Page 51 of Kissing Potions and Elves
Cyran pouts dramatically, trying to step around me to get close to Isobel. “I could never! My heart beats only for sweet Isobel!”
“I saidback off.” I growl low in warning. “Before you regret it.”
He ignores me and begins spouting lines of poetry to Isobel, his hand over his heart as he gives a performance worthy of theater.
A large shadow suddenly blocks out the sunlight behind me and I look back to see Brakkus. The Orc blacksmith appears immune and visibly baffled. “You’re not affected?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
I have questions, but now is not the time.
Cyran takes advantage of my momentary distraction to try to dart around me again, but I throw out my leg, tripping him.
My triumph is short-lived, however, as Tressa tackles me, knocking me off balance. I stumble forward and we crash to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs.
“Oh, Lyrion, are you hurt?” she grabs my face between her hands, squishing my cheeks as she gazes down at me in concern. “Please, tell me you’re alright.”
“I’m fine,” I grind out, struggling to squirm out of her grasp. “Now, kindly leave me be.”
“What are you saying?” To my surprise she steps back, blinking at me in confusion. “Surely, you don’t mean that, my broody and gorgeous Elf.”
Standing, I straighten my tunic. “I assure you that I do.”
Cyran pushes to his feet, smiling like a lovesick fool as he begins serenading Isobel. He starts toward her again, but I sweep my leg out, tripping him once more, his love song ending abruptly in a startled yelp as he falls flat on his face.
Recovering quickly, Cyran leaps up, wings buzzing in irritation as he glares at me. “Now, listen here, Elf.” He stabs a finger at my chest. “I’ll not have you keeping me from wooing Isobel. I’ll—”
I bare my fangs in warning. “Remove your finger from my chest before I remove it from your hand,” I growl.
Lightning fast, Brakkus wraps his massive arms around his friend, pinning his arms and wings to his side as he lifts him off his feet.
“What are you doing?” Cyran kicks out, trying to free himself. “Put me down, Brakkus,” he snarls. “I have an Elf I need to deal with.”
“Seven hells, Cyran. You’ll lose a limb to that Elf. You’re not in your right mind,” Brakkus growls, exasperated. “Now, let it go. Isobel isn’t interested in you.”
“She’s not?” Cyran asks as if this is one of the most ridiculous things he’s ever heard. “But I’m so handsome. How could she resist all of this?” He somehow manages to gesture at himself despite still being restrained. “I’m far more attractive than Lyrion.”
“Of course, you are.” Brakkus purses his lips.
“Let me down,” he demands.
“No,” Brakkus states firmly. “Not until I know you’re in control of yourself.”
“Oh, I see what this is.” Cyran glances over his shoulder at the Orc. “Really, Brakkus, I had no idea you felt this way, but it’s perfectly understandable that you’re jealous. I mean, Iamexceptionally handsome, even among my own kind. And you’re quite… fetching for an Orc, of course, but I’m afraid my tastes lean decidedly feminine.”
“That’s not what this is at all.” Brakkus rolls his eyes. “Now, I’m going to set you down, but you need to leave Isobel alone. She doesn’t want you.”
“Is this true, fair Isobel?” Cyran gives her a pleading look.
She nods, and he gasps, the shock on his face nothing short of dramatic.
Tressa shares a commiserating look with her brother before turning to me with a passionate sigh. “Oh, Lyrion. We would be perfect together. We—”
“Please, Tressa,” I mutter, narrowly dodging another hug. “You must focus. You’re under the influence of magic, and I need your help to fix this.”
Half-heartedly, she nods. She, Cyran, and Brakkus follow us back to the café.
While the chaos continues in the village square, we gather the herbs needed to counter the passionflower’s effects, mixing them hastily into sparkling golden dust.
