Chapter Twenty-Eight-Evie
I woke up hours later, tucked safely into my bed and—yep—totally naked.
Honestly, that was probably for the best.
I wouldn’t want to get magical ooze on my favorite floral sheets.
“You alive?” a gruff voice asked.
I groaned and peeked open one eye. “Ivan?”
The Domovyk sat at the foot of my bed like a squat little judgmental gargoyle with a permanent scowl.
“Yeah. No thanks to you. I thought you were my familiar, aren’t you supposed to help me?” I growled, clutching the blanket to my chest.
I always thought familiars were supposed to assist Witches with their magic—ya know, so we didn’t keel over from magical burnout.
And maybe, just maybe, show up when we’re facing down psychotic Wizard ex-boyfriends.
“I helped,” he huffed. “I got your Grandpa Al back. And I cleaned the cemetery. Magical ooze removal. You’re welcome.”
“What slime?”
“You didn’t notice the green goo dripping all over your family mausoleum?” Ivan asked, eyes bugging slightly.
“Oh, that slime. Ew. Why was it there?”
“It was a curse. The Wizard wanted your position and your power. Weak curses leave behind residue. Sticky residue. Very bad for property value.”
“Wait. How did you clean it? You’re like four feet tall.”
“Excuse you, I am four feet two and one third inches,” he scoffed. “I am also an expert in banishment rituals. And I borrowed your vacuum.”
“You used my thousand-dollar Witch-Shark Vac on demon goo?”
“It was very effective.”
I slapped my hand over my face. “Gaia help me.”
“I already did,” Ivan said smugly. “Also, you didn’t see me at the fight?”
“Uh, no?”
“I was there. Invisible, of course. Got your backside.”
“You mean you had my back,” I corrected.
“No. I mean your actual backside. Those sheets were a tragedy.”
“Typical male,” I muttered.
He stood up with a grumble. “Your Grandpa Al is safe. But he needs a proper burial. The tornado flung him all the way to Barvale. I brought him back.”
“Wait—Barvale?” I sat up too fast and instantly regretted it. “Holy hell. You brought him back?”
“Of course. I do my job. Also, your Werewolf is in the kitchen making stew. I will require two bowls. And some of those garlic knots he bought.”
“Stew?” I blinked.
“Yes. He cooks. And you passed out. He has been pacing like a lunatic and muttering about magical exhaustion and ‘damn stubborn Witches.’” Ivan narrowed his eyes. “He’s a keeper. Do not screw it up.”
“Thanks, Ivan,” I said, genuinely touched.
“You are welcome,” he grunted. “Now I go before you try to kiss me.”
And with a pop, he vanished from the bed.
I blinked, dazed, smiling stupidly at the ceiling.
My familiar believed in me.
My Grandpa’s ghost had my back.
My best friends were my cousins.
My town was safe.
And downstairs, my fated mate was making me stew.
For once in my life, everything felt right.
Even if I was still naked and had a little dried ghost goo on my skin.