Page 56 of Strike It Witch

“You like her? She totally bugged you, and you didn’t know it. How could you be okay with that?”

He rolled to his feet and stuck his head inside the paper bag to look for more meat.

“You ass,” I said. “Youknewshe bugged you.”

“Meow.” He pulled his head out of the bag and sat up on the passenger seat.

“You were worried about me.” I couldn’t be too angry about it. Turned out, he was right to worry. “You know, those punk rats would never have gotten the drop on me if my magic was at full power.”

Fennel purred rapidly. Swished his tail.

“I like her, too. We can’t trust her, though. She’s part of the coven.”

“Meow.”

I finished my burrito in silence.

“We should stop by Ronan’s and see if he’s got any more of those polvorones.”

Fennel flicked his feline gaze to the panaderia across the street and meowed.

“Yeah, I know they have them, too, but the cookies Ronan buys are that delicious mixture of soft and crisp that I love.”

“Meowww.”

“Stop looking at me like that. There’s nothing between Ronan Pallás and me but a little harmless flirtation. Alpha Floyd would fall over dead if we ever dated—which, I admit, is a plus—but it wouldn’t work out.”

“Meow.”

“Because I’m not staying in town, Fennel. And I don’t think Ronan’s the kind of guy you just have a fling with and walk—you know what? Never mind. I can live without his polvorones.”

I ran my fingers over Fennel’s furry—bare—neck.

“Good job repurposing Bronwyn’s tracker and planting it on Kale. If either of those punks stand us up tonight, we’ll hunt them down Fennel-style.”

He reclined on his back, burped, and slapped me with his tail.

“No chance Bronwyn can use it anymore?”

“Me. Ow.”

“No offense meant. I know how strong your magic is.” I stroked the soft black fur on his hind feet. “Now that we’ve finished eating, there’s only one stop left.”

He slapped me with his tail again. Harder, this time.

“Don’t worry. I won’t let my guard down. Not around him.”

Chapter

Fifteen

Pallás Place was in a newly revitalized section of downtown La Paloma. The bar was on the same street as a fusion restaurant with sukiyaki tostadas and burrito-sized sushi rolls, a reservation-only movie theater with reclining chairs, and studio apartments with vaulted ceilings and triple the average rent.

Unlike Ronan’s Pub, which was on the older, less expensive side of town, the wolf alpha leader’s bar catered to the upwardly mobile paranormal, the sort of person who wouldn’t step foot in a corner pub unless some hipster suddenly declared it “retro-cool.”

It was a mystery to me how the place stayed in business. It wasn’t as if that was a huge demographic in the desert farming community that was Smokethorn County.

It was eleven, early for the lunch crowd. I tossed my black, cat’s eye sunglasses into the cupholder, snatched up my phone, and slung my bag over my shoulder. The blade was still in the side pocket.

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