Page 39 of Hungry As Her Python

Honestly, it made her sort of cool.

Well, when she wasn’t single-handedly making me late.

“Here you go,” I said, tying the string into a neat bow.

I took her cash, thanked her, and herded her out the door like a one-woman ostrich wrangler.

The moment she was out, I flipped the sign to CLOSED with a flourish.

Then I turned toward the back. “Petyr! Got the paint?”

The door creaked open, and my familiar shuffled in, his little claws clicking against the tile.

Petyr was not your average Witch familiar.

No bat, owl, cat or talking zebra, like the one Mrs. O’Reilly kept in a stable in her backyard,

Oh no. Not for me or my girls.

Domovyks were their own category of supernatural—super strong, ridiculously loyal, magically gifted, and entirely incapable of blending into polite society.

Where most familiars were decidedly normal, Petyr was well, imagine a three-and-a-half-foot-tall furball with shaggy gray-and-black hair, bulbous eyes, curled ram-like horns, and a tail that dragged like he was sweeping the floor everywhere he went.

Add a dash of Slavic house-spirit mythos and the attitude of a retired mob boss, and that was my Petyr.

Goddess, help me.

Chapter Twelve-Bella

“Yes, my Witchy. I got the paint. You have enough Totally Teal in satin finish to fix the spot,” he said, setting the can down like it was a sacred offering.

Then, muttering under his breath, “I don’t see why I could not fix for you.”

“It’ll upset the balance if I let you use too much magic in here, Petyr. You know that,” I reminded him, for the thirty-seventh time this month.

“But I wish to help.”

“I know you do, but when you signed on to be my familiar, you agreed to protect, serve, and help me grow my abilities. You can’t do that if you just do everything for me,” I said, giving him my best stern-older-cousin voice.

“Yes, but Bella, you must let me help tonight.”

“You are helping,” I pointed out. “Who went back to the house for the paint?”

“Me,” he admitted, plopping his furry butt onto my clean countertop and crossing his legs like he was settling in for a fireside chat.

Yeah. Definitely wiping that counter down before baking tomorrow.

When Petyr worked in the kitchen, he wore a tiny chef’s coat I’d ordered from a children’s dress-up shop.

Because even though Domovyks weren’t exactly health code compliant, I had standards.

“Alright, Totally Teal, let’s make some magic,” I muttered, grabbing the brush and getting to work on the patched section of wall.

Elmo’s Hardware had the good stuff, even if Elmo himself was an opinionated old Warlock who smelled vaguely of pickled herring.

I was almost done—just a little trim touch-up where I’d dripped—when I called, “Petyr, what time is it?”

“It is 7:22?—”