Page 8 of Wolf, Willow, Witch
Lincoln chewed slowly. “Fuck Armie Hammer, kill the Trump princess, marry the raccoon.”
“Really?” Tehlor scoffed, surprised. “The Hammer guy might legitimately try toeatyou.”
“Trybeing the keyword. When did you start practicing?”
Six, she almost said, until she realized he meant magic. “When I was in high school. You?”
“Same, I guess. I didn’t take it seriously until I saw it for the first time. Until I met Bishop.”
“Makes sense. Think they’ll freak out when they find out you’re back?”
Lincoln’s eyes fell to the counter. He slurped an egg noodle and wormed his chopsticks through the broth, stirring veggies and tender meat. “I doubt they’ll stick around long enough to give a shit. The Zach Bagans stand-in they brought home doesn’t live here, so…” He trailed off, interrupted by Tehlor’s loud laughter. She snorted and giggled, shielding her ugly grin with her palm. He laughed a little, too. “What?”
“Colin,” she barked out, cackling. “Zach Bagans stand-in.” She sniffled and pointed her chopsticks at him. “I didn’t expect you to be funny. You know, with the scowling and growling. Figured you were a hard ass.”
“It’s not like there’s much Bishop can do about it, anyway,” Lincoln tested.
Tehlor met his gaze. He didn’t look particularly worried, but he was waiting for something. Confirmation. Assurance, maybe. She almost gave it to him. Almost leaned across the counter and snarleddon’t worry, honey. You’re mine.
She filled a glass with tap water. “I don’t know why they’d waste their time.”
“Did you figure out a cloaking spell?”
Her focus narrowed to the stone beneath her blouse. “Yeah. Hope you’re a jewelry guy.”
“Ring or necklace?”
“Either. Pick.”
“Necklace,” he said, feeling across the stubborn gold wedding band.
She wanted to ask why he bothered keeping it, but she already knew the answer. It was the same reason she’d built a makeshift studio upstairs. Some past lives were impossible to kill.
“I could make it a collar.” She flashed a teasing grin.
Lincoln’s snout twitched into a snarl, and he lowered his ears.
She laughed, slurring around another mouthful of tempura. “Kidding, man. Chill out.”
Tehlor set her thumb against the bottom of the labradorite and pressed the jewel into an empty setting, allowing a layer of glue to bond the sterling to the stone. They’d finished eating an hour ago. After Lincoln had collected the trash, he’d asked to see the material she’d chosen for the charm, and she’d thoughtwell, fuck, might as well get it over with. Spell work wasn’t a chore, per se, but tethering a reality-distorting spell to an inanimate object twelve hours after reanimating a corpse was a lot like mainlining chlorine after a night of cocaine and cheap whiskey. She turned the stone over in her palm, assessing how the leather cord looped through the bale.
“What’s next?” Lincoln asked. He loomed behind her, sending hot breath coasting across her cheek.
She batted at the air. “Don’t pant on me. I need a bit of your blood, honey, some alcohol, and a…” She paused, glancing around the living room before she twirled and searched the kitchen. She opened a cabinet and pulled a fresh pillar candle from behind some canned soup. “Yeah, this. C’mon.”
Lincoln followed her into the small first-floor bathroom. She hadn’t realized how broad he was until he propped his shoulder against the doorframe, watching her down the slope of his nose. Like that, with her belly full, and her body begging for sleep, Tehlor lit the wick with an incense match, hit the switch on the wall, and arranged the labradorite necklace around the base of the candle. She opened her palm, asking for his hand.
“Don’t freak out,” she murmured and lifted his hand to her mouth. When he tried to tug away, she seized his wrist, holding him still. “No tools for transmutation spells. You should know that.”
He wiggled his nose. “Get on with it.”
Tehlor brought his thumb to her lips and placed the digit between her teeth. A knife would’ve been easier, but the spell needed to stick, and magic was a bitch, sometimes. If she incorporated her body and used herself as the instrument, then she had a better chance of accomplishing what she’d set out to do.
She held his gaze and bit. He flinched, cursing under his breath. Blood tinged her tongue, coppery and different. Like burnt logs, almost. When she pulled away, warm liquid smeared her bottom lip. Power resembled pheromones; everyone had a unique flavor. But Lincoln motherfuckin’ Stone… He tastedoff. Scarred. Defying death by way of brutality, lust, passion—deep, unyieldingwant—had left him smoky and well-worn.
That taste was a warning.
“See? Easy,” she mumbled.
