The upset rolling off of Miss Cercel the entire way up the hill to my home outside town is making my ever-worsening mood take a nosedive. Were it anyone else after me, I would have let them deal with her, however, I will not have the repeated rape of Rosilyn Cercel on my conscience. I can’t.

The last straw in the evening, however, is the Strigoi Mort standing at the bottom of my stairs, that stupid knowing grin on his face as I follow behind Miss Cercel, who has the most peculiar look on her face.

“Dimitri, now is not the time for a drink,” I sigh, motioning for him to leave, but he simply waves me off, dismissively and gives Miss Cercel a kind smile.

“I’m not here for you—I’m here for my Anna.”

What?

My heavy brows pinch together as I watch Dimitri hug my new witch and kiss her temple, as her slender arms wrap around what is no doubt a new thousand plus dollar suit.

“Hopefully the big, mean Mothman has been kind to you?”

“Surprisingly, yes, he has been.” Rosilyn murmurs.

“Florea, you’re absolutely ridiculous. Now may I get Miss Cercel settled and fed, it’s been a long day for the both of us and I’d rather not stand in the yard all night.”

“Then go open the door,” my oldest friend rolls his eyes as he stoops and scoops up the red haired witch in a bridal carry.

“Mitri—”

“I’m not putting you down; your feet look like they’re frozen. Now to open the door—unless I am the one who hasta do everything around here.”

I set my jaw, keen on keeping my composure in front of my new witch and walk up the stairs. My foot fall is heavier than normal as I finally make it to the landing. The key

makes it swiftly into its home and no sooner have I turned the knob, Dimitri is planting his dirty shoe on my door to kick it open and bring Miss Cercel inside.

“Dimitri—is there a particular reason, Miss Cercel makes you especially sassy or am I just lucky today?”

“Both,” he poses it as a question before nodding. “Both is a good answer, is it now? After all, you are my nearest and dearest friend. Showing you ‘sass’ here and there is my

form of showing you love.”

“Love me a little less, tonight, if you can?” I motion to the couch as I walk past it and stoop at the fireplace to light the kindling for Miss Cercel’s borderline blue feet. What

use is a Witch who loses her feet to hypothermia? None.

The grate screeches against the hearth as it’s moved aside for the lit match to make its way in. Flames take root immediately, radiating heat that should reach Miss Cercel in a matter of minutes. The red and gray brick of the fireplace wiggles under the pressure of my

hand as I push against it to stand and look to see that Dimitri coax her feet onto a pillow

that he’s set on my coffee table nearer to the growing heat of the fire.

“I was mistaken. Now is the time for a drink,” I mumble and walk to my wet bar that is likely older than Miss Cercel’s late father and pull out my favorite brandy and a couple

glasses. “Whoever wants one, speak now or forever hold your peace.”