Page 19 of The Forty-Year-Old Virgin Witch

Eight

Karl

If my Elder would have told me I’d eventually be bent over a crude wooden table teaching a werewolf how to cook, I’d have checked his blood bags for contamination. As it was, that was precisely the situation I found myself in.

“Make precise, even cuts. Then once you’re done, we’ll add the vegetables to the pot.”

The wolf ignored me, but I was fine with that. I knew the silence wouldn’t last long—it never did with wolves.

“Since when do vamps learn how to be chefs?”

There it was. I knew he wouldn’t be able to handle the quiet.

“What are you doing? They’re carrots, not bugs to be squashed! Aggie won’t want squishy carrots!”

The wolf snarled and adjusted his grip on the knife. It was easier for us to work together when we had one common goal: Aggie. I estimated she’d be sleeping a few more hours before her magick replenished, and then—

BAM.

The door burst open, and neither the wolf nor I moved. Who would dare to just barge through someone’s private wards and waltz into their home? Anger quickly replaced my shock as I studied the new threat in front of me.

He was taller than the wolf but slender, all lithe and taut muscles. The man’s hair was brown, but his eyes burned turquoise mixed with silver. My mind tumbled in on itself, confused. A man shouldn’t have eyes that color. He wore leather on his arms and legs, and I could see the weapons strapped to various parts of his body. Clearly, he wasn’t here for tea.

I made a split-second decision to take him out, moving faster than was possible for any mortal to track, even if he did have magick. The surprised look was still on his face even as he slumped to the ground unconscious. I lowered my fist, hoping I didn’t give him brain damage, or else he wouldn’t tell me anything useful when he woke up. These things were hard to gauge at the best of times.

The wolf stood, upending his chair and the carrots. I plucked the knife out of his hand and set it on the counter.

“Who the fuck is that?”

I shook my head, trying to think rationally. Indignation warred with rage that anyone would dare attack my witchling in her own home no less. From her bed, Aggie made a small groaning sound. Shit, we’d have to move fast. I doubted she would react well to finding some sort of … mercenary passed out in her cottage. I jerked my head toward the body and pointed to the wardrobe in the corner.

“Put him in the closet. We’ll lock him in.”

The wolf shot me a look, then rolled his eyes and seized the intruder underneath his armpits. Without any trace of gentleness, the man was shoved into the wardrobe. I stuck a metal stirring rod between the handles and stood back.

“Mreow.”

I shot the useless familiar an annoyed look from his cozy spot on top of Aggie. “Thanks for you help.”

Damon purred loudly, standing up and stretching on top of Aggie’s chest. The witch groaned and turned over. Her eyes shot open, and she sat up slowly. The wolf and I both froze.

“Mother above, what time is it?”

Aggie yawned, her small pink tongue flicking out of her mouth to lick her lips. I saw the wolf’s eyes flash with arousal and kicked the back of his leg.

“Ow! What the fuck?”

Aggie flinched and turned, startled to see us in her cottage. Her jaw dropped open, her eyes resting far too long on the purple apron around my waist. My ears burned, and I quickly ripped it off, flinging it on the table.

“We … we made you soup.”

I gestured lamely at the hearth, but she kept staring at me. At us.

I flinched and felt the wolf do the same next to me. We were afraid of this—afraid of her rejection.

“You passed out. We were worried, so—”

“FROM TRYING TO SET WARDS AGAINST YOU.”

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