Page 4 of The Heartbreak Hex

Gretchen just rolls her eyes. “It’s best this way, trust me. Now, chop, chop, less thinking, more drinking. We’ve got a bruised heart to heal.”

“Bossy,” I mutter, but I take another sip. The peppermint mixed with the dark chocolate isdivine. I can’t even taste the alcohol in it and judging by how strong the smell was coming out of the bottle, there’s a lot of it in there.

“Beatrix sends her condolences, but she can’t be here tonight,” Gretchen says, speaking of our older sister. “Though what can be more important than your little sister’s first big break-up, I’ll never know.”

“You shouldn’t have told her,” I censure, taking another delicious sip. “She has a big meeting in the morning with Old Nick on expanding the Forgotten Holidays neighborhood. Christmas just keeps getting bigger and it’s pushing out some of the smaller holidays. She’s been lobbying for the appointment for months. You know that she’s not City Hall’s favorite person.”

“Still, you’d think she could swing by to have a drink with her sisters, today of all days,” grumbles Gretchen.

“At the rate we’re going, it wouldn’t be one drink and she’d end up missing her meeting. Give her some slack. I know she’ll be there for me when I need her.”

My twin sighs. “I know you’re right. Alright, back to drinking.”

I giggle, maybe a little too loudly at her words. The boozy peppermint chocolate is going straight to my head after all the pumpkin ales. I lift up my mug and cheers it against Gretchen’s mug.

“To drinking away problems and getting dumped by lousy boyfriends.” I say, smiling even though the mention of Harry causes a little twinge in my heart.Stupid heart.

“Here, here!” Gretchen says. “May there be a better boyfriend around the corner!”

Yeah right,I think, but I keep my thoughts to myself and just take another sip.

∞∞∞

THE PEPPERMINT SCHNAPPS was a bad idea, I think,blearily opening my eyes. It’s the middle of the night and my head is already pounding, my mouth feeling parched and full of cotton. Gretchen went back home a while ago and I’m all alone in my house. I’m not used to being alone. Harry’s been with me since I bought the house and even on the odd occasion that he’d go visit family or something, I’d usually go stay with one of my sisters. Being all by myself in an empty house is spooky. Which is funny to say as a witch of all things, but it’s true.

I stumble downstairs to my kitchen to pour myself a glass of water, barely taking in my surroundings as I go. I get to the sink and suddenly the act of getting a cup seems like too much work. I turn on the tap and just push my face down to drink out of the tap like it was a hose. Instantly, the cold, slightly metallic taste of the water soothes my tongue and I take two big gulps before pulling back. I don’t want to drink too much at once; I don’t want to hurl.

As I straighten up, my eyes slide over onto the counter. It’s dark in the kitchen, but my eyes have semi-adjusted and I see a picture on the counter next to my knife block. It’s one of me and Harry, taken on our fifth anniversary. He took me out to dinner. Well, I mean, I was paying, but he picked the restaurant. I thought that he was going to ask me to be his mate so I got dolled up really cute. He didn’t propose. But the waiter took our picture and I printed it out and framed it. More wasted effort.

I must still be pretty drunk, because I pick up the frame to toss it into the trash can, but the moment my hand touches the picture instead, I burst into tears. All the tears I held back in the park and that Gretchen kept at bay with her antics and booze all come rushing up at once. I collapse on the floor weeping and hating myself for it. But I can’t seem to help it. I just keep thinking of Harry on the park bench, telling me that he’s getting with Calliope, thatshemight be his mate, that he’d been talking to her for a month and the tears just fall.

After I’ve been crying for a good long time, I wipe my hand across my wet, snotty face, and start to get mad. Harry’s not worth my tears! Gretchen was right, I was always too good for him and now he did me a favor. I’m free. Wobbling up to my feet, I throw the picture I’ve been clutching into the garbage.This is stupid.I shouldn’t be sobbing in my kitchen alone over aguy. But a little, watery part of me still wants to cry about it.

But I’m over that part of me. I don’t want to feel like this. And why should I? I’m one of the best potion witches in Holiday Village. If I can’t whip up a cure for heartbreak, who can?

Ignoring the sober, safety-minded part of myself that says that potion making when drunk and emotionally unstable is a terrible idea, I start digging through my cabinets, putting my cauldron on the stove and start throwing things in. First the herbs: lavender, ginger, and rose for love, sage for healing, basil for fidelity. In they all go. Next is the magic ingredients: a cupid’s feather, a slice of rainbow, fairy dust. Soon, I don’t really know what I’m putting in. I’m almost in a fugue state, just going off of pure instinct. I’m even summoning things from my shop pantry and tossing them in. A dash of this, a pinch of that, just a smidge of this. Anything that I feel like will cure a heartache goes in. On and on I go, cooking it down, until I have a glowing purple potion in the cauldron in front of me, just enough for one swallow. Now is the time for an incantation, but I’m definitely not in any state of mind to be eloquent or delicate in what I say. It just needs to rhyme.

“Heartbreak, heartbreak, go away,” I chant, waving a shaky, drunk hand over the potion, “Never come another day.” Then I pause and impulsively add, “And bring a better boyfriend to me. One who fits me to a T.” The potion gleams in the darkness, calling to me. It seems to sparkle more with my words, but that could be the drunkenness talking. Grinning in self-satisfaction, I grab my ladle and following my drunken instinct, I drink the whole thing in one gulp.

Stars go off behind my eyes, my head humming with power and then it stills. With a smile, I think of Harry, expecting to not be affected, but I still get a twinge and frown. What the hell? All my finest ingredients and nothing happened? Trying not to feel too disappointed, I go to trudge up the stairs to my room. The sky is lighter than it was when I started, but there should be some time to sleep before I need to be up at the shop.

Entering my room, I realize that I’m still wearing my day clothes, but pulling on pajamas seems like too much work. I wiggle out of my sweater, skirt, and tights until I’m just dressed in my camisole and underwear and collapse on the nice cool bed and, without further thought, feel myself slip into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 3

Vlad

Waking up, I immediately know that something is wrong. I’m in a cramped queen-size bed instead of my roomy king. And I’m warm. Far too warm to be alone. But I haven’t taken anyone home with me for maybe a year.

Opening my eyes, I see a frothy, black tulle canopy hanging over the bed that I’m in, the ceiling painted a light purple. Definitely not my room. Before I can really start to be alarmed though, a warm body burrows into my side, mumbling unintelligibly. I turn my head to see a riot of dark brown hair and fern-green skin. Gertrude Nightshade, sleeping by my side.

Ah, this dream again.

So, I’m not awake, I’m still sleeping. I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve been half in love with Gertrude since we were teens, not that she’s ever noticed me as more than a friend, and I’ve had dreams about her regularly for years. Sometimes they are . . . of the dirty variety, but more often than not they are mundane. Walking with her through the park, sharing a meal, and now, laying in bed together. It’s never been this clear beforeand I’ve never envisioned her bedroom with quite this much detail, but I decide to just enjoy it.

My arms come around the witch, pulling her onto my chest and settle down in the cramped space. A feeling of rightness bubbles up in my chest and I feel at peace. That is, until the sour smell of day-old alcohol makes its way to my nose and wayward long hairs itch at my neck.Hmmm, odd.That’s never been part of the dream before. It’s really never been this detailed, smells and sensations, other than the pleasurable, are usually absent..

Gertrude stirs in her sleep, mumbling again and a fresh waft of alcohol makes its way to me. Before I can think too hard about what that could mean, Gertrude yawns and unscrews bleary eyes. I expect her to go warm and welcoming, like she always has before in my dreams, but instead she stiffens and pats my chest. Still patting, she makes her way up my body until she’s light tapping my face. Hesitantly, she looks up, meeting my eyes and I smile.

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