Chapter 3 Emerik
THREE
EMERIK
“We should totally make it into a love potion,” Drake says and snaps his fingers. “One sip and man problems gone, for you and for him.”
“Be serious,” I say. “And go put on some clothes.”
It seems like every time I turn around, there it is, flapping in my face.
I have to admit he has a beautiful cock, dangling invitingly and even darker black than his skin, but it’s so distracting.
Sometimes I wish I was better with solitary magic, but unfortunately, that’s a ship that’s sailed.
My first year in the shop was sheer misery, trying to brew by myself.
Nothing worked until Drake wandered into my life and dragged Hazel into the mix.
You know how it is with witches and their threes: everything just seems to glide more smoothly with a coven.
Now I just need to get my infuriating and indispensable coven to focus.
“No hiding all this splendor,” he says, spreading his arms to show off his tall, sleek physique. “I do my best work unencumbered by mundane modern morality.”
I stifle the urge to roll my eyes and try to bring us back on track. “This is a tricky challenge, and we need to get it exactly right. What do you think…can we use daylily flowers to make it last only a day?”
“But dear, we are being serious,” Hazel says, not taking the hint.
Maybe she’s why I’m always uncomfortable with Drake’s nudity—Hazel reminds me of my grandmother, albeit a bawdier version, and my grandma definitely would not have approved.
I’ll have to watch myself, though. Nude-shaming isn’t an attractive personality trait, and doubly so when you’re a witch.
She continues, “It’s been over a year since that loathsome cockroach broke up with you, and you’ve been moping around the shop too long. It’s time to raise your flagpole and see who salutes.”
“Hazel, stop!” I plead. I really don’t need their meddling fingers in my love life.
I’m still half convinced she had something to do with driving the loathsome cockroach out of my life, not that I mind…
in hindsight, he was vermin and I’m better off without him.
But now, we really need to focus and meddle in Alexander’s love life.
I continue, “I’m sorry, but that’s not the way this is going to go. We’re all going to be good little witches, and we’re not going to enspell the hunky client for my own nefarious pleasure.”
“You’re no fun,” Drake says. “What good is being a witch if we can’t make some mischief along the way?”
“You are not to sneak in anything while I’m not looking,” I admonish, pointing my finger at both of them and knowing they were planning to do exactly that. “I’m serious about this. Nothing!”
“Spoilsport,” Hazel grumbles, and finally deigns to get on track.
“So, this potion needs to conjure a meet-cute. That’s going to be an interesting challenge.
As you suggest, we could use daylily or morning glory to limit the longevity, but I think mayfly wings might be a better fit for an ephemeral potion of a single day.
What about the active principles? Did you get his vital essence? ”
“His man juice?” Drake leers, licking his lips and doing filthy things with his tongue.
“His liquid love?” Hazel cackles.
“Enough! I get it. He’s sexy as hell and he’s looking for love, but please have some respect. Remember, we didn’t become the best-rated coven for love magic by seducing our clients. We’re providing an important service here.”
Drake teases, “I bet you’d like to service his…”
“Please,” I implore, at my wit’s end. “We need to get this to work, and we need to finish it in time for Valentine’s Day. Focus.”
Do I dare tell them about the vision? If I did, there’d be no stopping them—I’m certain they’d do everything in their not-inconsiderable power to put me there on the beach with Alexander.
Then there’s the ugly truth behind these types of spells…
they never—never—go exactly as expected. Maybe this time will be different.
Finally, they settle down and get to work with me, spreading through our workroom and gathering ingredients from the crowded shelves.
“Lion’s mane to stalk our prey,” Drake says, pulling down an apothecary bottle filled with a tuft of golden hairs.
“Lavender for love and loyalty,” Hazel suggests, plucking a few blooms from the planter in the window box. “And blue poppy for potential and possibilities.”
“Fire opal for sparks of creativity,” Drake says, setting the mortar on our well-worn prep table and handing me the pestle. “I’ll let you add the elbow grease.”
This is the part I love about my coven. Despite their constant bluster, they fit me perfectly.
I feel my magic mesh with theirs as we build the potion, feeling the ingredients meld and merge.
It’s like painting a picture, adding stroke after stroke, drawing on shared experience and filling out the image we have in our heads, coaxing the final potion to life.
As I’m adding a sliver of willow bark, Hazel says, “You’re not telling us something.”
Drake says, stirring slowly and deliberately with an obsidian rod, eyes intent on the small cauldron, “There’s an urgency to this project that isn’t like you.”
Hazel says, trying to choose between petals of damask rose or rambling rose, both passionate scarlet red, “Urgency, yes, but also reticence.”
“I had a vision,” I admit quietly, grinding the opal to a fine powder. I can never keep anything from them, particularly when we’re practicing together.
They both freeze, just for a moment, not long enough to spoil the potion but enough that I know I’ve caught their attention.
“Tell us,” Drake says, resuming his gentle stirring as Hazel gestures her hand sigils over the maturing potion.
“It was nothing. A daydream of Alexander on the beach, and a dog. Wishful thinking.”
“When the universe chooses to speak, it’s wise to listen,” Drake says as I sprinkle the crushed opal over the bubbling pot, rewarding us with an effervescent shower of bubbles.
“I refuse to make this into a love potion,” I admonish again, and then repeat it to seal the intention. “This will not be a selfish love potion.”
Drake responds quietly, “That’s not what I said.”
Hazel says, “Listen, and be open, and you might just hear.”
With that thought, we all lapse into silence, but no further revelations shower on me. However, the potion responds beautifully to our attentions, and exudes a hunger, striving to reach its active potential.
“We’re nearly ready,” Drake says, voicing what we’re all feeling. “Where is your man’s offering?”
I retrieve the flask from the shelf, returning to the cauldron.
“We’ll let you do the honors, Emerik the Honorable,” Hazel intones. “Ready your intention.”