Chapter Eight Georgia
W ant to know what’s good about being a witch’s daughter? Specifically, a witch who taught you her herbal lore?
You can make a sleeping potion that will put an elephant down for the night without any groggy side effects. When I stumble through my door Friday night—technically Saturday morning—I head straight to the spice rack. I find things like chili powder, oregano, and rosemary. They’re next to the wolfsbane, bladderwort, borage, yarrow, and cinquefoil.
The right bottles and jars leap to the counter with flicks of my tired fingers, and water boils as I lean on the counter, shedding my dress and kicking off my heels. (Why can’t magic make fancy shoes comfy?)
My interaction with Jasper left me thinking about those old comedies where they say “If we’re both single at forty, we’ll get married.”
He’s so sweet. So kind. So freaking handsome (if you like your men more Superman and less Warcraft).
If we’re still single in a few years, maybe I should...
No.
My dance with King is just an awkward blur that leads to the scene that plays over and over in my mind.
Douglas Wickstaff striding up to rescue me in a shadowy ballroom like a Highland warrior, hair sweeping over his strong brow, kilt showing off braced calves, pecs and biceps standing up to salute under his straining shirt as he growled at King to get out of my space...
I’m no damsel in distress, but I would gladly let that man sweep me off my feet. That memory can live in my head rent-free until I’m ready to shuffle off this mortal coil.
“I think we had a moment,” I murmur to my coffee pot. It’s not talking back this time, but the kettle hisses. “No, seriously. I dropped a sledgehammer hint, too. ‘What if I feel it and he doesn’t?’ That’s what I asked him after he told me to look until I found the right one—the one I could feel a connection with. I licked my lips. Stared into his eyes... And he told me that I’m better off without someone like that.” The night crashes down as I measure by touch, a pinch of this herb and a dash of the other, waiting until the mixture in my mug smells just right before I add the boiling water.
I pretty much asked if he felt something. Hinted that I did. That was his opening. If he felt anything for me, he would have said something. Right?
“I’m going to wake up tomorrow and put him out of my mind. Nothing more than a guest at a wedding.” I stir my concoction and sprinkle in a lot of cinnamon and cream, which kills the medicinal taste. In seconds, I suck it down, trying hard not to think about how much I want to have a wedding of my own, a love of my own.
Am I going to be alone forever?
YOU KNOW HOW YOU SEE those beauty pageant contestants all squealing and crying and hugging the girl who wins?
I’ve always thought they were big fakers. Maybe they were.
I mean how could you be that hysterically happy for someone who took the thing you desperately wanted?
That’s just a contest. This is life. Those are strangers and competitors. This is my brother and one of my best friends.
In short, on Saturday morning, every lingering thought about pining for romance, settling, and even the hotness of Douglas Wickstaff is gone. This is Claire’s day. This is Georgie’s day.
Claire was really alone. I’m so glad we found her. I’m so glad Georgie has a soft, marshmallowy center under his hard green crust.
I wonder if Douglas feels all alone, too?
And how something hard and green of his would feel in my soft center?
Okay, okay, I lied about all thoughts of him being gone. A tiny smidgen lingers, but it vanishes completely by the time I get to White Pines, AKA Wedding Central. I don’t know if my mom spiked the atmosphere, but it’s a joy bomb. The second I walk through the doors, I have a mad urge to hug everyone and squeal.
Maybe there are witches at beauty pageants...
THE THEME OF THIS WEDDING is spring and sunsets. As I stand with Cindy, Claire, and Diana, I see exactly what Claire was going for. Our dresses fade from dark pink to pale peach, and Claire is a blazing white sun (or maybe the glowing white moon) in a dress that hugs her curves. She looks like something white, round, and celestial.
I hope to God my brother can wait until they get into their getaway vehicle before trying to ravish her senseless.
Madge and Renaldo (who we all call Pop) buzz over to the bride, short little humans who pat her headpiece into place and dab at her sparkling eyes as they threaten to overflow. That’s her side of the family, really, and Madge is in my mom’s coven, which makes her like our aunt, so... It doesn’t matter. As sunset deepens, the nocturnal residents of Pine Ridge arrive en masse and fill in the seats.
“Damn, girl.” Cindy sidles up next to me and fans herself. She’s looking out from our hiding place in the enclosed gazebo at the Fenclan clan. “Why are all Orcs so hot?” she whispers low enough so that Cathy can’t overhear. (Cathy is like the other 90% of humans in town who walk right past vampires, djinn, succubi, and Orcs without blinking.)
My eyes scan the sea of green. Every male wears a kilt and a crisp white shirt that ripples from the muscles underneath, a fur and leather vest, and a long cloak flung back over their shoulders. King looks like some Orc model, with his short dark hair gelled to perfection and his brooding jaw slung under thick, pouty lips.
“Is that the hockey player?” Cindy whispers, following my gaze. “The one who was hitting on you?”
“Hockey player, yes. Hitting on me? Not... exactly.” I’m in no mood to explain scent attraction. Humans don’t have it, not to the same degree.
“If I didn’t have Lennox, I wouldn’t say no,” Cindy sighs.
I know she wouldn’t. Sometimes I wish I could just have sex for the sake of feeling good.
If there was anyone I’d finally let in... My head turns to Douglas.
His face is stone, carved peridot with an edge of agony.
Stop being selfish and horny, Georgia. Some people have real pain today. I’m sitting here wishing I could have what Georgie and Claire have, and Douglas is over there mourning that he had it and lost it. Leave him alone. He’s just not ready to move on, and maybe he never will be. Do you think Dad could move on if something happened to Mom?
Not a chance.
Diana slides her arm through mine. “You okay?”
“Emotional.”
That’s going to be the word of the day.