Page 36 of Big Little Spells

Assuming an immortal ass who is almost certainly a glamoured-up troll actually feels a goddamned thing.

I turn back toward the bar, happy that no one else is lingering around outside tonight. Points to the wind. I force myself to hold my chin up high. I take a few breaths, then a few more, until I can breathe normally. I mutter a few words to take care of the heat in my cheeks, that enduring ache deep within.

I will be damned if I walk back in there looking like he got to me.

When I push through Nix’s heavy door, the one Nicholas just tossed open like it was an insubstantial screen, I shake my hair back and march to the table full of my friends.

Who are all silent, watching me with questions in their eyes that I refuse to answer.

I slide into the booth on the outside of Georgie this time, but Ellowyn leans around her, jabbing a thumb at the window that I realize—belatedly—gave them all an excellent view of Nicholas and me out there.

“That was like watching porn,” Ellowyn whispers, making Georgie flush—but she doesn’t disagree.

I do not have the wherewithal to react to this at all, but luckily Zander is muttering darkly from his backward chair beside me.

“That guy is the devil. Maybe literally.”

“A really hot devil,” Ellowyn says, sipping her drink at Zander. I see someone ordered me a new drink, and I don’t even check what it is. I toss it back.

“You can’t be serious.” Zander would be clutching his pearls if he had any. But angrily. “He’s ancient.”

“But he sure doesn’t look it,” Georgie says with a wistfulness that surprises me.

I slap my empty glass down on the tabletop and look over at Emerson. She is resolutely mute on the subject. All she does is look at Jacob, clearly having a private discussion. But she does not rush in to demand I tell her everything that happened so she can tell me I need to be careful or more like her, and that means something.

Then I laugh. Because what else is there to do? My sworn enemy suddenly wants to help me—I guess? Presumably this mysterious Beltane meeting is about that help, or maybe it’s just going to be more fighting.

Fighting. We fought with magic out there, and Ellowyn might have thought it was like watching porn, but she has no idea.

There aren’t words to describe what it felt like, but I know porn wouldn’t be one of them even if there were.

“All right,” I say, calling on every last piece of magic and energy inside of me to create my bright and happy daisy smile. I beam it around the table like spring is my responsibility and I’m bringing it, hard. “Let’s get serious about this engagement party.”

11

IT IS, OF COURSE, a mistake. The party. The drinks—so many drinks. The magical fight with an immortal witch and then that quiet moment of something like song that I want to forget, even though it lingers inside me, like a bruise. The whole damn night that, when I wake up the next morning, gets a little fuzzy in my recollection after what happened outside with Nicholas.

There’s something about the roiling stomach, pounding head, and cotton mouth that feels like the punishment I deserve.

For a few swimming seconds, I simply look up at the ceiling and count my breaths.

Perhaps you should have counted your good sense last night. Smudge’s voice echoes in my head like a marching band is drumming through there. And I’m pretty sure she’s purring with extra vigor, just to make the bed shake a little. She’s mean like that.

I should probably have a suitable rejoinder, but mostly I just make a noise that sounds like a donkey. A dying donkey.

I try to concentrate on some tried-and-true meditations that are supposed to calm my nervous system and work a little unmagical magic. I am made of tapestries of potential. Anything I imagine, I can make happen. Miracles are always within my reach.

And behold, after a few rounds of this, Ellowyn appears at the foot of my bed. She’s showered and dressed and looks fresher and brighter than any woman who drank and danced the night away should. But she holds one of her patented hangover cures in the glass in her hand, and that’s really all I care about right now.

“You’re a goddess,” I say, sitting up as she hands the glass to me. I wrinkle my nose as some of the fuzzy events from last night try to come together in my head. “How many guys did you dance with last night?”

She flashes a smug grin. “As many as I could.”

“How many guys did I dance with?” I hold my nose and prepare to take the first sip. Ellowyn rolls her eyes, then wiggles her fingers, and suddenly her little remedy doesn’t smell so bad. I take a big gulp.

“That is a very interesting question,” she says as I take another huge gulp. The concoction starts working almost immediately, making me feel alive again. Still a donkey, maybe, but not a dead one. “Because despite many an offer—from humans and witches alike—you did not accept any. When you, Rebekah Wilde, love to dance.”

Because why dance with lesser witches while Nicholas Frost...exists? A question I know better than to pose to my best friend. “What are you doing up so early?” I ask instead.

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