Page 10 of Good Luck Charm for the Wolf

I gesture dramatically to my very unfortunate existence.

Horace groans like he’s aged five years from listening to me.

“So you took a spouse snooping job. Brilliant.”

“I prefer domestic investigation,” I grumble.

Carina, who’s been quietly sipping tea and eyeing me like I’m an idiot (fair), finally chimes in.

“Wait. What’s a spouse snooping job?”

Horace snorts. “Genius here got hired to spy on a Witch’s man. Caught him cheating. And now she’s magically punishing him.”

He jerks a thumb at me.

“Except ‘him’ is actually Doug, because why take it out on the dirtbag husband when you can hex the messenger?” Horace grins as he explains.

I think the fucker is enjoying my pain.

Carina gasps, peeking out the window.

Horace and I both turn our heads in the same direction, you know, cause curiosity and shit.

“Oh my God, Horace! There’s still a swarm of them out there. We can’t send him out to get stung to death,” she says, clearly the smart one in the relationship.

“Thank you, Carina,” I say, clutching my mug like it’s holy.

Horace curses under his breath.

“Doug, you dumbass.”

“Not my fault!” I shout, clutching my probably cursed tea like it’s the last life raft on the S.S. Bad Decisions.

But even as the words leave my mouth, they feel a little flimsy.

A little not entirely true.

Okay.

So, maybe it’s slightly my fault.

A smidge.

Like, maybe I accidentally poked the Witch-shaped beehive and now I’m paying for it in stingy installments.

Whatever.

I’m a PI, not a priest.

I don’t do confessionals.

I do stakeouts, zoom lenses, and occasionally catching married dudes with wandering wands.

Moral codes? Please.

If I had those, I wouldn’t be photographing a Witch’s hubby with his mistress’ ass mid-squeeze.

Still, mental note for future Doug: Add a no hex clause to all Witch-related contracts.

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