Page 133 of Love at First Fright

“Exactly. And listen. In case it wasn’t explicitly clear, I find your body very hot. And your face. Your hair. Your… everything. So let’s stick with your body, yeah? The one I actually want to touch.”

“Oi!” Brad’s voice cut across the garden. “Stop dawdling! I’m doing all the bloody work here!”

I rushed forward, crossing the salt circle with both glasses. Brad climbed out of the hole, took the offered water, and downed it in three massive gulps. Water spilled down his chin, his throat, disappearing beneath the neck of his tank top.

“Right. Back to it.”

Time lost all meaning after that. Shovel. Lift. Turn. Deposit. Repeat. The hole deepened. My arms screamed. Those blisters formed, burning with each movement.

Bat floated nearby us, silent and brooding.

Shovel. Lift. Turn. Deposit.

Who knew how long it actually took to dig up a grave? Not me. Not before today. A life skill Gerald had gifted me.

Shovel. Lift—

“Stop!”

My shovel had connected with something. Not stone. Not root. Something that gave slightly under the blade’s edge, then tore.

I froze.

“What is it?” Brad scrambled over, peering down at where my shovel rested.

I tilted the blade, revealing a piece of fabric. Tattered. Stained. Dirty brown and grey, falling apart even as I lifted it into the light.

Brad leaned closer, eyes narrowed. “This could be her.”

The fabric disintegrated further, crumbling into fragments that scattered across the disturbed earth.

From somewhere deep below, something shifted.

The air grew cold.

My shovel scraped against something harder. Something that didn’t crumble or tear.

Bone.

I jerked backwards, nearly losing my footing in the cramped hole.

Brad’s eyes lit up. “Brilliant! Put the shovel down now. Spirits don’t like it when you break their bones. Makes them absolutely mental.”

“I’m not touching bones without gloves on.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“We could get arrested for this! What if Dave actually contacts the police, and they arrive to find us like this? ‘Yes, officer, we were just digging up a three-hundred-year-old witch because my colleague thought it would be a laugh.’”

Brad rolled his eyes. “Stop being a baby.”

“I’m being sensible!”

“You’re being precious. Just use your sleeve if you’re that bothered.”

I tugged my sleeve over my hand, crouched down, and tried to shift the earth around what was possibly a femur, but what did I know. The fabric caught on its edges. Dirt ground into the material. After thirty seconds of awkward fumbling, I gave up and just grabbed the bloody thing with my bare hands.

It felt exactly as horrible as expected. Rough. Cold. Wrong.