Page 67 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

No contest. Tripp would always sacrifice the one for the many—unless that person was Elara.

Holding up his hands, he called forth the elements of wind and water, merging them into an arrow-sized waterspout. “Sorry to do this to you, friend, but you left me no choice.”

He threw the arrow straight at Archer’s chest, blasting him apart. Boulders rolled in every direction, and Tripp dodged razor-sharp nails and teeth as they flew through the air. Shovingdown his sorrow for the loss of the ancient gargoyle, he dashed through the doorway.

The pulsing purple wall was a surprise, and he felt his way along it, following to see where it might end. On his journey through the bookstore, he noticed patrons frozen mid-action reading or pulling items from shelves. Some who’d sensed the coming storm were locked mid-run, prepared to flee.

Elara had no idea of her power, and Tripp had to warn her before she seriously hurt someone. Archer was on him, and if or when she discovered his fate, Tripp wouldn’t let her blame herself.

Once again, he quieted his mind and felt for her.

Office.

Drawing his ancient magic around him like a cloak, he trudged through the ever-thickening wall she’d created. His protection spell was useless, and his flesh burned as wave after wave of her rage struck him. Blood flowed freely down his back from Archer’s strike, weakening him.

About five feet from the doorway to the room, he found Hermes. He, too, looked like he’d traveled through hell to get there. Bloody and bruised, his left eye—the one not swollen shut—locked on Tripp.

“I’m sorry.”

“For?” Dread was building at the finality in Hermes’s voice. He would only apologize for one thing: Elara’s death. “No! Let me talk to her.”

“Zeus has spoken.”

“I don’t give a shit. You’re not killing my mate!”

A sly smile curled Hermes’s bleeding mouth. “Then get your ass in there and stop this.”

“Dick!”

“Trickster,” his cousin replied. Sighing, he slumped against a shelf and slid to a sitting position. “Hurry, man. I can’t contain her magic in this shop much longer.”

“It’s already seeped out. Out-of-control shifters are converging in the alley.”

Hermes shook his head. “Not from her, they aren’t. Don’t know whose power is stirring them up, but it isn’t Elara’s.”

Tripp didn’t have time to figure it out as he dashed toward the storeroom.

When he skidded through the open doorway, Elara and Payton were confronting Florence, who resembled a cornered rabbit ready to bolt.

Acting on instinct, he wrapped an arm around Elara’s waist, drawing her back against his chest. “Listen to me, flitter-mouse. You need to let this go. Whatever you think you’re doing here, it’s the exact opposite. The containment spell you’re unleashing is creating chaos.”

She tilted her head back, and her startled blue eyes locked with his. “What do you mean?”

“Time within the shop has been suspended, and shop customers are locked in place.” Dipping down, he rubbed his nose against hers. “You’ve got to take a deep breath and approach this conversation with Florence in a rational manner. Remember, the volcano is active beneath us, love.”

With a suspicious frown, she looked beyond him to the main desk. Her eyes widened, and she tightened her grip on his arms.

“I did that?”

“You and Hermes. He’s doing his damnedest to contain your anger to just the shop.”

“Holy shitballs!” Payton exclaimed.

“Yeah,” Tripp agreed, never taking his gaze from Elara. He kissed her temple. “Try to clear your mind and breathe in, then out again for the count of five. Can you do that for me?”

Her nod was jerky, as was her inhale. The exhale was smoother but still shaky.

“Good. Again,” he urged. After two more rounds of coached breathing, Tripp could feel the enchantment diminishing. “Excellent. Now, how about you and I walk down toWily Witchesfor coffee?”

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