Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
From her corner of the bookshop, Brelenia observed her son’s interactions with the mortals. Whether he cared to admit it or not, he loved Elara. She hadn’t been worthy in her incarnations as Elaina, élise, or any other women Tripp had been attracted to. But now, the girl stood a fighting chance. For the first time in history, Elara ruled the boots, not vice versa.
No, the current problem was Enguerrand’s battle-scarred heart. If he didn’t stop causing earthquakes and bookstore fires with his intense emotions, Mt. Rainier would blow, and it wouldn’t be a minor eruption. It would be as epic as Pompeii.
“Nice disguise, Brelenia of Messia,” a deep, amused voice said beside her. She didn’t need to look up to know who was there.
“Hello, Hermes.”
“Does my cousin still believe those boots were created by any old Trickster?” he asked casually.
Brelenia did glance at him then. “I told him they were a gift from a jilted suitor.”
Hermes chuckled and took the seat opposite her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, curious what he was about all these years later.
Based on his black, close-cropped hair and beard, the modern cold-weather clothing, and superior air, he was attempting to pass as a mortal in the small town of Witchmere.
“Same as you, I imagine.” Unbuttoning his navy pea coat, he crossed his legs and poured himself a spot of tea. Although he sipped from the delicate cup, he didn’t look ridiculous, as one might expect of an uber-masculine male.
“You seem at home among mortals,” she said.
He snorted a laugh, and his emerald eyes twinkled. “And no one would guess you’re not a frail old woman who has ‘no one left to share the holiday with.’”
“Mrs. Everett was a well-respected citizen of this town, I’ll have you know.” Brelenia grinned. “And I appreciate the use of her body now that she’s transitioned to the next world.”
“The meat suit is borrowed?” Hermes’s dark brows shot up. “Considering you’re a goddess, one would assume you’d glamour.”
She shuddered. “Must you be crass? ‘Meat suit’ is such an ugly term. As an advocate of humans, I would think you’d be kinder.”
“Apologies, love.” His grin belied any contrived contriteness. Glancing at the cast of players in Tripp’s drama, his gaze sharpened. “Who’s the blonde?”
“Elara. She’s meant for Enguerrand, so don’t interfere,” she warned.
“No, I’m familiar with her. Who is the other one behind Florence Shaw?”
“Elara’s sister and she’s also off limits to you. Payton is meant for the stubborn warlock in the uniform.”
It was Hermes’s turn to shudder. “A warlock? Seriously? The girl could do better.”
“Like you, for example?”
“For example.”
Brelenia laughed. “They’re going through a rough patch at the moment. I don’t believe they are meant to reconcile for at least another year, in case you wish to show her a good time. However, don’t either of you fall in love. That way lies tragedy, dear boy.”
“I don’t fall into feelings, as well you know.”
His words held an edge, and her heart pinged. “You’ll get over your heartache one day, Hermes. I promise you.”
“I’m over it now. As the enchanted shoes attested, you and your mortal were always meant to be. He passed the tests.” His sad eyes locked with hers, and there was longing in their depths. “You were never like the rest of us, Brel. Perhaps that’s what made you more attractive to me than anyone else.”
“But I don’t subscribe to inter-family relationships, as you know. And having seen you in nappies, knowing you’re not well endowed, I’m not interested,” she teased, hoping to lighten the mood.
As the son of her brother Zeus, Hermes would never win her as a lover. Brelenia spoke the truth. All the incestuous relationships between the Gods and royalty made her physically ill.
“Besides, dear boy, our kind is already inbred enough, and half are mad.”
“Yes.” Pasting on a game smile, he stole a cookie from her plate and examined it. “That’s precisely why I intend to take a page from your book and look elsewhere for love, should I ever desire to feel my heart crushed again.”
She laughed as he intended she should. “And in the meantime?”
“I’ll watch you torture your son with enchanted footwear,” he quipped with a wicked grin.
Brelenia narrowed her eyes. “What did you do, Hermes?”
“Nothing.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” she asked dryly, raising a stern brow.
“Because you’re supremely untrusting, love.”
“Fair.” She turned her gaze back to her son’s drama, confident she appeared suspended like the Witchmere residents. Hermes was visible only to her or Enguerrand, should he happen to glance their way. “What are their chances this time, do you suppose?”
“The stakes are higher.”
Her heart rate increased. “How so?”
“Rainier is active beneath the Earth’s crust. It won’t take much for them to trigger it.”
Just as she suspected!
“Like Pompeii?” she clarified.
“Yes.”
“And Witchmere will be lost?”
“Along with this entire corner of North America.”
“What did you do, Hermes? How can we help them succeed?”
“It’s why I’m here. This is their final chance, Brel. Either they get it right, or the mountain blows.” He covered her hand and squeezed. “I didn’t alter the boots. Tripp and Elara did that, causing them to gain strength from the chaos of the past. Lovers have seven lifetimes to succeed. These two have already had six.”
Her heart sank. Enguerrand was as stubborn as they came, and getting him to acknowledge his affection for Elara would be difficult. “Do I tell him?”
“That he and all those he’s come to care about have less than seventy-two hours to live?” Hermes grimaced.
“Hermes, help me. Please.” Tears burned her eyes. “I cannot lose my son.”
His gaze dropped to their clasped hands, and his mouth firmed. Brelenia felt his fingers tighten, and his unimaginable power boosted hers.
“You won’t, love. We’ll do what we must.”
He brushed away the single tear she shed. Balancing the drop on his finger, he shifted in Tripp’s direction and blew, sending Brelenia’s tear across the room to mingle with Elara’s. Magic existed in the single drop.
“Courage, dear girl,” he said. “Stand firm in your convictions this time.” Shooting Brelenia a side glance, he grinned. “Perhaps you should invite her around for tea tomorrow, love. I have a plan to shake the ground under Tripp’s feet.”
“And not in an erupting volcano way?” she asked.
He laughed, snapped his fingers, and disappeared into a shimmering light.
The accusatory looks from her granddaughters hurt Florence. They’d been left alone to fend for themselves since they were teenagers. Yet, they weren’t entirely alone. She’d always watched over them, instilling a magical tracker on their vehicles when they were out on dates, creating trusts for them to draw from after their parents disappeared, and chasing away anyone who didn’t have their best interests at heart.
She glanced at Tripp.
He was the exception.
Although Flo suspected he truly cared about Elara, the man would ultimately break her girl’s heart. Just as George Shaw had hers and Rupert Hawthorne had her daughter, Mae’s. The Shaws were cursed in love. Had been from the beginning of time. All it took was one ancestor to run afoul of a jealous deity, and their family was marked for eternity.
Cutting a fleeting glance at the alcove, Flo grimaced. When Brelenia came to her with her cockamamie plan, Flo should’ve told her no. But the Goddess had promised she’d break the Shaw curse, stating if Flo didn’t interfere between Tripp and Elara, things would be set to rights for their family.
“My entire line is to blame, Enguerrand,” she told Tripp. Looking at her granddaughters, she tapped out a cigarette from its silver case and popped it in the corner of her mouth. Of course, she’d never light up inside the bookshop, but the comforting feel against her lip gave her courage in the face of their hostility.
Elara’s wounded eyes were worse than Payton’s frosty stare.
Flo shouldn’t play favorites. Yet Payton, with her golden hair and narrow, upturned eyes, was the spitting image of her father, whereas Elara resembled Mae with her china-blue gaze and pale locks.
Wasn’t she bound to be sentimental at her age?
“I still don’t understand why you didn’t say anything,” Elara croaked as if holding back sobs. “We were so lost after… after… so lost.”
“She’s a mean bitch who doesn’t care about anyone but herself,” Payton stated coldly. She wrapped her arm around her sister’s shoulders, and their unity was beautiful. “It probably never occurred to her to take us in. It might disrupt her hermit lifestyle.”
“Florence doesn’t deserve your scorn, Payton,” Tripp said. “She’s?—”
“Don’t.” Flo shook her head. “You should go, Enguerrand. Restore time and take Dailey to the meeting. I’ll be there soon.”
As he began to object, the door blew open, and a swirl of snow accompanied a dark-haired man with piercing emerald eyes.
She whipped her head back toward the alcove. The man who had been with Brelenia was now the stranger at the shop entrance, brushing snow from his shoulders.
What the devil was going on?
He sent them a roguish grin. “The elements are in flux. Now I see why.”
Tripp swore viciously and repeatedly, snagging everyone’s notice and causing them to take a second glance at the newcomer.
“Elements?” Elara withdrew from Payton’s comforting embrace and circled the end of the counter to peer out the window. “What in the forceful flurry is happening?” she exclaimed.
“It tends to happen when three witches from an ancient bloodline, a powerful warlock, and a demigod are in emotional turmoil.” The dark-haired man frowned. “Although, there isn’t much coming from the exceedingly dull policeman. How is it possible?” he mused, almost to himself. “Tripp?”
“Those fucking boots.”
“Ah.”
Elara’s focus ping-ponged between the two men. “You know each other?”
“Right. I forgot mortals these days aren’t taught the old ways.” The stranger held out his hand. “Hermes.”
Slackjawed, she stared, earning a weary sigh from Tripp.
“My cousin,” he said, glaring at Hermes. “What are you doing here?”
“I’d think it would be obvious. I’ve come to help you prevent a volcanic eruption.”