“Just am.” Madde extricated his fingers and grabbed the cauldron he’d ‘found’ earlier today. A modern witch somewhere was missing her cauldron. “Dearest darling, light of my life, lioness of my heart, could you pass me the swamp water?”
“This magic,” I said, handing over the vial and surprised at how heavy it was. “It’s rare, isn’t it?”
Death nodded. “It’s extremely difficult. The sheer power needed to summon even a flicker of flame…”
“Pure madness,” Madde finished with a grin. “Can’t believe my magic is fancier than all of yours. No wait, I can. I’m amazing.”
He kissed the tips of my fingers before he took the vial from me, tipping its contents into the cauldron and setting it atop the shadow pyre. The liquid began to bubble instantly, and I leaned forward to peer into its rounded bottom.
“No shadows,” Madde warned Pain when a tendril of his magic crept towards the pyre. “However, I will provide audio description.”
“Oh, god,” Pain groaned.
“Madness, an exceptionally handsome god with auburn hair and super cute freckles, tips a little jar of grave dirt into the bubbling swamp water and thanks Pain for retrieving it for us. That’s you, by the way. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Pain replied, a smile brightening his hazel eyes. “You don’t have to narrate everyth—”
“The potion turns a murky brown, like the bath water of someonereallydisgusting.” Madde fluttered his hand at Miz, who passed him the stout, stoppered jar of fog. How they’d managed to bottle it, I didn’t know. I’d missed all that when Violence stalked us from class to class. “But!” Madde said with pomp. “The potion turns a lovely sky blue when I dump the fog in. Hey, it worked.”
“You said you remembered the recipe exactly,” I pointed out, not liking the surprised note in his voice.“Madde.”
“I do remember it. Right down to the letter. Blood’s next, then we use a burial item to stir it. Miz, did you find—ooh!” he breathed when Misery handed over an ornate letter opener.
“I don’t know who left it,” Misery murmured, the ghost of a smile curving his mouth when I rested my hand on his knee. “None of the Ford family survived, unless it was one of the distant cousins.”
The line Duncan and Orwell had descended from.
“Whoever left it, they have great taste,” Madde said, using the tip of the letter opener to crack the wax seal on the small vial of blood. He resumed his commentary. “Madness, whose name really ought to be Love, breaks the seal on the bottle of blood we promised not to tell our darling wife the origin of.”
I shot him a sharp look. “Whose blood is it?”
Madde laughed nervously. “Never mind that. Madness, the most handsome man in the room—nay, in the world—tips the vial of blood from an unknown and totally ethical source into the cauldron, and it—duck!”
I threw my arms around my head as I ducked, but the flash was still bright enough to make it through my closed eyelids.
“Right. Ah, should have mentioned that might happen,” Madde said. “Nothing to worry about, a little light is meant to happen.”
“That was a full-on explosion,” Death huffed, turning my face toward him when I lifted my head. “Alright, little bride?”
“I’m fine.” Except for my racing heart and the ever-creeping sense that we were going to get caught. “All limbs present and accounted for. Miz? Pain?”
“I’m alright,” Misery replied, though he shot a glare at the cauldron. “As long as there are no more explosions.”
“Guys,” Pain said urgently. “I think I’ve gone blind.”
A laugh rasped up my throat.
“Very funny,” Death drawled. “And I’m okay,” he added when he caught me scanning him for any injuries from the explosion.
“I’m still a hot-ass diva, in case anyone was worried,” Madde said, stirring the concoction in the cauldron with Misery’s letter opener. “And this is ready. Misery, bestow upon me the goblet.”
Miz thunked him on the head with it. “Sorry,” he said with a little smirk. “I thought bestow was a synonym for mild injury.”
“Jokes on you,” Madde replied with a saucy smile, “my skull’s so thick I’m immune to head injuries. Now, hold it still.”
“No more mild injuries,” I warned Miz when I saw him contemplating it. “Madde, should it be smoking?”
“Yup.” He narrowed his eyes in concentration, pouring the liquid—pearly and giving off a mist that reminded me too much of ghosts—into the golden cup. “That means it worked,” he said with a grin. “Now we just swallow a mouthful each.”
