“Right. Well.” He clears his throat. For several seconds. “His timehere is not a result of pleasant circumstances, so I appreciate your effort to make it better.”
I hope I have. Clearly, I’m still missing crucial ingredients to the recipe of how Lazlo ended up here. But this is progress. Finally, I have a sense of the man, not just the Warlock.
The coffee ready, I turn back to my recipe. Every Frost woman has a preferred version of it. I like to use honey instead of sugar, and mix a heaping tablespoon with coffee to help the liquid gold warm up. Next, a healthy pour of Woodford into a big mug. Then the coffee mixture. The last touch: I whip cream with a hand mixer so it’s denser than anything in aerosol form, and pour it across the back of a spoon over the coffee so the cream floats like melted marshmallow.
“Kentucky Coffee.” I pass the Warlock a full mug and pour one of my own.
My first sip sends the chill of the night’s events skittering away. This drink might not be tied to any memory for him, but there’s magic in dopamine stimulation. It’s the nectar that gets me through any all-nighter. And after tonight’s entertainment, the beverage program is needed.
But before I can warn him, the Warlock takes an ambitiously large swig and falls right into a coughing fit.
“Sorry, it’s got—”
Cough—“Bourbon, yes”—sputter—“I’m aware.” Sniff. He thrusts the mug back to me. “Next time, try to cure me first before you kill me.”
He’s got whipped cream on his upper lip, a fascinating dollop of sweetness that’s—not relevant. “I meant what I said. It does you no good if folks keep thinking the Warlock of Foxe Holler is a monster who preys on innocents and sunshine. I know the town has its bad apples, but most of your neighbors might surprise you with kindness.”
Except Gertha Fudge. But she doesn’t like anyone.
He clenches his gloved hands. “I’m not sure the truth would do me much good.”
His words gnaw at me. He’s been isolated up here so long, at some point, the town embraced convenient reputation and bulldozed over actual fact.
“Do you know whatwouldbe good for you?” I grin over my mug, steam curling into my nostrils.
He finally licks the bit of cream from his lip. I try not to stare. Really.
Then those hazel eyes flick back to me, and in them, something has changed. “I have some ideas,” he says, voice low.
I nearly choke on my next sip. My skin flushes with a tingling haze, like the unmoored heat from sitting in front of a fireplace for too long. The bourbon is kicking in.
“You’re flushed,” he rasps.
I hold up the mug in defense. “Coffee, bourbon.”
“Honey.”
“Yes?” I cringe at the eagerness in my own voice. But this is the first time he’s used my name and I’m woefully unprepared for what the sound does to me.
“I mean, there’s honey in the drink. I can taste it.”
“Oh. Right.”
Bourbon hasdefinitelykicked in.
That’s when it dawns on me. The Warlock and I are sharing a drink. At night. This is the closest thingI’vehad to a date in a long, long time.
Not sure if my mom would be thrilled or terrified.
“Having allies,” I say, clearing the embarrassment out of my throat. “That’s what would be good for you. If I agree to keep digging through your library for a cure to this… curse, you have to let your neighbors in. Lazlo needs friends. He needs to know the unkind folks don’t outnumber the kind ones in the Holler.”
“Fine. How?”
How indeed, especially if he won’t leave the Manor. But folkshave been willing to come here. Arna Jean is proof that the right people will bridge the distance. Everyone deserves a friend like that in their corner. No matter how dismal they are at accepting one…
We’ve got less than eight weeks until the solstice, the Holler’s holiest are out for blood, the Warlock is withering under a curse, and now I need to turn a scary bedtime story into a friendly neighbor.
But what people pleaser can say no to a challenge?
