Page 16 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

Brelenia cocked her head and studied him for a long moment before pouring him a glass of wine.

“Is that a no?” he asked softly, taking a sip and savoring the flavor of the rich, red beverage.

“It’s a no.” She held up a hand when he would’ve argued for her to do the proper thing. “Not because I don’t want to, darling.But they’re charmed, and you must see their latest mischief through to the end.”

“What will it take to avert disaster?”

“Why do you believe they’ll bring disaster?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Sitting up, he tossed the wine onto the grass and dropped the glass into the basket. The waste of a good vino would piss her off, and Tripp wasn’t above being petty in the face of her manipulation. “Perhaps the countless calamities of the past. The Great London Fire in 1666. The French Revolution and Napoleon’s rise.”

“That was on you, darling. You fell for that peasant girl and fed into the uprising.”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t have to give her those blasted boots!” he retorted.

“I’ll admit it wasn’t well done of me. Who knew she was connected with that upstart Napoleon? He was the gift that kept giving, wasn’t he?” Brelenia waved a hand in dismissal. “But the past is the past, Enguerrand.”

“That’s the point, Mother.” He scrubbed his face with his hands and expelled a heavy breath. “As if the Great London Fire wasn’t enough, we had to repeat that little event with the Great Chicago Fire.”

“I truly believedthatsilly twit was more clever than I gave her credit for,” she protested. “Really, darling, you need to be more selective.”

Tripp threw up his hands. “Stop with this madness. I’m begging you. You can’t keep playing with people’s lives.” He pressed his thumb to his right eye socket. “I swear to Zeus, I develop an eye twitch every time those damned things appear. They’re a harbinger of doom, and poor Elara is the biggest disaster in town.”

“That’s not nice to say about your beloved,” Brelenia reprimanded.

“She’snotmy beloved!”

“Oh.” Mother tapped her teeth with a fingernail. “That might be part of the problem.”

“Why?”

“The shoes or, in Elara’s case, boots should only be worn by the person you love. They are meant to grant the wearer’s fondest wish. If she desires you, but you don’t care about her in return, she’ll go mad.” She shot him a side glance. “Clearly, that’s what happened all those past times. I mean, take Petunia. That woman wasn’t in her right mind?—”

“Drop it,” he barked. “How do we clean up your current mess?”

“Mycurrent mess?” She laughed and began packing the basket. “Oh, no, dear boy. It’s your problem now.”

“Mother,please.”

She smiled when she patted his cheek like she had when he was a small boy. “Perhaps settle down with this one. When she’s happy, those boots will move on. After all, they’re made for witching.”

With a dark frown, Tripp looked at the half-frozen lake.

“Why were you swimming on such a blustery day, darling? And fully clothed?”

He sent her a sharp glance, searching for the underlying guile. If one looked closely, they’d see it in her twinkling burnt-amber eyes.

“As if you don’t already know,” he said in disgust.

“She has more power than she realizes if she can toss you across town.” Brelenia rose and smoothed her white gown down her legs. “Whose child is she?”

“She had hippies for parents,” he said, hoping to hide what little he knew of Elara’s origins. No need to feed his mother’s obsession with the knowledge of a perfect match. If Breleniaof Messia discovered Elara Hawthorne’s true heritage, she’d become even more relentless.

“Hippies? I’m not familiar with the term.”

Pressing her lips together in thought caused her dimples to appear, which then reminded Tripp of Elara’s question. Odd how they never appeared until either he or Mother were amused.

“No need to worry about the term or what’s happening here. But I want your promise; this is the last time,” he said.

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