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“Yes, she called me. And it looks like it’s a good thing.” Violet beelined to me and jammed two fingers into my wrist to check my pulse, healer reflexes going into override.

I pulled my hand away. “I’m honestly fine. It will pass. I’m sorry you were called away from your event.”

Tristan, her husband appeared in the doorway. From his stunned look, I knew I must still look pretty bad.

But I was determined to reassure them. “You had the perfect excuse not to be here tonight. I’m sorry I ruined your escape plan.”

We loved spending time with my parents, and family dinner would be wonderful if Mom would let us just order delivery.

Violet waved away my apology, then pressed the same hand to my forehead.

“You are sweaty, but I don’t think you have a fever. How much of mom’s food did you eat? And what was it?”

“Supposedly shrimp creole,” I mumbled, collapsing back on the cushions. “Just one bite. Apparently one bite too many.”

Violet’s purple eyes widened. “You know to never touch anything with seafood.”

“I know,” I groaned as I swallowed down another bout of nausea.

“In the old country, we respected food. We did not try to kill our family with soup. Here? It is anarchy! Merde!”

When I felt better, I’d ask him what the heck he knew about the old country. And what old country was he talking about? He was born in the bayou.

Etienne returned with a glass of ice water. He smiled with relief to see Violet and Tristan. He brought me the glass, leaning over me to kiss my clammy brow. The gesture would have been romantic if I didn’t feel like the Swamp Thing’s less attractive cousin.

“Did you tell your sister that this has happened more than this one time?” he asked.

Great, he outed me. I shot him an irritated look over the rim of the glass as I took a sip of the gloriously cold water. He shrugged, utterly unrepentant.

“This has happened before?” Violet said. “Then I doubt it’s food poisoning. Even though that was a reasonable deduction.”

“I heard that,” Mom said, walking into the sitting room, followed by my stepfather, JR. They both looked concerned. No one was making me feel reassured here.

Violet immediately gave Mom a contrite look. Even though our mother’s cooking never improved, we still tried to protect her feelings as much as we could.

“It wasn’t my best attempt,” Mom admitted. Of course, it was hard to pick a better attempt.

“When this happened before, did you have a headache? Or just the nausea?” Violet asked, going back into doctor mode.

“I’m a full-spectrum disaster,” I told her. “Head, stomach, soul, whatever’s left.”

Violet pulled at my eyelids, then made me stick out my tongue and say, “Ah.” Then she spread out her hands and hovered them over my body.

“You’re not dying,” she announced, “but your aura looks like a pileup at a Mardi Gras parade. When did this illness start?”

I ignored her question, frowning. “Why did you poke me in the eyes and stare in my mouth if you could just do the hand thing?”

“Habit,” she said, which I guess made sense. She treated humans more than witches. Then she turned to Etienne. “When did she start having these bouts?”

“Off and on for about three weeks or so,” he said without glancing at me for verification. Although he was accurate.

I rolled my eyes and took a sip of my water. Which was helping. Thank Goddess.

My sister put her hands on her hips, her patented “let’s be scientific” stance. “Is anyone else sick?”

Etienne shook his head. “No. And this is the worst reaction she has had.

Jocko snorted, and I knew he wanted to make another comment about my mother’s food. But he contained himself. Shocking.