Page 20 of Hungry As Her Python

Take Magdelena, La Befana herself.

She’s famous for hoovering half a dessert table without breaking a sweat.

She also loves my Undeath By Chocolate brownies so much, she demands them at all her Coven gatherings.

I recently sent her two dozen as a thank-you for giving me Petyr, my familiar.

She replied that she had eaten them all in a single sitting.

And yet, still thin as a broomstick.

Meanwhile, I just look at a cookie, and my jeans get tighter.

Not that I hate my body—Goddess, no. I loved my curves.

But keeping them in check? That was a full-time job.

At least I didn’t suffer alone. Donny and Evie were built the same—big bosoms, soft hips, the kind of bubble butts that made Shifters walk into lampposts, which was totally a perk by the way.

And we all shared the same appreciation for sweets. Scratch that—addiction. It was definitely an addiction.

Maybe it’s in the blood.

After all, my besties and me? Well, it turns out we have more than our chunky butts in common.

Enter Grandpa Al—legendary Warlock, shameless flirt, and total hound.

Apparently, fidelity wasn’t in his vocabulary. Which, honestly, explained a lot, including why his Ghost was missing his magical no-no square (thanks, Evie’s Nonna).

So there it was—proof positive.

Our special metabolism wasn’t just a fluke of fate.

It was genetic.

The three of us weren’t just besties, we were cousins. We shared the same bloodline. And sometimes?

Even the same jeans—the denim kind.

Made sense, right?

Anyway, it wasn’t easy being part of the select few supernaturals who suffered from tuchus gigantamous—an extremely rare and extremely stubborn condition passed down from my Aunt Edna’s side of the family tree.

Thanks, Auntie. Really. Love the genes.

Of course, being a baker probably wasn’t the wisest career choice if I wanted to slim down my, uh, assets.

But honestly? Of the three of us, I didn’t have much of a problem with it.

I liked myself—hips, thighs, triple-Ds, and all.

The way I saw it, you can’t spread joy with a side of insecurity.

Still, back to Petyr.

My familiar wasn’t your average cute-and-cuddly magical sidekick. He was unusual, true, but his powers were ridiculously cool.

He didn’t seem to have a limit to what he could do. I mean, where my Witchy magic had boundaries—strict ones—Petyr seemed to laugh at the very concept of rules.