Page 37 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

“My entire line is to blame, Enguerrand,” she told Tripp. Looking at her granddaughters, she tapped out a cigarette from its silver case and popped it in the corner of her mouth. Of course, she’d never light up inside the bookshop, but the comforting feel against her lip gave her courage in the face of their hostility.

Elara’s wounded eyes were worse than Payton’s frosty stare.

Flo shouldn’t play favorites. Yet Payton, with her golden hair and narrow, upturned eyes, was the spitting image of her father, whereas Elara resembled Mae with her china-blue gaze and pale locks.

Wasn’t she bound to be sentimental at her age?

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t say anything,” Elara croaked as if holding back sobs. “We were so lost after… after…solost.”

“She’s a mean bitch who doesn’t care about anyone but herself,” Payton stated coldly. She wrapped her arm around her sister’s shoulders, and their unity was beautiful. “It probably never occurred to her to take us in. It might disrupt her hermit lifestyle.”

“Florence doesn’t deserve your scorn, Payton,” Tripp said. “She’s?—”

“Don’t.” Flo shook her head. “You should go, Enguerrand. Restore time and take Dailey to the meeting. I’ll be there soon.”

As he began to object, the door blew open, and a swirl of snow accompanied a dark-haired man with piercing emerald eyes.

She whipped her head back toward the alcove. The man who had been with Brelenia was now the stranger at the shop entrance, brushing snow from his shoulders.

What the devil was going on?

He sent them a roguish grin. “The elements are in flux. Now I see why.”

Tripp swore viciously and repeatedly, snagging everyone’s notice and causing them to take a second glance at the newcomer.

“Elements?” Elara withdrew from Payton’s comforting embrace and circled the end of the counter to peer out the window. “What in the forceful flurry is happening?” she exclaimed.

“It tends to happen when three witches from an ancient bloodline, a powerful warlock, and a demigod are in emotional turmoil.” The dark-haired man frowned. “Although, there isn’t much coming from the exceedingly dull policeman. How is it possible?” he mused, almost to himself. “Tripp?”

“Those fucking boots.”

“Ah.”

Elara’s focus ping-ponged between the two men. “You know each other?”

“Right. I forgot mortals these days aren’t taught the old ways.” The stranger held out his hand. “Hermes.”

Slackjawed, she stared, earning a weary sigh from Tripp.

“My cousin,” he said, glaring at Hermes. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d think it would be obvious. I’ve come to help you prevent a volcanic eruption.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Tripp Nightshade.

Elara shook her head.

He really was a demigod. Somehow, she’d convinced herself it wasn’t true.

But he was related to Hermes, the man he’d labeled the Divine Trickster.

And Florence Shaw was her grandmother. One who couldn’t be bothered to tell Payton or her the truth and barely paid them a living wage. If it wasn’t for their trust funds?—

The trust funds!

They were from their mother’s mother, who, if Elara wasn’t mistaken, was Flo. They’d never gotten that far into the conversation to find out. She assumed with the last name Shaw, Florence wasn’t a Hawthorne, but she might’ve changed it for her own reasons.

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