wow.” He shook his head disapprovingly but with a smile on his face. “That’s some advanced magic. I mean—maybe we could’ve done it together and eased some of the burden. But I wasn’t invited.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you didn’t invite me.”

“No, about the burden,” I said.

Trish rolled her eyes. “He means energy. Most of the magic we perform doesn’t cost a lot. It’s hardly worth mentioning. But some things, well, they take from you. And they leave you like this—or like you were when I rolled up here. These two should be glad I didn’t start throwing flame balls. I thought they’d hurt you. I called for reinforcements.”

“But this girl listens to reason. I like her.”

“You’re one of the few.” Trish brushed her purple streak out of her eyes.

“What’d you offer up?” Ivan asked me. “I’m guessing it was something worthwhile.”

“No.” I said, trying to remember how it had gone down. It struck me—my guilt. It wasn’t there anymore. It was no longer eating away inside me. “That’s not right.”

I tried to force my thoughts into negativity, self-loathing. I wanted to feel bad for what I did to Gran. Something inside me wasn’t allowing it.

“That’s weird,” I said. “How’d you fix me?”

“We made a potion,” Kalene said. “It was Trish’s idea but my mother’s handiwork. We had to force it down your throat.”

“It wasn’t pretty.” Ivan grimaced. “And there’s some left. You should probably finish it.”

On the end table, a pineapple-shaped glass taunted me. I took it and eyed the sip of brownish-orange sludge at the bottom. And just like that, the contents of my stomach offered to show themselves to the world.

Potions are the worst. It’s more than just taste. They taste of earth, like eating a scoop of someone’s backyard—dirt, grass, leaves, and everything else. But the other effects are equally as unnerving.

The contents hit my mouth, and it was a fight to get the sludge down my throat.

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