The Seven Year Witch: That Old Black Magic, Book 2

by Jodi Redford

  “I doubt it’ll do any good. Best course of action is to let her marinate in her little pity fest for a while until she comes around or digs up another reason to detest the very sight of me. Whichever comes first.” Fiona’s lips curved up on one corner. “God deliver me from teenagers.”

  The guilt started to gnaw at Clarissa again, making her feel like the wickedest witch of the east for the additional responsibility she was about to heap on Fiona. Tempted to conjure an aspirin—or a bottle of strong liquor—she rubbed her temple.

  “Hey, you all right?”

  She met Fiona’s concerned gaze. I have no choice. The coven couldn’t survive without a mistress. Still, she was reluctant to just blurt out the request. “Do you ever regret not throwing your hat into the ring when Gert announced her retirement?”

  Fiona’s forehead scrunched, indicating her bafflement at the question. “No. I wasn’t cut out for it back then. Besides, it was more than obvious you were the better choice. Gert understood that, and I happily agreed.”

  Crap, this was going nothing like she’d rehearsed it in her head. “Hypothetically speaking, you’d be willing to take over as mistress if anything happened to me, right?” She stared Fiona down, praying she hadn’t sounded as desperate as she felt.

  “Well, yeah, I guess.” Fiona’s already fair complexion paled significantly. “You’re not about to tell me you’ve been diagnosed with an incurable disease, are you?”

  “Uh…no.”

  The breath Fiona had apparently been holding escaped in a gust, and Clarissa rushed to drive home her point before Fiona became too complacent with the idea of Clarissa’s presumed longevity. “But that doesn’t mean a freak accident couldn’t happen.”

  “What, like a random piano falling on you from a second-story window?” Fiona made a scoffing noise. “I don’t think there’s any cause to worry about this.”

  “Yes, there is.” She practically shouted the rebuttal, her heart pounding under the stress of getting Fiona to take the conversation seriously. “We need to devise an emergency plan to safeguard the coven. For goddess’s sake, even the President of the United States has a backup in case he’s unable to do his job.”

  Fiona frowned at her. “Is that your way of suggesting you want me to be your acting vice-president?”

  It wasn’t exactly what she’d been getting at, but it was better than spending the next hour trying to get Fiona to see reason. “Yes.”

  “Do I get a bigger bedroom?”

  “Err…sure.”

  Fiona broke into a smile and held out her hand. “Then I accept the position, madam president.”

  Okay, clearly she should have considered the bigger-bedroom angle sooner. Relief flooding her, she sealed the agreement with a shake.

  “Are we all done here? Because I need to go see if Jade has resorted to fashioning a voodoo doll of me from paper towels and toothpicks yet.”

  Nodding, Clarissa stepped back while Fiona sprang the door lock. A second later, she found herself alone in the room. Despite having one less heavy stone of responsibility tied to her, she still felt uneasy, as if she were walking around in a gray haze while her life hurtled toward an inescapable end.

  She’d made a lot of stupid choices in the past. The biggest one of all was directly responsible for the current mess she was in. But she couldn’t regret her decision to offer her soul as collateral for her father’s. Not after the part she’d played in contributing to his downfall.

  Another weighty stone—this one of shame—fell into place as she recalled the spiral of intoxication and madness he’d been swept into during that horrible period of time. It’d been the worst she’d ever seen him. Far more frightening and devastating than the countless occurrences when he and her mother tumbled into their week-long benders in their constant, toxic quest for self-destruction.

  If there was any blessing to the Alzheimer’s that’d become the state of his existence, it was having that particularly dark month wiped clean from the slate of his memory. He was a changed man. A new one, in many ways. She would gladly barter her soul a million times over to keep him safe. Not just from Seven, but from himself.

  The reminder of Seven instantly brought her mind around to the book she’d brought in with her earlier. Even though she’d desperately wanted to crack it open and start investigating, she’d left it untouched on the receiving desk, figuring she’d have to wait until later. But now that Fiona and Jade were here, she didn’t feel too guilty abandoning Constance for a few minutes longer.

  She retraced her steps to the table set up for logging and packaging shipments and pulled the book from its bag. Planting her rump on the edge of the table, she flipped past the acknowledgments page and the author’s introduction until she came to the first chapter. Scanning the opening paragraph, she immediately deduced that the shopkeeper hadn’t been exaggerating. This book definitely wasn’t a light read. Turning back several pages, she came to the forward, which gave a breakdown to the major components of The Divine Comedy. A few paragraphs down, she came to an entry that made her pulse speed up and jolted a spark of shock through her system.

  The seven deadly sins.

  Seven.

  Holy. Shit.

  Champions was unusually packed for a Tuesday night. Judging from the sheer number of shifters—most of them retired familiars on a sabbatical from Familia Tacchi ’Loa—Logan figured Champions’ bulging-at-the-seams attendance was due to Griffin and Jemma’s upcoming nuptials. If there was one thing that brought familiars out of the woodwork, it was a party and the promise of free booze.

  His suspicions became confirmed when, twenty minutes later, Griffin and his bride-to-be walked into the restaurant, and raucous cheering erupted from half the patrons. Not surprising. Hell, the loving couple had practically been sainted by the familiar community for the role they’d played in getting the no-sex-with-your-witches ban lifted. Thanks to Catman and Jemma, these sorry motherfuckers were probably getting laid left and right. Himself included. And damn if that didn’t make him the happiest wolf on the planet.

  With that in mind, he grabbed a wineglass and a bottle of the best Shiraz they had. For whatever freaky-ass reason, Griffin despised beer and preferred the grape instead. After dispensing the wine, he gathered the ingredients to make Jemma a nonalcoholic daiquiri. By the time he’d finished blending the drink, the lovebirds had worked their way through the majority of well-wishers and finally reached the bar.

  With a little finagling, he convinced Tully to take over for a few. Ducking out the pass-through, he squeezed Jemma in a hug, his grin prompted as much by Griffin’s narrow-eyed stare as it was by Jemma’s sweet giggle. Yeah, it was juvenile on his part, but he still got a charge from getting Catman’s whiskers in a twist on occasion. Some habits were just too hard to break.

  Releasing Jemma, he offered Griffin his hand in a celebratory shake for his upcoming nuptials. He didn’t fail to notice his former rival put a little extra crunching power behind his end of the handshake. Neither did Jemma. Rolling her eyes, she stepped between them and pried Griffin’s fingers away. “Any possible chance you both can behave tonight?”

  “Ah, shug. You know we’re just messin’ with ya. Right, Catman?”

  “Yeah.” Griffin’s chipper tone stood in direct opposition to the death-ray glare he shot at Logan behind Jemma’s back.

  Logan smothered his laugh. Shit. Oddly enough, he’d really missed the verbal punches and thinly veiled death threats he and Griffin used to exchange. Man, good times.

  Jemma winced suddenly and made a shuffling two-step. “Crap, the ladies’ restroom is calling me. I swear, just looking at a glass of water is all it takes to torture my bladder these days.” She slid her purse from her shoulder and shoved it at Griffin before dashing off.

  Looking perfectly comfortable with Jemma’s bright pink purse dangling from his wrist, Griffin snagged the nearby stool with his loafer and parked his butt. “How’s business been?”

  “Steady. Hope
fully all these damn friends and relatives of yours are good tippers. Which reminds me—you ready for that wine I poured you?” After receiving Griffin’s nod, Logan returned behind the bar long enough to fetch the drinks and carry them to the corner where Griffin waited. “So you’re really gonna tie the knot, huh? Can’t believe Jemma’s settlin’ for your ass.”

  “Most of the time I can’t believe it either. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t realize I’m the luckiest bastard on earth.” Griffin swirled the wine in his glass before taking a sniff. Apparently deciding it passed muster, he took a swig. “Not bad.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it since that shit gives me heartburn.”

  Griffin took another sip and glanced toward the restrooms. Lowering his glass, he shifted his focus back to Logan. “While Jemma’s gone, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  The faint edge in Griffin’s voice gave Logan pause. Shit. He hoped like hell Catman wasn’t about to bring up the threesome thing again. To be on the safe side, it was probably best to diffuse the potential fireworks now. “I already told you fifty million times you don’t hafta worry about me sniffin’ around Jemma. The hug was purely innocent.” Mostly. He’d enjoyed Griffin’s reaction a little too much to rate the gesture one hundred percent innocuous.

  “I’m not talking about any of that.” Griffin’s eyes became hooded again. “But while we’re on the subject, let me remind you that I’ll use the bloody stump of your leg for batting practice if you don’t keep your word.”

  “Duly noted.” Logan leaned his hip against the bar. “Now that we have that outta the way, what’s got your tail all tweaked?”

  “Clarissa. She’s been putting off a strange vibe lately. Has she mentioned anything to you that might shed some light on what’s going on with her?”

  There was no way in hell he was coming clean about sleeping with Clarissa. Besides his firm belief in not kissing and telling, Clarissa’s behavior earlier pretty much verified that she’d blow a gasket if he blabbed. Sure, Constance already knew—and would likely spill the beans. In which case, it’d be her neck on the chopping block and not his. A much better outcome, in his estimation of things. His and Clarissa’s relationship teetered on too delicate a thread to risk her anger. He’d already pushed his luck to the limit with the attempted mating. Though he didn’t regret initiating what amounted to his most primal, natural instinct, he knew he needed to handle Clarissa with all the cautious patience he’d bestow on a wounded bird that was ready to take flight at the slightest provocation.

  “Damn it, have you listened to a single word I’ve said?”

  Logan crashed back to the present and noticed that Griffin was glaring at him. “I heard ya. But I don’t think we need to worry about Clarissa.” He tried for a casual shrug. “More than likely, she’s just got a lot on her mind. Particularly with your weddin’ comin’ up. You know how she is about makin’ sure everything runs like clockwork.”

  “Yeah, too well.” Griffin scratched the back of his head, the lines bracketing his mouth softening. “You’re probably right. The prospect of one hundred and fifty plus wedding guests descending on the coven house is bound to test even the most stalwart of us. Hell knows it’s got me tempted to slam that entire bottle of wine.”

  He slapped his palm on Griffin’s shoulder. “Just fortify yourself thinking of all the raunchy fun you’re gonna have on your honeymoon.”

  Griffin rumbled a purr, his pupils going glassy as his mind apparently traveled to some naughty place that likely involved Jemma wearing nothing but a smile and strategically placed whipped cream. Jemma chose that moment to reappear. She relieved her bridegroom of her purse before plopping onto the stool next to him. “Okay, what’d I miss?”

  “Other than Catman havin’ dirty thoughts about you? Not much.”

  Her lips taking on a wry twist, Jemma rubbed her belly. “Pretty soon I’m going to look like I’m hiding a watermelon in here. Then the dirty thoughts will just be a distant dream.”

  “Not hardly, baby.” His growl suitably territorial, Griffin leaned into Jemma and kissed her with enough emphasis—and tongue, from the looks of it—to steal Jemma’s breath and bring a rosy flush to her cheeks. When he was done, he splayed his hand over the one Jemma still had pressed to her stomach. “There’s not one damn thing I don’t find incredibly sexy about you. And that includes seeing you carrying our child.”

  Jemma sniffled. “You are so getting nookie tonight.”

  Logan watched the lovebirds for a moment, his mind superimposing his and Clarissa’s images over Griffin and Jemma’s. He could easily imagine his Rissa’s belly growing bigger and bigger with his babies.

  Yeah, babies. He wanted to give her an entire brood of them. They’d be the perfect balance of parenting, the way he saw it. She with her sensibility and discipline. He with his…

  Uh…

  Okay, clearly Clarissa brought more to the table than he did, unless spoiling their kids rotten counted for something. Most likely though, he’d have to become a real pro at diaper changing and hope it made up for his deficiencies.

  He tried not to think about how far away he was from making the fantasy he’d spun into a reality. Better to have faith that he’d break down Clarissa’s defenses and win the key to her heart. Because the alternative—losing her—was unfathomable. Fortunately, she seemed more than willing to share her body in every wicked, delicious way he wanted. If the only path to wearing her down was through plenty of hot lovin’, so be it.

  Hell, not like it’d be a hardship.

  His cock started to swell behind his fly as he visualized all the sexy persuading he’d lavish on Clarissa, and he rescinded his assessment. Hard definitely described his situation.

  Jesus. The end of his shift couldn’t get here soon enough.

  A grunt came from Griffin. “Something tells me I don’t want to know what you were thinking about just now.”

  He followed the cat shifter’s gaze to his crotch. “If you and Kegan keep fixating on my cock, I’m gonna start wonderin’ what’s up.”

  “Besides that”—Griffin jerked his chin in the direction of Logan’s groin—“not a damn thing.”

  A flash of movement on the other side of the bar caught Logan’s attention, and he looked over to see Tully giving him the time’s-up signal. “Shit, that’s my cue to get back in the ring. You guys need anything more before I go?”

  “Maybe just the dessert menu.” Jemma gave him and Griffin a sheepish look. “Hey, I’m feeding two now. I’m allowed to have molten hot lava cake before dinner.”

  He ducked around the corner of the bar to grab a pair of menus. When he glanced up, he noticed a young dude covered in piercings and tattoos slouched at a table across the way, glaring at him with unmistakable malice. A baggy black T-shirt that proclaimed “Fear the Wrath” in spidery red lettering all but dwarfed the kid’s scrawny frame.

  Without question, he knew that he’d never seen the punk before, but that didn’t stop the shiver of déjà vu currently skipping down his spine. The uncomfortable sensation giving him the willies, he turned away for a moment to drop the menus off in front of Griffin and Jemma. Almost as if he were compelled by some mysterious force, he veered his gaze back toward the stranger with the angry staring complex.

  The kid was gone.

  A fresh crop of the heebie-jeebies prickling his skin, he clenched his fist around the edge of the bar. “What the fuck is going on?”

  Griffin stopped cuddling Jemma long enough to frown at him. “Huh?”

  “That’s the second time this week I swore I saw someone vanish into thin air.”

  “You been hitting the whiskey a little too hard?” Griffin’s eyebrows inched upward.

  No, but he was damn well considering it with all these hallucinations plaguing him lately.

  “Maybe it was a ghost. Or a leprechaun,” Jemma offered.

  He couldn’t recall ever seeing any leprechauns who looked like the roadie for some t
wo-bit metal thrasher band. Still, he liked Jemma’s suggestion a lot better than the possibility that his sanity had taken an early checkout.

  Thankfully the remainder of his shift passed in a busy blur. Because if he’d spent one more second mulling the existence of angry leprechauns or fantasizing about Clarissa naked and glistening with massage oil, the state of his sanity would no longer have been in question. Nope. It would have been lifeless on the floor, in need of some serious CPR.

  Throwing his bar rag in Tully’s general direction, he jogged toward the exit.

  He made record time hopping in his truck and cruising home. Clarissa hadn’t shown up yet, which was fortunate, since it allowed him to jump in the shower and scrub off any residual smoke or greasy food smells from the bar that might have decided to attach themselves. Once clean and refreshed, he carefully trimmed his goatee, the task not only ensuring that he didn’t overly resemble his inner wolf, but also kept his scratchiness to a minimum so he wouldn’t unintentionally exfoliate Clarissa’s tender parts.

  After slapping on some cologne and tugging on a new pair of jeans, he padded into the living room and sprawled on the couch. His attention drifted to the pillow on the far end, and his brain instantly triggered a memory of Clarissa hugging it for dear life while he drilled into her from behind.

  Groaning, he shot to his feet and prowled to the armchair, where he was less likely to fall victim to a series of tantalizing mental images that’d lure him into some solo action. Even if the next several minutes killed him, the only hand that’d be stroking him tonight would be Clarissa’s, by God. He popped on the television and distracted his libido with some channel surfing. A documentary about panthers kept him on track for a while, until the damn creatures started humpin’ like they were starring in their own personal jungle-cat porno.

  The universe was out to derail him. He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote aside in disgust. Tapping his fingers on the side of the armchair, he glanced at the clock resting on the upper shelf of the entertainment center. It was past eight thirty. Where the hell was Clarissa?