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“Thanks, but no.” Hazel held the door for her friend. “If he can’t accept me being a witch, then I didn’t need him to begin with.”
Irene winked at her. “It would be fun to have a romp in the hay with him, though. Admit it, Hazel. The man’s hot!”
Hazel fanned herself. “Oh, he’s definitely that!”
“See you later. Are we still on for the Halloween party?”
“I guess. As long as I’m back by midnight. I’m going to try a spell that’s supposed to draw its power from the Witching Hour on Halloween night. That way, maybe I won’t mess it up with my weird energy.”
“Okie dokie. I’ll pick you up at six.”
“See you tonight.”
Hazel Montgomery closed the door and walked to the kitchen of her small, but homey, apartment. Okay, homey was probably too kind a word. Maybe it was just crowded. It consisted of two rooms, one that tripled as a kitchen/living room/bedroom, and a bathroom. Her sofa pulled out into a bed, and there was one recliner. She didn’t have room for anything else other than a coffee table, but it was still hers.
Sort of. She paid $350 a month for the tiny thing, but it was hers as long as she paid the rent. As long as she had her own place, she could explore the magic she was trying so hard to master.
So far, she was failing miserably at it.
Taking a deep breath, Hazel closed her eyes and cleared her mind. When she opened her eyes again, she stared intently at the aluminum pot of boiling herb mixture on her stove.
“Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble…” She sprinkled a pinch of red pepper into the mixture and tried to add a few drops of peanut oil, only she sneezed and missed the pot. The hot burner flamed when the oil splattered onto the coil and singed her arm. She pulled back with a yelp. Oh, well. If it hadn’t exploded now, it probably would have later. She muttered under her breath as she ran cold water over her arm.
Being a witch wasn’t supposed to be this hard!
Hazel filled a goblet with the liquid and looked at her “witch’s brew” before setting it on the coffee table. She wrinkled her nose. It stank. Okay, so it was positivelyrank. She pulled a tendril of her jet-black hair to her nose.Pee euw!
She needed a bath. Desperately.
After cleaning up the mess in her kitchen, Hazel headed to the bathroom. Stretching as she went, she didn’t watch where she was going and tripped over her shoe -- which she had kicked off and left in the middle of the floor -- and hit the little table with her knee before she fell. Grabbing at anything she could to try to break her fall, she knocked the foul-smelling stuff off into her lap. She gave another sharp yelp and pulled her white dress away from her body. Thank goodness there wasn’t much of it, and it had cooled somewhat.
Oh, God! That smelled awful!
She had just gotten to her feet when someone knocked on the door. Thinking it was Irene -- the womanalwaysforgot something -- Hazel simply flung open the door as she picked up the goblet from the floor. When she stood, she got the surprise of her life.
* * *
When Drake Cole heard Hazel’s scream, followed by athumpand another shriek, he decided he should check it out. The phenomenal part was he was in his own apartment, in his bedroom with the door shut… two floors up.
Being a werewolf had its advantages.
The little dark-headed witch downstairs had captivated him since the first time he saw her, though he’d never admit it. Besides, having been charged with her protection by the Witches’ Coven years earlier, if she was in trouble, it was his duty to help her.
Witch.
He chuckled. If that girl was a witch, he was Lassie. She probably dyed her hair black and dabbled with trinkets and Ouija boards. How in the world she had convinced the coven she was a witch was beyond his imagination. To him, letting her run amuck was a risk to the haven for supernatural creatures Mount Bell harbored.
But she was absolutely adorable!
Andyoung. He doubted she was much over eighteen. Her short, slender frame screamed youth, as did her fresh appearance and air of innocence. She had jet-black hair that curled so tightly it looked like a home perm gone wrong. It hung almost to her waist and stood out from her head so much, he’d always figured she spend a fortune on hairspray. Her skin was milky white except for her cheeks, which seemed to have a permanent rouge to them.
He took only enough time to jerk on a pair of jeans before heading down the steps and to her door. Banging rapidly five times in succession, Drake listened carefully for any signs of trouble within. He heard her mumbling to herself, and the door opened…
And the stench about knocked him down.
She might notbea witch, but she suresmelledlike one. The strongest witches he knew didn’t smelltoobadly, but the weaker ones, the ones who tried to do things potions were never meant to be involved in, stank to high heaven.
To werewolves, theyallstank.
