Never Date A Warlock (Sister Witchcraft Book 4) by Winters J.D. & Kahn Dakota

Author:Winters, J.D. & Kahn, Dakota [Winters, J.D.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2017-04-20T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Sometimes, things happen so quickly your mind and heart and everything can’t quite react to them in the right way. When a grown man wearing silly clothing rushes into your kitchen and grabs two handfuls of cookie dough, right out of a mixer, there’s no internal programming for that. Grandma never told you what to do when he shoves those handfuls right in his mouth, gobbling them with grotesque, even obscene fascination.

What is even more alarming, though, is when a second man, dressed almost exactly the same, with the same haircut and make-up, charges into the kitchen after the first, and thrusts his own fists into the cookie dough. One and Two, I’d thought when I saw them, realizing just at that moment what I’d meant.

One was the weirdo who’d been sitting in my tea shop yesterday, waiting for Lucy to deliver a package that I now understood contained his desired, beloved cookies. Two was the guy I’d seen just this morning and mistaken, however briefly, for One.

When Three arrived, I wasn’t shocked anymore, just confused. Three was the girl who’d nearly knocked my head off just minutes ago. Much slighter than the other two (so skinny she could have passed for a boy were it not for a certain delicacy in her face and the size of those little hands she was using as cookie dough scoops) she fit right between them at the mixing bowl.

I was at a serious loss for what to do. What was the etiquette? If these were regular marauders, I could lay some magic whammy on the three of them without hesitating or feeling the least bit bad. But they were addle-pated by the cookie - in love with the dough that Lucy had inadvertently (I hoped inadvertently, for all our sakes) spiked with a love potion that made their baked confection compulsion completely conditioned. I couldn’t blame them for an instant.

Kashmir, not a human and not at all shackled by ethics or etiquette, just shrieked with a God-awful caterwaul and swiped a mighty claw at the nearest weirdo, Two. His claws connected and drew immediate blood. I expected a shriek and for the black-clad fellow to draw back, maybe even whimper. But besides a low, guttural grunt, he hardly seemed to react.

Then, after a second, he pivoted in his spot, and pulled something out of his coat.

“Here, Kitty, I’ve got my own claws,” he said, in a terrible rendition of a movie tough guy’s craggy drawl. He must had been in his 20s, even 30s, but his natural voice was practically prepubescent, and his attempt at sounding tough was like a little kid dropping his voice into an adult depth.

What was less child-like was the pistol sized crossbow he had pulled out from beneath his coat, cocked back and loaded with a nasty looking dart. The other two weirdos looked on with heavy-lidded approval. Lucy screamed at the top of her lungs.

I pulled the same trick I’d done on other people who

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