Only once Webb is driving back the way he came do I notice the Warlock is still pressed up against me, his body tight with tension. No, he’sleaningon me. “Sir, are you all right—”
He sways on his feet and collapses.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
TUESDAY, JUNE 7
14 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Food is not a reward. Starving yourself just makes you hungrier.
You’re suspiciously quiet in those clogs.”
Warlock Knight stands in his gardens, staring up at nothing in the evening June sky. I pause mid-creep behind him, trying to see if I can spot what he’s hunting for. “Scouting for your next archnemeses, sir?”
At least he’s on his feet, a rare sight this past week. So far, I’ve resisted ambushing him in his bedroom to force him to eat, and kept my worrying to the kitchen.
The house is more unruly than ever, which makes it tough for Arna Jean and Rett to focus on their research in the library. We haven’t had a proper working lamp in days. And whenever I leave the house, usually on an errand to borrow grimoires from the other Witch families, the wards seem to blip and disappear for a breath. There’s always a pop in my ears, like we’re all hurtling down the Appalachian mountainside.
Not a good sign for warding, if I had to guess.
As Mr. Knight loses a grip on his power, his energy and magic draining, Lazlo’s little hands fade in and out at random to varyingdegrees. I feel like it’s getting harder to keep track of all the edges of our catastrophe map. Sooner or later, we’re bound to fall off.
“That tornado was not regular Hedgewitch magic,” the Warlock says as I join him. “Something isn’t right.”
We’ve had no more trouble from the Widow Witch, but this period of peace just leaves behind a bitter flavor of anticipation. What is she planning? Her latest attack wasn’t sitting right in my gut, so I went back to check the area where the old barn once stood: no scorched message.
“I agree, but we should be more afraid of Oris Webb right now.”
Ever since his threats at the Manor’s gate, Webb’s anti-magic sermons in the town square have increased, and Silas tells me he’s gotten more of the town council to listen to his ideas about finding a way to limit magic from the Holler, starting with his church. According to the group chat, more than just the church ladies follow him around now, passing out flyers. Gertha Fudge used her latest luncheon to rant againstsinful sorcery.
The Widow Witch’s tornado was the very devastation Webb and Fudge needed to further sour Mr. Knight’s reputation and turn folks against magic in Foxe Holler.
And if Webb succeeds and casts out the Warlock, he’ll come for Witches next.
“I suspect he’ll think twice about showing up here again, with such arottenFarewitch in residence,” the Warlock says. “He’s more afraid of your magic than mine.”
“We still don’t know if that was me. I already have my affinity.” I’m a Farewitch, not a… whatever that was. A Greenwitch type of thing? But rot is death. So, Tombwitch? I could ask Carolina or my mom, but with everything else going on, I don’t have the headspace to think too hard about how Webb’s apple met its maker.
“Where is it written a Farewitch can’t have more than one affinity? You’ll be ripening all your own produce in no time.”
His words shiver in my chest, like I’ve swallowed a handful of frozen blueberries. I’ve been thinking of this power as decay, but he thought only of growth. Life. A powerful thing and powerfully good.
He turns to me, holding up a plump, bright red cherry tomato. “Try this.”
I’m not going to be the embarrassed mess I was the last time he offered me food, so instead of accepting the tomato like a normal person, I open my mouth and look up at him with wide eyes. It takes him the most adorable moment to understand the challenge. His Adam’s apple bobs as he stares at my mouth. I’m half bluffing. He won’t do it, I know it.
But after some internal argument, he places the tomato right on my tongue.
This time, no gloves. My teeth graze his bare fingers. Sweet acidity bursts between my molars as a shadow crosses his face. “Careful, Witch.” His voice rumbles low in his chest.
I give him my best satisfied grin. He called my bluff, but somehow, I still won.
He thrusts a basket in my direction, and the spun-sugar-thin thread of tension between us snaps. “I thought you might like to use these tonight.”
