Page 100 of Wicked Witch of the Wolf

“Who?”

“One of Lucifer’s favorites.” The square-toothed smile appeared again. “A politician.”

Chapter

Twenty-One

The ex-mayor of Smokethorn answered the door in a pair of black-and-white checked flannel pajamas trimmed with lace and a pair of fuzzy black slippers. Her hair was in rollers, she wore no makeup, and her bifocals were last in style somewhere around 1995.

“Witch Betty. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, in a tone that conveyed my appearance on her doorstep was anything but a pleasure.

“Where is he, Felicia?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

My face must’ve expressed my anger, because she took a step back. “Does Alpha Vincent—your alpha—know he’s here?”

“Know who’s here?”

“She asked, didn’t she?” I proceeded as if she’d told the truth. “Seems like you could get into big trouble for a lie like that.”

“Silencio, pendeja.” Felicia grabbed me by the front of my shirt and pulled me into the house. “Are youtryingto get him killed?”

She gave me a hard shove from behind, and I came to a haltbeside her living room coffee table. I recognized two people in the room, but everyone else was a stranger to me.

Calvin Holland and his girlfriend Jenny Perkins waved to me from the sofa.

“Finally,” Jenny said, “someone who can help.” She scowled at Felicia. “Nice to see you’re finally showing some sense.”

One of the men, a well-dressed twenty-something with military-short black hair, spoke up. “Mamá, he specifically said not to involve any witches.”

“I didn’t involve her, Mauricio,” Felicia said. “She involved herself.”

“Where is he?” I demanded.

Felicia shrugged and looked at the ceiling.

“Bring him to meright now,” I yelled, “or I am going to pitch a fit so big you’ll be able to see it fromgodsdamnspace!”

“Pitch afit? I’m hurt, bonita.” His voice was soft and deep, like a finger stroking up my spine. “Really thought you’d go with something more violent on my behalf.”

I spun around. “Ronan.”

“Hello, Betty.” He leaned against the wall in the hallway, ankles crossed. He’d lost weight, and there was something stiff in the way he stood there, like he wasn’t leaning against the wall for effect but because he needed the support.

The relief started in my heels and spiraled upward, spinning into my head, which went weightless. I broke out in goosebumps, my skin first heating then growing icy cold. My chest felt crushed by a sudden excess of gravity, and my lumbering breath broke free with a metallic rasp.

“I am going to murder you,” I said.

“There’s a lot of that going around,” he replied.

“Where the hell have you been? Your fingers look entirely too unbroken to not have texted me back. Or phoned or, I don’t know, sent afuckinghoming pigeon. How dare you. Howcouldyou?” My voice cracked. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

Hazel eyes, more green than brown at the moment, fixed on my face. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“You said you wanted to be the one I called when I was sick or sad or lonely,” I whispered.

“I do.” He reached for me, and I backed away.

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