Page 37 of The Witch is Back

“Is there a problem here?”

For the second time in five minutes, Emma jolted at the sound of Bastian’s voice. Her hand slipped across the bar and knocked the guy’s wineglass. It wobbled, splashing some of the contents onto his shirt.

Great.

The guy looked at his shirt and then at her, his eyes wide. “That’s Hugo Boss, you damn idiot!”

“Hey,” Bastian warned.

Emma’s heart drummed harder as she gripped her hands together. “I’m so sorry.” The guy’s expression was utter fury as he dabbed at the blotch with his fingers, only succeeding in rubbing it in. The stain was eating the fabric like Ms. Pac-Man. Emma winced. As a result, her voice was timid when she added, “We’ll pay for the—the dry cleaning bill, sir. And next round’s on the house.”

“What? Speak up, for God’s sake.”

Bastian tensed. “You want to find a better tone.”

Emma’s throat squeezed but she took another breath. “I said,” she tried, that breath constricting in her chest. Her toes curled in her shoes as she willed herself louder. “You’ll get free drinks for the hassle and we’ll pay the dry cleaning bill. I... We...” She faltered as his sneer widened. “So...rry.”

“You will be.” The guy jabbed a finger at her.

The only warning was—well, there was no warning. The next thing she knew, Bastian had the guy’s shirt in his grip, pulling him across the bar and succeeding in getting not only more red wine but scotch and whatever else stained the surface across the fabric.

Oh, good Goddess. Emma gaped, mind racing. Should she conjure a hose? A horn? A wrestling commentator?

Bastian jerked the guy’s head up to his. His eyes were a dangerous blue. “I’m sorry,” he said evenly. “You were too far away. What did you say?”

Presumably not used to being jerked around like a ragdoll—compliments of Bastian’s added strength via telekinesis—the guy’s mouth flapped like laundry hung on a line in a stiff wind.

Emma looked to Leah in disbelief. Pointed.

Leah toasted her with a drink.

“I suggest,” Bastian said, still in that chilling, even tone, “you apologize and leave the bar now.” He released his hold, his magic shoving the guy back across the counter to flounder on the other side.

The man stared at both of them, then at the audience they’d attracted. His cheeks went a muddy red before he smoothed a trembling hand down his stained shirt. “Trust me,” he said, his voice echoing his hand, “I am never coming here again. You’re insane. I could sue.”

Bastian didn’t blink, didn’t smile, didn’t nod or tip his head or do anything but resemble a scary-as-hell statue. The old Bastian would have winked and charmed his way out of it. This was not the boy she’d once known.

Emma watched the man stride off to where his date stood, aware of a dizzy kind of rage blooming inside her. “What did you do?” she managed.

Leah sidled over with a calm, confident expression. “Excellent dinner theater, guys, but don’t you think you should...ah, smooth things out? A bit more?” She smiled blandly, as if she hadn’t just reminded Emma to work some magic, and headed for a towel to mop up the spill.

Right. Emma closed her eyes and reached for some kind of calm. Pushing away the buzz of scandalized customers, she started an incantation for blurred memories. She was almost at the end when she heard Bastian join in, his hand sliding into hers.

Her instinctive reaction was to pull away but she withstood it. He did have a better grasp on mind magic than her. Anyone did. Tia was the one who—in those rare instances they’d needed a blurred memory spell—usually painted memories a soft watercolor. With Bastian at the helm, the witnesses and the man himself would remember that there had been some excitement, but nothing too bad or eye-opening.

Leah pretended to be absorbed in the spot she was cleaning, just as if she didn’t have a keen knowledge of witchcraft and was merely a harmless, oblivious human. Yeah. When frogs fly.

Spell done, Emma dropped Bastian’s hand. She tried to push down the rage, needing to explain why he’d been wrong, why he shouldn’t do it again. Calm. In control. But the rage just bounced back like Jell-O. And it spread.

“What a dick,” Bastian said, with a frown. It segued into one of his easy, vague smiles before her eyes. “Guess he learned his lesson.”

It was the smile that did it.

Emma’s jaw felt wired shut, her teeth clamped so tight it hurt. She pointed out the back. “Now.” It was all she could say in public.

Leah made a low whistling noise and tossed the cloth over her shoulder. “I’d go with her, if I were you.” She turned to take some drink orders, a quick nod to Emma conveying her approval.

Emma didn’t wait, just turned on her heel and marched out. She’d worn flats with low heels and they clicked angrily, followed by Bastian’s slower tread.

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