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I've already called Grandmother Leeds. Twice.

She's apparently decided that the first time in forty fucking years I actually want her interfering in my life is the perfect time to become unavailable.

I sent her text messages.

ME

BELINDA CLAIMED ME BACK. CALL ME.

Then another.

ME

HER MAGIC CHANGED.

And finally:

ME

GRANDMOTHER, I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD⁠—

Still nothing. So I wait.

I hate waiting.

But right now, my promised is happy. Which means I'm happy.

It's that fucking simple.

I go back to watering the chrysanthemums lining the walkway. Albert whistles merrily from his outdoor cage nearby. Below him, Sparky is sprawled inside the carpeted sleeper I made for the little beastie.

I told Belinda it was practical. She laughed at me for three straight minutes.

Apparently constructing a miniature upholstered cat bed beneath my canary's outdoor enclosure qualifies as evidence that I'm “a giant marshmallow.”

Bullshit.

It keeps the orange menace from climbing the cage. Mostly. Sparky opens one eye.

“Don't even think about it.”

His tail flicks. Albert chirps.

“Don't encourage him.”

Everything is fucking perfect. Which is precisely when the temperature drops.

Not Texas-autumn cooling.

Magic.

I straighten. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. My Little Witch might be a badass, but I’ll be damned twice if I’m going to let anything fuck with her special day.

Albert stops whistling. Sparky's head comes up. Every muscle in his furry little body goes rigid. My Devil rises with him.

Threat.

“Yeah.”