Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Tripp Nightshade.
Elara was sharing an honest-to-god meal with Tripp Nightshade. She’d like to say the memory would be etched in her mind forever, but other than shamelessly watching him consume focaccia, she couldn’t recall what they’d been served.
“You’re not listening, flitter-mouse,” he admonished.
“No,” she admitted. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
Pushing aside his bowl, he shifted to face her, cocking up a leg and draping his arm along the booth seat. She nearly swooned at the sexy casual pose. Was he aware of the picture he made?
“I swear I’ll pay attention this time,” she lied, crossing her index finger over her heart.
His dimples flashed, and his eyes crinkled. “Doubtful. Where did your mind wander?”
Heat crept up her chest and into her face. “That’s best not said in polite company.”
“There’ll be time for that when we destroy the boots, Elara.” He tipped up her chin. “I need you to hear me.”
“Go on,” she urged, hoping he’d abandon his foolish plan.
“I was telling you about the French Revolution and, more importantly, about élise.”
Right. Another ex-lover.
Elara tried to quell the building jealousy, but his every story began with some female he’d been hot for, who was gifted a pair of shoes or boots like her. This idea of shoes magically transforming was preposterous, but she let him drone on, hoping to get to the good part, when they would become lovers, like the other women.
She sipped her red wine and nodded in sympathy as he told the tale of élise’s death. And when he spoke of Bonaparte, she showed the appropriate outrage. Glancing over his shoulder, she noted the time.
“Didn’t you tell Archer and Bohdan you would join them soon?”
His expression arrested. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
Busted.
“No. But this conversation is going nowhere, and I have to return to the bookstore. It’s only five days until Christmas, and I can’t leave Flo in a lurch.”
“Elara!”
She set her wine glass on the table with a sigh. “I love my purple boots, Tripp. They’re the most comfortable pair I’ve ever owned, and they’re gorgeous. I’ve worn them for over four days, and I feel fine. Not a single desire to burn down a city or start a revolution.”
“You’re not taking this seriously.”
“And you’re taking it too seriously.” She slid from the booth. “I’ve got to go. Do you want me to cover half the bill?”
His face was the stuff of thunderstorms. Dark and stormy, ready to shoot lightning bolts in every direction.
She blinked.
Maybe he was related to Zeus, after all.
“No, I don’t want you to pay,” he replied in a clipped voice. “I’ve got it.”
“Thanks.” With anyone else, she might’ve leaned in to kiss their cheek or, if they were dating, their lips. But his fury was off-putting, and she scurried away like the flitter-mouse he called her.
Just as she opened the door, he gripped the edge above her head, holding it in place. “We aren’t done with this conversation, Elara Hawthorne. Those boots are dangerous, and I won’t stop until you recognize it.”
“Yeah, okay. Talk soon.” With a wave, she ducked under his arm and hurried away. But every time she glanced over her shoulder, he was there, keeping pace to the bookstore. Granted, Witchmere was the size of a postage stamp, but still, it was intimidating.
Probably what he intended.
Elara was made of sterner stuff, and his tactics wouldn’t work on her. Much.
When she arrived at Never Too Many, business was booming, and it seemed half the townspeople mingled among the tourists. As far as she was concerned, books were the perfect gifts, but tonight was the busiest the store had ever been.
“Get over here, Elara,” Florence ordered with a scowl. “Where did you run off to? Can’t you see we’re as busy as one-armed paper hangers?”
“You mean your network of spies didn’t tell you?” she countered, tying on the pine-green logoed apron that made her skin look sallow. If she were the owner, she’d change them to a bright, cheerful pink. “And not for nothing, but I told you I was taking a break. Those are required by law.”
“Sass is not appropriate in a business setting, gel.”
“And yet yours is constant,” Payton said with an eye roll and a slap of novels on the counter. “These are for Mrs. Everett, and you’re about to be late for your meeting, Flo.”
“Yes.” Eyeing the crowded room with concern, she glanced between Elara and Payton. “Can you gels handle the rush?”
“Go,” Payton urged in a less challenging tone. “We won’t let you down.”
For once, Flo didn’t respond with snark as she patted Payton’s hand. “Thank you.”
“What the hell is going on, Pay?” Elara asked after she’d left. “Why is everyone acting all shady and shit?”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Tripp, Flo, Archer Roche, and Bohdan Sanderson.” She paused and smiled at Mrs. Everett as the petite, gray-haired woman approached. “Would you like these gift-wrapped, ma’am?”
“No, dear. I have no one left to share the holiday with. Those are for me.”
Elara shared a sad look with her sister. Mrs. Everett’s comment represented their worst fear: dying alone with no one to care what happened to them. She wanted to gather the frail older woman close and promise to cook her the best holiday feast known to man. The only problem? She couldn’t boil water without scorching a pan.
“I recognize that look, dear, but don’t you worry about me,” Mrs. Everett told her. “I’ve had a wonderful life, full of love and laughter.”
Payton smiled and skirted the counter with the bag of books. “Let me take these to your car for you.”
“Thank you, sweet Payton, but I walked here. I’d like Elara to escort me home if you don’t mind. She lives close to me.”
Elara shot her sister a panicked glance. Errand Girl wasn’t high on the skills she wanted on her resumé, but how did she deny the request when phrased so nicely? “If you can wait until the rush ends, I’d be happy to, Mrs. Everett,” she finally said with a resigned sigh.
The woman glanced around as if just noticing the crowd. A slight frown marred her brow, and her eyes appeared distressed. “Oh, my.”
“I’ll tell you what. How about I make you a nice cup of tea, and you wait in the reading area with one of your new books?” Payton suggested, wrapping an arm around the petite woman’s shoulders. “I promise, it’s no bother at all,” she added, cutting through an apologetic protest.
Elara marveled for the millionth time at how easily her sister handled people. Her unique brand of charm and million-watt smile got her whatever she wanted.
Except for approval from Mayor Cobb.
Speak of the Devil…
The sour-faced woman was next in line, and her glare spoke volumes. “When did Payton return to town?”
“This week.” Elara accepted the stack of hardbacks and began scanning the barcodes. “Will there be anything else for you today, Mayor?” she asked, accepting her credit card.
“Not unless you can send that girl back under the rock she crawled from.”
Fury exploded in Elara’s brain. This snobby twatasaurus was the reason for her sister’s unhappiness! Mary-Alice Cobb had some freaking nerve coming into Payton’s place of employment and starting her special brand of stinky-ass shit!
Whipping out Flo’s sharpest pair of shears, Elara cut the Mayor’s card in two.
“Declined!” she snapped.
“What?”
“Yeah, sorry. Looks like you’re overdrawn,” Elara declared in a ringing voice, making sure the customers at the end of the line heard. “ That’s embarrassing, huh, Mayor ?”
“You little bi?—”
“Careful,” Tripp warned from behind Elara.
She squeaked her surprise, like the mouse he’d nicknamed her. His arm encircled her waist in a protective gesture as he leaned toward Payton’s nemesis.
“Insulting her insults me, Mayor,” he said in a silky tone. “I promise you, you do not want to do that.”
But Mary-Alice refused to be cowered and sneered her disgust. “Mark my words, Tripp Nightshade. You’ll come to regret defending those good-for-nothing Hawthornes.”
“Doubtful,” he snapped.
Lightning flashed, and thunder boomed loud enough to vibrate the floor. The windows rattled, and the overhead chandeliers swayed.
From the corner of her eye, Elara detected movement. She waited until the Mayor sped on her way before she looked that way.
Dailey Cobb was resting a shoulder against the bookcase. With his thumbs tucked into his utility belt and booted feet crossed at the ankles, he appeared to be an indolent officer without a care in the world despite witnessing the confrontation with his mother.
The cold-eyed stare he graced her with sent a chill along her spine.
“That goes for you, too, Cobb,” Tripp said, shifting to stand between them. “The Hawthornes are under my protection.”
“Noted, Mr. Demigod,” Dailey replied with a mocking twist of his lips.
Fuck.
Word had spread about what Tripp was, and challenges would pour in soon, as they did wherever he landed. As a demigod, he was the top dog in town, and all the other wannabe alphas were quick to pick a fight they couldn’t win. As a hella-powerful warlock, Dailey Cobb might become a major problem.
The urge to ask if he’d been the one to produce the thunderous display was strong, but Tripp let it go. He’d discover the cause in due time.
In his distraction, he’d forgotten Elara’s fighting spirit was enhanced by the dreaded boots, and he wasn’t prepared for her shove. He almost fell into the credenza, doubling as a gift-wrapping station behind the counter.
“I’m sorry about your mother, Dailey,” she said, charging forward and slapping the mutilated credit card in the officer’s hands. “But if either of you think you’re going to harass my sister, you’re grossly mistaken.”
“Hm. Maybe I dated the wrong Hawthorne,” he drawled.
The comment detonated a rage bomb inside Tripp’s head. This time, he was the one who produced the elemental shit-storm. The overhead lights flashed, thunder boomed, and the bookshelves rocked precariously.
“Rein it in, Enguerrand,” Florence said, sidling up to him. “And get your arse over to the meeting.” She held up a hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll escort Dailey myself. But if you boys believe for one second that I’ll allow fighting in my store, magical or otherwise, you’ve another think coming. Understood?”
“But El?—”
“In case you missed it, Elara has a spine of steel,” Payton assured him as she joined their small group and accepted books from the next wide-eyed customer in line. “Hello, Mr. Caldwell. Will there be anything else today? No? How is Mrs. Caldwell?”
Tripp looked at Elara with new eyes.
His girl possessed a fire in her soul, and her hands were balled into fists as she stalked back to the counter. “I thought you had somewhere to be, Flo. I told you Payton and I could handle things here.”
“And I believed ya, gel, but when the Mayor accosted me on the street and threatened to shut down my shop, I thought it was best to return.”
“She did what ?” Payton shoved Caldwell’s purchase into his hands with more force than necessary and slammed the register drawer. “That miserable cow! What I wouldn’t give to turn her into a toad!”
Elara nodded. “We should?—”
Clapping a hand over her mouth, Tripp responded with a vehement shake of his head.
“Don’t even think it, Elara.” Placing his mouth next to her ear, he lowered his voice and said, “Remember the boots, flitter-mouse. A Trickster conjured them if you recall, and you’ll be unable to remove any curse you create while they’re on your feet.”
Peeling his fingers away, she glared.
“I don’t like being controlled, Tripp Nightshade, and I’ll advise you to knock it off,” she growled.
Florence and Payton wore equally challenging expressions, causing him to throw up his hands in defeat.
“Teach her about consequences, Florence,” he warned. “It’s your job, now.”
“She already understands, and if you truly knew anything about her, you’d see she’s a responsible adult.” Florence thumped his chest. “Get yourself and that momma’s boy out of my shop. Neither of you had better set foot in here again until you’ve learned to show respect for my granddaughters.”
Tripp’s jaw sagged, not from the challenge itself but because of her slip.
Dailey shifted forward as he registered Payton’s shock, but Tripp’s pot of give-a-shit-about-anyone-but-Elara was on the back burner, and he held up a hand to halt Dailey’s progress.
Tears filled Elara’s wide china-blue eyes as she gaped at Florence. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
The store grew silent as everyone held their collective breath, waiting for the answer.
“I wanted to,” Florence confessed hoarsely. “So many times I started to tell you, but I…” She shook her head in despair.
Unable and unwilling to let others witness their pain, Tripp snapped his fingers, freezing the entire room except for the Hawthornes and Florence.
“Now’s not the time,” he warned gently. “The gawkers?—”
“I don’t give a flea on a rat’s ass what these people think,” Florence snapped. “I never did. I only care about my gels.”
“If you cared so damned much, why didn’t you say something?” Payton cried. “You had years to find us—in addition to the three we were here!”
“I didn’t want you to hate me for causing your parents’ disappearance,” she confessed.
Tripp’s heart ached for her. “You aren’t to blame. You never were.”