No Crones About It (A Spell's Angels Cozy Mystery Book 2) by Amanda M. Lee

Author:Amanda M. Lee [Lee, Amanda M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: WinchesterShaw Publications
Published: 2019-09-02T16:00:00+00:00

GUNNER DIDN’T SHOW UP AT the clearing, for which I was profoundly grateful. I heard Rooster talking to him on the phone for a long time. Somehow, I managed to find my footing and flee during the conversation. I was so wobbly I had to pull over twice to be sick on my way back to the cabin.

By the time I reached my driveway, I was a shaking mess. Gunner waited on the porch, his arms folded over his chest. He looked frustrated. I couldn’t blame him.

“Don’t yell at me,” I rasped, pressing my hand to my stomach. “I don’t feel well and I can’t deal with anything extra tonight. I just ... I’m sick.”

Worry clouded his features. “I heard.” He descended the stairs, being careful to make no sudden movements. When he was within two feet of me, he stooped to give me a once-over. He shook his head and made a tsking sound. “Why didn’t you call me when you decided to go out there? I would’ve gone with you.”

“And what do you think you could’ve done to change things?”

“I don’t know.” His expression was bland, but I could feel the turmoil roiling beneath the surface. “You’re not alone, no matter what you think. At the very least I could’ve been there when you went under.”

I eyed him a moment, conflicted. “How much do you know?”

“I know what Rooster told me. He seemed a little confused. I filled in a few holes myself. As far as I can tell, you dropped to the spirit world to question Fred. I should’ve thought of that myself, but … hindsight, you know. Somehow you were blasted out by someone else in the spirit world and you’re sick from the magic. Do I have the gist of it?”

I nodded, morose. “I feel horrible.”

“You look horrible.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s an odd way to kick me when I’m down.”

Despite the serious situation, a small smile played at the corners of his mouth. “How should I handle the situation?”

“I don’t know.” Frustration bubbled up. “You could coddle me or something. I feel empty and I need to sleep. I don’t want to be yelled at.”

He cocked a dubious eyebrow. “You want to be coddled? Why do I think that’s a load of hogwash? You never want to be coddled. You hate it.”

“Yeah, but ... .”

He waited, refusing to pressure me. The fact that he was giving me what he thought I needed above all else was enough to cause me to break.

I burst into tears. I wasn’t sure where they came from. I wasn’t much of a crier. I learned early on that crying in front of the other foster kids — many of whom were looking for ways to take advantage of the system — was a surefire way to get beat up. Strength was the only thing respected by the other kids, so I always made sure to swallow my tears. As I aged, that tendency never went away.

It wasn’t that I was soulless.

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