Page 28 of Hungry As Her Python

“My Witchy must not cry!” Petyr puffed out his chest like a tiny, homicidal general. “The arson must be stopped, da? I will set trap for him and tear him limb from limb!”

“Oh, um, catching them would be nice. But maybe no limb-tearing?”

“Fine. Will make torture device instead, da?”

Yikes. I made a mental note to set up a Swoosh call with Magdelena—she spoke at least fourteen magical languages and was great at talking familiars down from murder.

But that could wait.

Right now, I had a whole laundry list of things to do.

Finish cleaning up this mess before the smell of burned sheetrock, lighter fluid, and my singed pride made me faint.

Give my statement to a certain tall, devastatingly sexy firefighter-slash-deputy who I’d been avoiding ever since we slept together and I snuck out the next morning without so much as a “later, gator.”

Get the bakery up and running before a line of caffeine-deprived, sugar-hungry supernaturals decided to stage a coup.

The Tasty Tart was the morning spot in Castor’s Corner, and people here were creatures of habit.

Once, I came back from vacation a day late and found actual picketers outside my door.

It was traumatic—for them and for me.

So I tied on a fresh apron—not my favorite, pink one, but it would have to do—and I swept, scrubbed, and polished like my life depended on it.

The damage could have been worse—even I was big enough to admit that.

It was mostly on one side of the storefront. Of course, some things took bigger hits than others. Like one of my custom floor-to-ceiling oak racks, and a patch of wall behind it.

But still, wood was good.

That was becoming my motto now.

“Put it on a business card,” I muttered, kicking at a splinter.

Right after I finished sweeping, I fumigated with a tried-and-true little hex I learned from my mother—who invented it the day she’d had quite enough of Dad’s post–taco night air raids—I planted my feet, raised my hands, and chanted:

“By thyme and sage, by lemon bright,

Purge this place of stink and blight.

From floor to rafter, cleanse the air,

Leave sweetness, warmth, and love to spare.

Goddess bless my humble shop —

and please, no more eau de gym sock!”

The magic swirled, sparkled, and whisked away every trace of burned sheetrock, lighter fluid, and bad memories until my bakery smelled like fresh lemon cake again.

Once it was over, I stood basking in the glow of my accomplishments until I noticed the brand new, state-of-the-art magical alarm system above the door blinking at me.

So, I gave it the finger.

The alarm hadn’t stopped anything.

Our mystery firebug had waltzed right past it, torched my shelf, and destroyed several of my favorite things—my pink apron, my rolling pin, my award placard, and the mug Evie and Donny gave me with all three of us grinning like idiots.