Chapter Six
CHAPTER SIX
It only occurred to him after his mother vanished that she hadn’t promised a fucking thing. She’d taken the food and plaid blanket, leaving the lingering scent of springtime in her wake.
Tripp inhaled deeply, savoring the smell of orange blossoms after a rain. His mother’s unique fragrance always returned him to childhood and brought a sense of calm despite the havoc she created. However, neither the scent nor the peace lasted as he considered the problem of Elara and the boots.
He approached the shoreline and stared at the gray horizon, considering the problem. No matter how he examined it, whatever the angle, he knew Elara was fucked, right along with Witchmere and not with those blasted dildos! Perhaps it was time to call his father and ask what he’d done when Brelenia wore them during their tumultuous courtship. Surely he’d have some sage advice to offer, right?
An explosion rocked the air, causing Tripp to stumble. His leather loafers skidded on the icy embankment, and down he plunged, swearing viciously. The energy behind his vehement response released a shockwave, and the local wildlife ran for their lives.
He scrambled out of the water and recalled his power to him. The spontaneous surge wouldn’t have happened if his emotions hadn’t been dangerously close to the surface. It would be best to keep his feelings buried for the foreseeable future to avoid chaos at every turn.
Archer Roche, the last of a dying breed of blacksmiths, appeared at the edge of the woods, a frown tugging his bushy ginger-colored brows together. He was a mountain of a man, and to look at him, one wouldn’t immediately recognize the power he hid.
But Tripp knew.
He possessed an extensive dossier on every citizen in Witchmere. Of necessity, he’d collected facts and made a point of slyly interviewing the townsfolk to see if their abilities were a threat to him. Some he befriended, others he kept at a respectful distance.
Like Archer.
Gargoyles were notorious loners, taking their job to protect a village seriously, thereby distrusting newcomers like Tripp. Over the years, as wars and raiding became less frequent, their kind died off until only a handful remained. Most of those still alive resided in out-of-the-way places.
Archer Roche was the oldest and most formidable. But his time would eventually come, too.
Soon, if Tripp couldn’t control the narrative with those fucking enchanted boots.
Sighing, he trudged up the hill, drying and warming himself. By the time he’d reached Archer, he was once again his standard pristine self. Yes, he preferred jeans and a soft sweater over heavy clothing, but he also preferred to be clean . He was obsessive about it. That’s why two dunks in that algae-filled lake had made his skin crawl, and his need for a shower was pressing.
Or maybe his unease stemmed from what was to come.
He glanced toward the origin of the explosion. “What the hell was that, Roche?”
“You said you wanted to know if anything ever happened to Elara Haw?—”
Not waiting for the rest, Tripp teleported.
When he arrived at her apartment building and saw it intact, he surveyed the town.
Dailey Cobb’s police cruiser flew past, with blue lights circling and sirens drowning out any other noise. After waiting and watching to see which direction the officer was headed, Tripp closed his eyes and concentrated on Elara’s energy. Satisfied she was unhurt and close, he visualized the alley beside the bookstore.
The skin-scorching heat from the raging inferno was the first thing he felt as he materialized. A discordant symphony of emergency vehicle horns and sirens was the next to register. At the end of the alley, Florence and Payton huddled, with Elara pacing a hole in the asphalt beside them.
“What the hell happened, Sanderson?” he asked Bohdan, sensing the shifter in the shadows.
“Don’t know. But regular magic couldn’t extinguish the flames, so they called the fire department.”
Across the distance, Tripp met Elara’s furious gaze, and with a certainty he felt to his bones, he knew she was fueling it. Likely without even being aware. That problem needed to be rectified.
Quickly .
Pasting on a soft smile, he approached her. His attention appeared to startle her, and her rage subsided a small degree, causing the heat from the blaze to lessen.
“Someone blew up Flo’s place!” she said, anger simmering in her large eyes.
Tripp noted two things. First, she’d lost her standard shyness around him. Second, she acted as if she expected him to produce a suspect on the spot so she could pulverize them. The prior, he could appreciate, though he mourned the loss of her rosy blushes. The latter, well, odds were the culprit was none other than herself, though she wouldn’t recognize those bloody boots were the problem.
Tripp cupped her cheek as she turned her face to him, and he brushed a thumb along her jawline. “Don’t worry, flitter-mouse. The person responsible will be caught.”
Hell, he’d already caught her, but the reveal required finesse and those leather menaces to be off her feet. Maybe he could seduce her out of them without it culminating in a sexual act. In no way was he adding sex to the mix until she had bare feet.
His dick twitched, already taking the news badly.
He could hear it now…
Good luck with that, buddy! You have no restraint around her.
Ignoring his internal dialogue, he focused on the situation at hand.
“I’m going to put the fire out, Elara,” he said, pitching his voice toward seduction. “Will you give me a kiss for luck?”
With her desires heightened by the enchantment, she didn’t even question him or his motives, and her gaze zeroed in on his mouth. Nodding, she licked her lips. Sure, he should’ve felt bad for conning her, but one did whatever it took in the pursuit of saving a townful of people, right?
Dipping his head, he captured the eager mouth she offered.
Although he’d been prepared for the elemental display, the lightning strike still startled him, as did the ground rumble. Their proximity to Mount Rainier was nerve-wracking. It would take nothing to wake that great beast if their earthshaking exchanges continued in this vein. Yet her curvy body pressed against his shorted out the hardwiring of his brain. His need to get closer, to feel her fully against him, overrode his common sense and the urgency to put out the fire.
Someone with balls of steel dumped an icy drink down Tripp’s neck, and he turned with a snarl.
Florence, solemn but unrepentant, nodded toward the fire. “If you please.”
“Fuck.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair, absently noticing the local rubberneckers watching him with expressions akin to shock. Public displays of affection weren’t his usual M.O. He avoided showing anyone favor. Kissing Elara, in what equated to a town gathering, was garnering attention he’d rather not have.
“Wait here,” he said to Flo and the Hawthorne sisters.
Striding past the firefighters and emergency responders, Tripp entered the inferno. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he sensed another presence behind him.
A powerful one .
The sound of stone scraping against stone told him who was present and that Archer had shifted into his gargoyle form. Likely, he was there to protect Tripp from falling beams. The man had earned himself a demigod’s undying appreciation and a case of expensive whisky.
Moving into the center of the room, Tripp raised his arms and tilted his palms to the ceiling, centering himself. Next, he considered the elements he was dealing with: fire and air. Good thing the rock man didn’t need to breathe and that Tripp was able to hold his breath as long as necessary because the next step was to suck all the oxygen from the room with one consuming inhale.
Denied its fuel, the blazing elemental turned angry and licked at his legs. Its goal was to claim a victim. Anyone would do.
Simple visualization pushed the flames away from him and Archer. Concentrating on the heat, Tripp folded it in on itself like a paper napkin, making it smaller and smaller until only a tiny section remained. One box held the blaze in check, but the trade-off was the toxic fumes released by melting dildos.
Surprised at seeing Elara’s accidental purchase, he almost lost control of the fire.
Standing over the box, arms extended—similar to a person warming their hands at a bonfire—he shook his head. Any doubt he might’ve had about this mishap being the result of those fucking boots was gone. The truth was, if the witch wearing them weren’t skilled, like Elara, disasters would happen.
They were, after all, designed by a Trickster.
Mother had said they granted wishes, but Tricksters, like Djinn, always exacted a price for providing that which wasn’t fated or freely given.
Angry on behalf of Elara, who was the innocent in his mother’s schemes, Tripp used more force than necessary to subdue the flames. Deformed pleasure plungers flew in every direction, slamming into and sticking against walls, cabinets, burnt books, and, worst of all, Archer Roche. Other than a narrow-eyed glare, the human boulder remained mute.
As the gargoyle shifted to leave, one of a dozen hot-pink vibrators plastered to the ceiling dropped and stuck on what constituted Archer’s ass, creating a colorful misshapen tail.
Tripp’s horrified bark of laughter rang out and unleashed a minor shockwave.
“Run!” he shouted, bolting for the exit.
Melting vibrators and charred paperbacks pelted them as they ran the gauntlet of the romance book aisle. Believing he was home free, he slowed at the door to look back. A foot-long dong smacked him right between the eyes, eliciting a curse. He should’ve remembered Lot’s wife.
And fuck all, because if that wasn’t a portent of the dreadful things to come, Tripp didn’t know what was.