Page 17 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

“Oh, I suspect it willdefinitelybe the last time.”

CHAPTER SIX

It only occurred to himafterhis mother vanished that she hadn’t promised a fucking thing. She’d taken the food and plaid blanket, leaving the lingering scent of springtime in her wake.

Tripp inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of orange blossoms after a rain. His mother’s unique fragrance always returned him to childhood and brought a sense of calm despite the havoc she created. However, neither the scent nor the peace lasted as he considered the problem of Elara and the boots.

He approached the shoreline and stared at the gray horizon, considering the problem. No matter how he examined it, whatever the angle, he knew Elara was fucked, right along with Witchmere and not with those blasted dildos! Perhaps it was time to call his father and ask what he’d done when Brelenia wore them during their tumultuous courtship. Surely he’d have some sage advice to offer, right?

An explosion rocked the air, causing Tripp to stumble. His leather loafers skidded on the icy embankment, and down he plunged, swearing viciously. The energy behind his vehement response released a shockwave, and the local wildlife ran for their lives.

He scrambled out of the water and recalled his power to him. The spontaneous surge wouldn’t have happened if his emotions hadn’t been dangerously close to the surface. It would be best to keep his feelings buried for the foreseeable future to avoid chaos at every turn.

Archer Roche, the last of a dying breed of blacksmiths, appeared at the edge of the woods, a frown tugging his bushy ginger-colored brows together. He was a mountain of a man, and to look at him, one wouldn’t immediately recognize the power he hid.

But Tripp knew.

He possessed an extensive dossier on every citizen in Witchmere. Of necessity, he’d collected facts and made a point of slyly interviewing the townsfolk to see if their abilities were a threat to him. Some he befriended, others he kept at a respectful distance.

Like Archer.

Gargoyles were notorious loners, taking their job to protect a village seriously, thereby distrusting newcomers like Tripp. Over the years, as wars and raiding became less frequent, their kind died off until only a handful remained. Most of those still alive resided in out-of-the-way places.

Archer Roche was the oldest and most formidable. But his time would eventually come, too.

Soon, if Tripp couldn’t control the narrative with those fucking enchanted boots.

Sighing, he trudged up the hill, drying and warming himself. By the time he’d reached Archer, he was once again his standard pristine self. Yes, he preferred jeans and a soft sweater over heavy clothing, but he also preferred to beclean. He was obsessive about it. That’s why two dunks in that algae-filled lake had made his skin crawl, and his need for a shower was pressing.

Or maybe his unease stemmed from what was to come.

He glanced toward the origin of the explosion. “What the hellwasthat, Roche?”

“You said you wanted to know if anything ever happened to Elara Haw?—”

Not waiting for the rest, Tripp teleported.

When he arrived at her apartment building and saw it intact, he surveyed the town.

Dailey Cobb’s police cruiser flew past, with blue lights circling and sirens drowning out any other noise. After waiting and watching to see which direction the officer was headed, Tripp closed his eyes and concentrated on Elara’s energy. Satisfied she was unhurt and close, he visualized the alley beside the bookstore.

The skin-scorching heat from the raging inferno was the first thing he felt as he materialized. A discordant symphony of emergency vehicle horns and sirens was the next to register. At the end of the alley, Florence and Payton huddled, with Elara pacing a hole in the asphalt beside them.

“What the hell happened, Sanderson?” he asked Bohdan, sensing the shifter in the shadows.

“Don’t know. But regular magic couldn’t extinguish the flames, so they called the fire department.”

Across the distance, Tripp met Elara’s furious gaze, and with a certainty he felt to his bones, he knew she was fueling it. Likely without even being aware. That problem needed to be rectified.

Quickly.

Pasting on a soft smile, he approached her. His attention appeared to startle her, and her rage subsided a small degree, causing the heat from the blaze to lessen.

“Someone blew up Flo’s place!” she said, anger simmering in her large eyes.

Tripp noted two things. First, she’d lost her standard shyness around him. Second, she acted as if she expected him to producea suspect on the spot so she could pulverize them. The prior, he could appreciate, though he mourned the loss of her rosy blushes. The latter, well, odds were the culprit was none other than herself, though she wouldn’t recognize those bloody boots were the problem.

Tripp cupped her cheek as she turned her face to him, and he brushed a thumb along her jawline. “Don’t worry, flitter-mouse. The person responsible will be caught.”

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