The Seven Year Witch: That Old Black Magic, Book 2 (13 page)

“Better?” she whispered.

“No,” he lied in hopes of keeping her there, touching him for eternity. A knowing smile curved her mouth, and she dropped her hand.

Just as he was about to curse his rotten luck, Constance tossed a bottle at him. He caught it and gave her a blank stare.

“Charmed massage oil. One of our best sellers.” Constance waggled her brows. A wicked chuckle escaping her, she darted her eyes in Clarissa’s direction. “I’m sure you can find a willing volunteer to give you a rubdown later.”

A lengthy look passed between the two witches, during which Clarissa’s body stiffened and Constance’s grin widened. Finally Clarissa broke the stare and muttered “
Shit
” before stalking off. He waited exactly ten heartbeats before following after her. She was pacing just beyond the threshold of the stockroom, her expression suggesting that she’d just discovered the world was ending tomorrow. Shoving her fingers through to the roots of her hair, she peered at him. “Constance knows you’re my wonder stud.” She returned his stare, her cheeks flushing. “Her words, not mine.”

Well damn
. Seems he needed to up his game. “Is it so horrible that she knows about us?”

Her gaze dropped, giving him all the answer he needed. A sharp pain stabbed him in the vicinity of his heart. “Are you fuckin’ ashamed of sleepin’ with me?”

She jerked her head up, her mouth falling open. “Good goddess, of course not. I—I just hate people knowing my personal business and speculating.”

“On what?”

She stared at the ground again and hugged her chest. He didn’t know what twisted his insides more. The shaky vulnerability in her voice, or the fact that she didn’t want anyone to know about their relationship. And goddamn it, it
was
a relationship. Corralling his frustration, he plunked the bottle of massage oil on top of the stack of boxes and crossed to Clarissa, taking her into his arms the way he’d been longing to do since stepping foot into the shop. “Whatever you’re scared of, Rissa, don’t be. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

Rather than the reassurance he’d hoped for, a shadow of gloom crept into her eyes, and she swallowed. Desperate to detour her from whatever dark path her mind was taking, he lowered his head and kissed her. A breathy sigh parted her lips, granting him the perfect opportunity to glide his tongue over hers. After the briefest hesitation, her hands smoothed upward across his torso before slipping behind his neck. He cradled her waist, holding her close against him. For several long, delicious moments, he explored her mouth, basking in the soft gasps she made. His hands trailed to her breasts and cupped them through the layers of her bra and knit top. “I’ve got to leave for work, but the entire duration of my shift I’m gonna be fantasizin’ about gettin’ these luscious babies slick with that massage oil so you and me can play some naked Twister.”

Her laugh didn’t quite defeat her groan. She tried to push away from him, but he tightened his grip, his mouth sliding toward the underside of her jaw. “I get off early tonight. Come by around eight.”

“Why? So you can get off again?”

“Yep. Don’t worry, you’ll be getting off also. Too many times to count.”

“Hm, in that case, maybe I better bring my calculator.”

He nibbled her earlobe. “Doubt it can add that high.”

“Nice to see you’ve finally gotten that ego under control.”

Her dry sarcasm was precisely the response he’d been hoping for. Whatever sadness that’d imprisoned Clarissa earlier had vanished. The world was right again.

“I’ll see you later.” He kissed her one last time before reluctantly releasing her from his grasp. “Skip wearing underwear, though. Saves time.”

One ginger eyebrow lifted. “Maybe I should ditch clothes all together.”

A hot lick of lust curled in his groin at the mental image that sprang to mind. “Even better.” Willing his hard-on to dissipate, he turned on his heel, swiped the bottle of massage oil and strode from the room.

Once in the main section of the store, he found himself the subject of Constance’s amused scrutiny. “Wow, your aura is practically blinding me.” While she made a mock show of shielding her eyes, Kegan grimaced in the direction of Logan’s fly. “For crying out loud, does that thing have a damn off switch?”

Deciding it was way past time for some payback for the wisecracks and almost getting squashed by a cabinet, Logan shot Kegan a wolfish grin. “Might want to shut up before I decide to tell Constance how you’re too chickenshit to ask her out.”

His face turning redder than an overcooked lobster, Kegan jerked his gaze to Constance, who was gaping at her familiar like he’d sprouted a foot from the center of his forehead. Snapping his focus back to Logan, Kegan mouthed the word
Motherfucker
and stormed outside. The front windows afforded a more than adequate view as the bear shifter climbed into the pickup and banged the door shut before cracking his knuckles and glaring at Logan.

Giving the dazed Constance a chipper smile, Logan strode toward the exit. And no doubt one hell of an ass beating.

But damn if it wasn’t worth it.

Chapter Twelve

Clarissa fully expected Constance to harass her about Logan at some point during the two hours they’d spent cataloging inventory together. The fact that her coven sister hadn’t brought him up at all left her a tad worried. And on guard. Knowing Constance, she was waiting for the most inconvenient moment to spring it on her. So she was more than relieved when the front door chimed and Fiona strolled inside, Jade trailing behind her with a sulky pout.

Jade gave an angry jerk to her backpack. “Just so you know, you’re the meanest sister on the planet.”

“Wrong. I came in second to Tula Jasper. She’s got the award sitting on her mantel if you don’t believe me.”

Her eyes hotter than lasers fueled by the wrath of a million petulant teenagers, Jade glared at Fiona’s back before flouncing in the direction of the kitchenette. Soon as Jade was out of earshot, Fiona flung out her arms. “So help me, if I possessed even a fraction of the melodramatic histrionics as Jade when I was her age, I owe Aunt Gert a whopper of an apology.”

The mention of Gertie automatically reminded Clarissa of the important discussion she needed to have with Fiona regarding the future of the coven. She felt kind of bad burdening Fiona with more problems when she obviously had enough on her plate with Jade’s current drama-queen enactment. Still, it had to be done. She eased her guilty conscience by promising herself to do whatever she could to help Fiona sort out the problem with Jade. Crossing to Fiona, she cocked her head toward the rear hallway. “I need to talk to you.”

Fiona nodded and followed Clarissa to the stockroom. Once inside, Clarissa shut the door and latched it. She caught Fiona’s bemused expression. “This way we’ll have privacy.”

Though most coven business wasn’t conducted behind closed doors, fortunately Fiona didn’t question the atypical shift in procedure. “I apologize for the outburst earlier. Jade’s pissed at me because I nixed her idea of partying in New Orleans this Samhain by herself.”

Clarissa wrinkled her nose. “Good goddess, what is she thinking? That’s the last thing a sixteen-year-old needs to be doing all on her own.”

“My words exactly. Only now she thinks that I’m the wickedest witch this side of the Mississippi.” Fiona tugged at one of her shoulder-length platinum-blonde locks. “Maybe I should die my hair black and spray paint my skin green to complete the transformation.”

Despite Fiona’s obvious frustration at dealing with Jade, a pang of envy still splintered through Clarissa. There were many times growing up when she’d wished for a sister. Someone other than an imaginary friend to share her private turmoil with. Someone to love her, and tell her she wasn’t merely the byproduct of an alcoholic binge and a busted condom. Tuning out the cruel, taunting voice inside her head, she focused on Fiona. “Do you want me to talk to Jade?”

“I doubt it’ll do any good. Best course of action is to let her marinate in her little pity fest for a while until she comes around or digs up another reason to detest the very sight of me. Whichever comes first.” Fiona’s lips curved up on one corner. “God deliver me from teenagers.”

The guilt started to gnaw at Clarissa again, making
her
feel like the wickedest witch of the east for the additional responsibility she was about to heap on Fiona. Tempted to conjure an aspirin—or a bottle of strong liquor—she rubbed her temple.

“Hey, you all right?”

She met Fiona’s concerned gaze.
I have no choice
. The coven couldn’t survive without a mistress. Still, she was reluctant to just blurt out the request. “Do you ever regret not throwing your hat into the ring when Gert announced her retirement?”

Fiona’s forehead scrunched, indicating her bafflement at the question. “No. I wasn’t cut out for it back then. Besides, it was more than obvious you were the better choice. Gert understood that, and I happily agreed.”

Crap, this was going nothing like she’d rehearsed it in her head. “Hypothetically speaking, you’d be willing to take over as mistress if anything happened to me, right?” She stared Fiona down, praying she hadn’t sounded as desperate as she felt.

“Well, yeah, I guess.” Fiona’s already fair complexion paled significantly. “You’re not about to tell me you’ve been diagnosed with an incurable disease, are you?”

“Uh…no.”

The breath Fiona had apparently been holding escaped in a gust, and Clarissa rushed to drive home her point before Fiona became too complacent with the idea of Clarissa’s presumed longevity. “But that doesn’t mean a freak accident couldn’t happen.”

“What, like a random piano falling on you from a second-story window?” Fiona made a scoffing noise. “I don’t think there’s any cause to worry about this.”

“Yes, there is.” She practically shouted the rebuttal, her heart pounding under the stress of getting Fiona to take the conversation seriously. “We need to devise an emergency plan to safeguard the coven. For goddess’s sake, even the President of the United States has a backup in case he’s unable to do his job.”

Fiona frowned at her. “Is that your way of suggesting you want me to be your acting vice-president?”

It wasn’t exactly what she’d been getting at, but it was better than spending the next hour trying to get Fiona to see reason. “Yes.”

“Do I get a bigger bedroom?”

“Err…sure.”

Fiona broke into a smile and held out her hand. “Then I accept the position, madam president.”

Okay, clearly she should have considered the bigger-bedroom angle sooner. Relief flooding her, she sealed the agreement with a shake.

“Are we all done here? Because I need to go see if Jade has resorted to fashioning a voodoo doll of me from paper towels and toothpicks yet.”

Nodding, Clarissa stepped back while Fiona sprang the door lock. A second later, she found herself alone in the room. Despite having one less heavy stone of responsibility tied to her, she still felt uneasy, as if she were walking around in a gray haze while her life hurtled toward an inescapable end.

She’d made a lot of stupid choices in the past. The biggest one of all was directly responsible for the current mess she was in. But she couldn’t regret her decision to offer her soul as collateral for her father’s. Not after the part she’d played in contributing to his downfall.

Another weighty stone—this one of shame—fell into place as she recalled the spiral of intoxication and madness he’d been swept into during that horrible period of time. It’d been the worst she’d ever seen him. Far more frightening and devastating than the countless occurrences when he and her mother tumbled into their week-long benders in their constant, toxic quest for self-destruction.

If there was any blessing to the Alzheimer’s that’d become the state of his existence, it was having that particularly dark month wiped clean from the slate of his memory. He was a changed man. A new one, in many ways. She would gladly barter her soul a million times over to keep him safe. Not just from Seven, but from himself.

The reminder of Seven instantly brought her mind around to the book she’d brought in with her earlier. Even though she’d desperately wanted to crack it open and start investigating, she’d left it untouched on the receiving desk, figuring she’d have to wait until later. But now that Fiona and Jade were here, she didn’t feel too guilty abandoning Constance for a few minutes longer.

She retraced her steps to the table set up for logging and packaging shipments and pulled the book from its bag. Planting her rump on the edge of the table, she flipped past the acknowledgments page and the author’s introduction until she came to the first chapter. Scanning the opening paragraph, she immediately deduced that the shopkeeper hadn’t been exaggerating. This book definitely wasn’t a light read. Turning back several pages, she came to the forward, which gave a breakdown to the major components of
The Divine Comedy
. A few paragraphs down, she came to an entry that made her pulse speed up and jolted a spark of shock through her system.

The seven deadly sins.

Seven.

Holy. Shit.

Champions was unusually packed for a Tuesday night. Judging from the sheer number of shifters—most of them retired familiars on a sabbatical from Familia Tacchi ’Loa—Logan figured Champions’ bulging-at-the-seams attendance was due to Griffin and Jemma’s upcoming nuptials. If there was one thing that brought familiars out of the woodwork, it was a party and the promise of free booze.

His suspicions became confirmed when, twenty minutes later, Griffin and his bride-to-be walked into the restaurant, and raucous cheering erupted from half the patrons. Not surprising. Hell, the loving couple had practically been sainted by the familiar community for the role they’d played in getting the no-sex-with-your-witches ban lifted. Thanks to Catman and Jemma, these sorry motherfuckers were probably getting laid left and right. Himself included. And damn if that didn’t make him the happiest wolf on the planet.

With that in mind, he grabbed a wineglass and a bottle of the best Shiraz they had. For whatever freaky-ass reason, Griffin despised beer and preferred the grape instead. After dispensing the wine, he gathered the ingredients to make Jemma a nonalcoholic daiquiri. By the time he’d finished blending the drink, the lovebirds had worked their way through the majority of well-wishers and finally reached the bar.