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“You do not seem overly upset that I killed your suitor,” he says.
My jaw clenches. Great. Even the Boogie Man thinks I’m callous.
“He’s not my…” I can’t be bothered to repeat myself.
Norbert caused me months of anguish with his constant phone calls and appearances at my doorstep. During that time he was my obsessive stalker who followed me everywhere. The coven eventually got rid of him by casting a temporary spell that made me repellent to men.
By the time I reach the end of the chamomile lawn, my muscles burn from strain. I straighten and try to catch my breath, but the sight of the Boogie Man looming at the edge of my magical bubble inspires me to continue.
Moments later, I’m panting beside the compost heap, feeling like I’ve spent an hour on the cross trainer. It stands five and a half feet tall, so I can just about see the dried vegetation at its peak.
Dropping down to my knees, I ease off Norbert’s leather wrist cuffs. They’re his guild’s equivalent of our coven’s locket, and if I’m lucky, I might be able to use them to access the library’s restricted section.
If I’m luckier, I’ll find the book on how to banish Unseelie faeries.
“What are you doing, now?” he asks.
I launch into a description of how mixing kitchen waste and meat carcasses with dry matter such as wood chips and straw will provide nutrients for grandma’s gardens.
Decomposing corpses works along the same lines. It will take a few months, but eventually, everything that was once Norbert will turn into compost.
The Boogie Man scoffs. “You? Toiling the soil like a serf?”
My arms drop to my sides, and I whirl on the bastard, my eyes flashing. “Stop comparing me to your dead wife. I’m not her.”
He bares his teeth and growls.
“No.” I pick up the pitchfork and jab its tines toward his chest. “If you want to stay at my side, stop spouting your theories and make yourself useful.”
He curls his lip, tosses the head on the ground, and stalks away.
I glare at his broad back, wishing I had the guts to impale him with the pitchfork.
He certainly acts as entitled as a king.
Hours later, the first rays of sunlight stream through the trees that border Grandma’s huge garden. A haze covers the land, reminding me that I’ve been digging the entire night.
Sweat coats every inch of my body and soaks through my sundress, and my muscles feel like someone has set them alight.
The steam rolling off the compost heap isn’t helping my condition, but this way, nobody will bother to turn it for weeks. By then, his body will be in a deep state of decomposition and buried six feet beneath the soil.
I trudge back through the orchard, my arms hanging limp at my sides, and my feet dragging as though they’re weighed down by balls and chains.
There’s no sign of the Boogie Man. I expect he’s slithered back into the shadows or wherever he goes during the day.
When I reach the cottage, I pause at the doorway, not wanting to track compost through the pristine white interior. After tossing my bag and Norbert’s wrist cuffs inside, I take off my clothes, dump them at the doorstep, and remind myself to pick them up later.
“Fucking Boogie Man,” I mutter under my breath.
Every instinct in my body wants me to fall flat on my face and melt into the floor until my muscles stops aching. The only way to soothe my pains is with a long soak in magically infused water.
The sun has risen further by the time I drag myself into the bathroom, streaming bright light through an open window stretching from the floor to the ceiling. Its walls are stone, much like the rest of the cottage, with a clawfoot tub and one of those basin-type sinks that sit atop a wooden dresser.
After turning on the hot water, my gaze drops to the relaxation bombs. They’re designed to loosen a witch’s muscles and lull her to sleep, but they might be too much since I stayed up the entire night.
Instead, I turn to the twelve-inch crystal massage wands. They’re cylindrical with rounded tips and are designed for pleasure.
I place four wands in the tub, letting the magic release in tiny clouds of bubbles. These are better than bath salts because they never dissolve. When they run out of power, they recharge on the windowsill.
