Page 5 of Warlocks Don't Win
He grunted as it hit his shoulder then grabbed my wrist, yanking me to a stop after I dragged him a foot or so. I swung around and directed my fist at his face, but he dodged it easily and grabbed my other wrist so we were face to face. Of note, he wore thick gloves that would make draining him impossible unless he kissed me again. By the way he was looking at me, narrowed eyes, suspiciously flared nostrils, that wasn’t going to happen. Good. Except that I’d like to drain the life out of him permanently this time. No other reason I’d want to kiss him. Obviously.
“What do you want to do about this situation?” he rumbled, brows furrowed while he stared at me, close enough I could smell his heady aftershave and see the caramel streaks in his eyes.
“Evaporate it,” I said shortly. I was breathing hard, from my fight with Parody, not from being close to him. Except that I was supposed to be struggling. Right. When I tried to kick him, he pulled me tighter against his incredibly muscular chest.
He rumbled, “There’s one dead body. What do you usually do in cases like this?”
I scowled at him. “There is no usual in cases like this.”
He gave me a flat look. “Singsong City, a place where evil is encouraged to thrive, hasn’t had an outbreak of witch violence, warlock madness, or anything else that would have gotten my attention in a decade. You’ve been handling things on your own.”
“You have a wild imagination.”
His lips thinned. “No, I’m actually quite unimaginative, which is why when I saw you standing above your mother with her murder weapon, covered in her blood, I jumped to the obvious conclusion instead of something more fantastical, like that you were innocent. I like facts. Figures. And I want all of yours.” His eyes heated while his words caressed.
I stared at him, shocked still, suddenly hyper aware of the way I was pressed against him. What? Was he deranged? Did I take his memory with his magic the last time he’d kissed me?
He released me and took two large steps away, crossed his arms, and cocked his head, leaving me suddenly cold, alone, empty of all happiness. Ah heart, so tenaciously stupid.
He spoke factually. “I’m here to help you. I saw the entire thing. She attacked you while covered in her mother’s blood.”
I sputtered, trying to work up to denial, but he continued.
“If I were the one dealing with these inner coven matters, I’d be certain all the unpleasant details were omitted to public record. I would remake the scene to fit a heart attack, and send the young girl to a camp which is a bit prison, but mostly therapy. You didn’t kill her, even though that’s the usual dispensation of justice to murderers. So, what can I help you with?”
I pointed at the door. “Bye.”
He shook his head and deepened his stance, like I could move his massive bones if he didn’t put effort into it. “I’m here to help.”
I snorted. “Liar. You’re here to manipulate me and my coven into joining your exclusive witch club. It’s not going to happen.”
He frowned, eyes softening, mouth pursing, suddenly vulnerable. “I want to help you so that you’ll help me.”
I started laughing. I laughed and laughed until I was wheezing, tears coming out of my eyes while my whole body shook with this horrible squeezing hilarity. Winston the Warlock wanted my help? And he thought I’d give it to him? I wasn’t sure which was more ludicrous. It took me a long time for my laughter to subside until I could stand straight and then it was gone, all humor drained along with my energy. Just looking at him was exhausting.
His softness had vanished, but the frown was stubborn. “I’m serious. I want your help to break a curse.”
“I don’t specialize in curses.”
“But you do own Sage Manor, and that’s where the curse originated from.”
I blinked at him. “What?” I seemed to say that a lot today. While staring at Winston the Warlock.
He ran a large, powerful hand through his delicious locks, frustrated. “My grandmother is dying from a curse that originated from your house. I need your help to break it.”
I sputtered at him, at a complete loss for words. His grandmother was the only person who had written to me while I’d been in jail. Once a month, without fail, she sent cheerful words along with a small token of life and happiness, a pressed flower, a cutting of mint, something that changed with the seasons and kept me connected to life. For five years.
“You’re lying.”
He gave me the slightest smile, and we both knew I was hooked. He’d caught me, both with this situation that could be easily spun into a double murder with me as murderer if he hadno scruples, which he didn’t, and the emotional attachment I had to the one living person I felt a debt towards.
I crossed my arms and looked down my nose at him. I mean, He was at least a head taller than me, so not like it was very effective. Still, it left me feeling psychologically in control in a completely out-of-control situation. Like my hair.
“First, you have to say, ‘I Winston Warlock, am a loser.’”
He smiled, flashing both dimples. “Hearing you say my name makes me feel like a winner, but you’re right. I lost everything when I lost you. I, Winston Warlock, am a true loser.”
His words made my skin prickle in the most irritating way. I sniffed. “Surprised you don’t collapse beneath the weight of so much crap. Also, ew. Don’t practice your flirting with me. It’s creepy. Now it’s time to dissolve the body and brainwash a witch. That is your specialty.”
