Page 26 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

“Did you keep it? The collar?”

Since Tripp couldn’t see anything but rhinestones glued to black nylon, he assumed not, but he had to ask. He needed to see the symbol on the back of the band if it existed.

After kissing Hex’s head, she set him on the chair and went to the kitchen. He never wanted to rush someone so badly. While she was gone, Tripp knelt beside the beast and leaned in.

“I know what you are, Trickster. If you hurt her in any way, I’ll rip your insides out,” he warned in a low voice. “Excruciatingly slow.”

The furball had the audacity to wink.

“Transform back into your standard human form and show her what you are,” he ordered.

The sour expression on its face gave him pause. Powerful magic was required to trap a Trickster. Yet, now he thought about it more, the spell should’ve been broken the instant the collar was removed, so why wasn’t it? Was it possible the enchantment wasn’t contained in the object but in the animal itself?

Mother might be able to provide insight.

“Here.” Elara handed him the leather band with a gold disc.

Etched in the front was the single word “Hex.” Careful to keep from touching the metal, Tripp turned the band inside out and held it to the light. The symbols were some of the oldest he’d encountered. Removing his phone, he snapped a picture and returned the collar to Elara. If she’d handled it in the past, she was immune.

“Hex isn’t his name, Elara. The word is intended to warn those who come in contact with that beastly thing.”

“Come on, Tripp. I’d know if he was a standard stray.”

She loved the thing and wouldn’t be swayed by the truth. More proof was needed before Tripp removed the Trickster from her home.

“How long have you had the, uh,cat?” he asked.

“As long as I’ve lived here, three years or so. He’s indoor-outdoor, but he always returns for the night.”

I’ll bet he does.He told himself it wasn’t the cat he was jealous of—it was the Trickster who she cuddled.

Elara tossed the collar onto the table, sending Hex bolting from the room.

“Hm. Maybe we should keep that handy so your bloody cat avoids us during our more intimate moments,” Tripp suggested.

Elara’s comely blush lifted his mood.

“Yeah, it seems we’re cursed,” she muttered. “Or I am, at least.”

“No, flitter-mouse, just those boots.” He tucked a strand of her hair behind her delicate ear. “They’ve been responsible for a high percentage of the world’s disasters, natural and man-made.”

“That’s ridiculous, Tripp. No single pair of boots, however pretty, can cause all that.”

“It’s true,” he replied flatly. “Despite their chaos, Mother found her true love—my father. Unfortunately, she believed in passing on her good fortune.”

“You aren’t interested in finding true love?” Elara’s expression was downcast, and she’d be mortified if she knew her feelings were on display. Although his first impulse was to reassure her, Tripp couldn’t. He wasn’t positive he believed in unfailing affection or that it was meant to last forever, as gods—or demigods, in his case—were wont to live.

“No. Whenever I show the slightest interest in someone, Mother adds her fatal footwear into the mix. Disaster follows.”

“You said natural and man-made. How is that possible?” she asked, distancing herself and curling into the chair as if attempting to make herself smaller.

Again, the impulse to comfort her was intense. He hated her withdrawal, but it was for the best. Her air of disbelief annoyed him enough to maintain his space. If the Gods were kind, she’d be tearing those fucking boots off her feet by now, but life was never so easy.

Sighing, he sat across from her.

“The first woman I truly cared for was in London, England. I was twenty-five in mortal years and quite full of myself. It was late summer sixteen-sixty-six when I saw her at the market.” Odd, but he could no longer recall the woman’s name. Elara’s engaging blue eyes, ash-blonde hair, and shy manner were reminiscent of the young maid, though, and the sight of her rapt attention caused his heart to constrict. “After a few weeks of courtship, I made the mistake of telling my mother I wished to remove the girl from her life of drudgery and bring her to Messia.” Tripp shook his head. “Mother forwarded the cursed shoes as silk slippers with ruby rosettes, not realizing they were too rich for a servant to possess and would find her in trouble as a suspected thief. Those shoes sparked the Great London Fire in Thomas Farriner’s bakery that fateful night in September.”

Elara’s mouth hung slightly ajar, and she stared at him in wonder. “How?”

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