Page 70 of Wicked Witchmas: Elara & Tripp

“Either you’re losing your magic,or…” She didn’t know what the second reason could be. The first was scary enough.

“Or Archer’s claws were dipped in a poison,” he concluded grimly.

“Which ones might hurt you?”

“Few. Witch’s bane would make me sick but not kill me, and I avoid it when I can.”

Having never been required to study the basics as any standard witch might, Elara’s knowledge of poisonous herbs was woefully lacking. “What about your mother or Hermes? Might they know what could take down a demigod?”

“Probably. I would, too, if my brain wasn’t fuzzy.” His eyes drifted shut after a series of heavy-lidded blinks. “I’m going to rest, then I’ll give it more thought,” he murmured.

“Tripp?” When she received no answer, she shook him. “Tripp?”

Nothing.

Not a murmur or a muscle twitch.

“Enguerrand!” she shouted.

Again, no response.

“Hermes!” she thundered. “Get your ass here, now!”

His arrival was instantaneous. “What the fuck? Why do you keep—Tripp?” His scowl transformed into a disturbed frown. “Did you slip him something?”

“Hell no! Besides, I wouldn’t know what to give him. That’s why I called you. I’d hoped you could tell me.” Elara lifted the gauze from his back. “Archer did this while in his gargoyle form, and Tripp’s not healing. These scratches are looking angrier by the minute.”

“Having never fought one, he might not know, but Gargoyles distribute a toxic venom through scratches and bites. It’s lethal to humans, but gods should be immune.”

“Isn’t he technically half-human? Would that half be susceptible to the toxin?” she asked.

“Possibly.” Hermes appeared perplexed and as worried as she felt. “We have to call Brelenia.”

Hating the idea of bringing his meddlesome mother into their business, Elara agreed all the same. If there was poison in Tripp’s system that could be neutralized or extracted, she had to take the chance Brelenia could do it.

“Make the call.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth before the Goddess stood beside the bed.

“What happened to my son?” Brelenia demanded.

Elara felt the woman’s rage to her pinky toes and beyond. “When he was trying to get into the bookstore, he was attacked by Archer Roche. He’s a gargoyle.”

Bending, his mother examined the wounds. “This wasn’t Archer’s doing.”

“You knew him?”

“Know. His mission has always been to protect.”

“Tripp killed him,” Elara admitted, with pain in her heart for Witchmere’s premier protector. “He?—”

“Didn’t,” Brelenia said.

“What?”

“Archer is perched atop your building, dear. Step outside and see if you don’t believe me.”

She smiled, and her kindness set off an ache in Elara’s heart. What must it be like to have such a caring mother? Yes, recalled memories gave the impression Tripp avoided his mom whenever possible, but Elara also understood that Brelenia’s actions were born from her love for him. Whatever she had done, these damned boots included, it was her misguided motherly attempt to make him happy.

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