Page 25 of Kissing Potions and Elves (Oakvale Ever After #1)

LYRION

I stare in shock as the village square devolves into complete madness.

Ms. Fenwick and Mayor Finley are now singing a love ballad to one another. While two elderly gentlemen fling insults and pastries at each other across the central fountain—éclairs and cupcakes soaring dramatically through the air, frosting and cream splattering like delicious battlefield debris.

“Your begonias are an insult to horticulture! They’re so wilted, even the bees refuse to visit them!” Mr. Jenkins bellows, lobbing a raspberry tart that lands squarely on Mr. Wardly’s head.

“Well, your petunias wouldn’t win a prize even if the judges were blindfolded!” Wardly counters, his voice muffled through cream filling and indignation.

Isobel stands at my side, her delicate hand gripping my sleeve as she stares slack-jawed at the chaos. “You really think it’s my cupcakes causing all of this?”

I think of the pink glitter erupting each time they hit their targets, spreading through the crowd. “I’m almost certain of it.”

“Why has it not affected us?”

“I’m not sure.” My mind races as I sort through various possibilities. “Perhaps because we are already under the effects of the kissing potion,” I give her my best guess. “It might make us immune somehow to this new spell.”

I turn to her. “Show me what ingredient you used again. Quickly.”

We hurry back to the café, weaving through villagers engaged in increasingly ridiculous outbursts of passion and anger.

Back in the café kitchen, all her ingredients are on the counter where she left them. I sift through each one, reading the labels carefully.

“What about this?” Isobel thrusts a jar toward me. “Could the brightroot powder be bad somehow?”

My stomach drops when I dust the white flour from the label. “This is passionflower. Not joyflower.”

“Oh no,” Isobel breathes. Her hands tremble as she takes the container, eyes wide as she reads the label. “This is all my fault. I messed up again.”

In her defense, the two ingredients appear very similar in color and texture. They belong to the same plant family, and they are easy to mix up. But passionflower is extremely potent, even in small quantities. “How much did you use?”

She swallows hard. “One whole cup.”

My jaw drops.

“Oh stars, Lyrion.” She paces back and forth. “What are we going to do?”

“It’s going to be alright.” I grip her shoulders, stopping her in her tracks. “We can fix this, but we’re going to need Tressa’s help.”

I usher Isobel outside, spotting Tressa nearby. But the moment she sees me, her eyes light up.

“Oh, Lyrion!” Tressa throws her arms around me, fluttering her wings. “Have I ever mentioned how alluring your elegant scowls are?”

“What?” I struggle to extricate myself from her embrace. “I mean, no.” I clear my throat. “We need your help, Tressa.”

“Anything for you.” She lunges for me again, but I grab her wrists, carefully holding her at arm’s length. “You handsome and broody Elf.”

I glance back at Isobel. Tressa’s brother—Cyran—stands before her, his eyes alight with adoration.

He takes her hand with a flourish, wing spread in a wide display as his voice rings out.

“Oh, Isobel! Your hair shines brighter than gold, your eyes more captivating than the most brilliant gemstones.”

“Lyrion.” Isobel gives me a concerned look. “I think we’re in trouble.”

I’m once again astounded by her gift for understatement.

Cyran presses a kiss to the back of her knuckles and a hot surge of jealousy coils in my chest. In one swift movement, I release Tressa’s wrists, sidestepping her attempt to hug me again as I move between Isobel and Cyran. “Back off, Fae. Find someone else to lavish your attention upon.”

Cyran pouts dramatically, trying to step around me to get close to Isobel. “I could never! My heart beats only for sweet Isobel!”

“I said back off .” I growl low in warning. “Before you regret it.”

He ignores me and begins spouting lines of poetry to Isobel, his hand over his heart as he gives a performance worthy of theater.

A large shadow suddenly blocks out the sunlight behind me and I look back to see Brakkus. The Orc blacksmith appears immune and visibly baffled. “You’re not affected?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I have questions, but now is not the time.

Cyran takes advantage of my momentary distraction to try to dart around me again, but I throw out my leg, tripping him.

My triumph is short-lived, however, as Tressa tackles me, knocking me off balance. I stumble forward and we crash to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs.

“Oh, Lyrion, are you hurt?” she grabs my face between her hands, squishing my cheeks as she gazes down at me in concern. “Please, tell me you’re alright.”

“I’m fine,” I grind out, struggling to squirm out of her grasp. “Now, kindly leave me be.”

“What are you saying?” To my surprise she steps back, blinking at me in confusion. “Surely, you don’t mean that, my broody and gorgeous Elf.”

Standing, I straighten my tunic. “I assure you that I do.”

Cyran pushes to his feet, smiling like a lovesick fool as he begins serenading Isobel. He starts toward her again, but I sweep my leg out, tripping him once more, his love song ending abruptly in a startled yelp as he falls flat on his face.

Recovering quickly, Cyran leaps up, wings buzzing in irritation as he glares at me. “Now, listen here, Elf.” He stabs a finger at my chest. “I’ll not have you keeping me from wooing Isobel. I’ll—”

I bare my fangs in warning. “Remove your finger from my chest before I remove it from your hand,” I growl.

Lightning fast, Brakkus wraps his massive arms around his friend, pinning his arms and wings to his side as he lifts him off his feet.

“What are you doing?” Cyran kicks out, trying to free himself. “Put me down, Brakkus,” he snarls. “I have an Elf I need to deal with.”

“Seven hells, Cyran. You’ll lose a limb to that Elf. You’re not in your right mind,” Brakkus growls, exasperated. “Now, let it go. Isobel isn’t interested in you.”

“She’s not?” Cyran asks as if this is one of the most ridiculous things he’s ever heard. “But I’m so handsome. How could she resist all of this?” He somehow manages to gesture at himself despite still being restrained. “I’m far more attractive than Lyrion.”

“Of course, you are.” Brakkus purses his lips.

“Let me down,” he demands.

“No,” Brakkus states firmly. “Not until I know you’re in control of yourself.”

“Oh, I see what this is.” Cyran glances over his shoulder at the Orc.

“Really, Brakkus, I had no idea you felt this way, but it’s perfectly understandable that you’re jealous.

I mean, I am exceptionally handsome, even among my own kind.

And you’re quite… fetching for an Orc, of course, but I’m afraid my tastes lean decidedly feminine. ”

“That’s not what this is at all.” Brakkus rolls his eyes. “Now, I’m going to set you down, but you need to leave Isobel alone. She doesn’t want you.”

“Is this true, fair Isobel?” Cyran gives her a pleading look.

She nods, and he gasps, the shock on his face nothing short of dramatic.

Tressa shares a commiserating look with her brother before turning to me with a passionate sigh. “Oh, Lyrion. We would be perfect together. We—”

“Please, Tressa,” I mutter, narrowly dodging another hug. “You must focus. You’re under the influence of magic, and I need your help to fix this.”

Half-heartedly, she nods. She, Cyran, and Brakkus follow us back to the café.

While the chaos continues in the village square, we gather the herbs needed to counter the passionflower’s effects, mixing them hastily into sparkling golden dust.

Once it’s done, I throw a pinch at Tressa and Cyran.

They blink in confusion for a moment before coming back to their senses.

“Stars in heaven!” Tressa gasps. “I can’t believe I did that.” She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t even fancy High Elves. They walk around thinking they’re the gods’ gift to the seven realms.”

I purse my lips, choosing to ignore the slight, while Cyran apologizes profusely to Isobel.

Sighing heavily, I push two pouches of the antidote toward Cyran and Tressa. “I need you to take this and fly overhead, scattering it over the square. Can you do that?”

They both nod and then fly over the festival, scattering the golden dust across the crowd, gradually calming their outlandish behaviors.

After a few minutes, the villagers stop, their confusion giving way to embarrassed laughter. Sheepish apologies echo through the square as everyone begins tidying up the aftermath of their destruction.

Cyran claps Brakkus warmly on the shoulder, chuckling as he apologizes to him and Isobel again for his dramatic display.

Brakkus grunts, his lips twitching with reluctant amusement.

Tressa approaches me, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “I can’t believe I threw myself at you,” she says, covering her face.

I’m tempted to point out that she has yet to apologize for her disdainful remarks about High Elves but decide to let it go. “All is forgiven.”

We join the rest of the villagers, working together to clean up the destruction. When we’re finished, Mayor Finley walks up to Isobel. He holds the blue ribbon out to her. It’s covered in frosting. “I forgot to give you this.”

“Thank you, but I can’t accept it.” She winces. “Especially after what happened.”

“Nonsense,” he smiles, placing it in her hand anyway.

“It was an honest mistake.” He claps a hand on her shoulder.

“Besides, look how your magic pulled us all together.” He gestures to the villagers now gathered around the tables, drinking cider and laughing merrily as they discuss what happened. “No harm was truly done, Isobel.”

“You can play a round of cards with us, Finley,” Ms. Fenwick calls out. “But only if you promise not to sing.” She winks and they both laugh.

He turns back to Isobel. “See?” He shrugs. “I can’t remember the last time we had a festival this exciting.” He grins. “I’m sure we’ll be talking about this one for years.”

He walks over to his friends and Isobel glances at me. “I’m going to clean up. I’ll be ready to leave shortly.”

Before I can answer, she’s already disappeared back into the café.

I’m about to follow her, but Brakkus calls out, stopping me abruptly.

I turn to face him with a curious look.

“Thank you for showing restraint toward Cyran.” He gives me a toothy grin. “I would have hated to pummel you in front of Isobel. Especially since you two are courting.”

I don’t point out to him that I doubt he could best me in a fight. Instead, I reply, “We’re not courting. She’s merely… assisting in my work.”

“Is that so?”

“It is.”

He crosses his massive arms over his broad chest. “Well, if this ‘assisting’ in any way breaks her heart, you and I are going to have a problem. Do you understand?”

My indignation flares, but I tamp it back down. This is the third time he’s threatened me, regarding Isobel. But his concern for her is admirable, and I respect it. “Perfectly.”

“Good.”

With that, he walks away, and I turn back to the café to check on her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Isobel,” Tressa calls out as she leaves through the back door.

“Alright.”

I follow the sound of Isobel’s reply and find her in the kitchen. She’s sitting on a wooden stool, her back to me and her head in her hands.

Concerned, I walk over to her. “Isobel, what’s wrong?”

“I nearly ruined the entire festival.”

“It was a simple mistake.”

She looks up, eyes red-rimmed. “How can you, of all people, say that? Especially after what I did to you, Lyrion. Stars above, I bewitched you with a kissing potion.”

Bewitched isn’t quite the right term, but that’s neither here nor there. Now’s not the time to correct her.

“I just wish I wasn’t so clumsy.” She presses her head into her palms again with a low groan. “I seem to always be causing trouble.”

I place two fingers under her chin, tipping her face up to mine. “You’re being much too hard on yourself.”

A tear slips down her cheek, but I brush it away with my thumb. “What happened today was an accident... the same with the kissing potion. You have a kind heart, Isobel, and truth be told the potion’s effects aren’t all that terrible.”

She sniffles, wiping another tear away. “You truly don’t think so?”

I nod.

A small, hopeful smile blooms across her lovely face, making my pulse quicken. My gaze drops to her lips, my thoughts drifting back to our kiss in the cellar.

Vaelar’s heart, I want so badly to taste her lips once more.

I move toward her, but stop abruptly as a sudden memory resurfaces. “The cellar,” I murmur, and then rush down the stairs.

“Lyrion?” Isobel calls out, following after me. “What are you doing?”

The table is still dusted in a thick layer of flour. I reach for the jar near where she’d been sitting. Wiping away the layer of white powder, guilt washes through me as I read the label.

It’s the joyflower.

The mistake wasn’t Isobel’s. It was mine.

“I got distracted when I kissed you.” I hold up the jar. “I handed you the wrong one.”

Cautious hope flits across her face. “You mean… it wasn’t my fault?”

I nod, and she flings her arms around me. “Oh, Lyrion, thank the stars!”

Warmth curls through me as she hugs me close. When she pulls back, our gazes lock, and a charged silence stretches between us, heavy and expectant.

Unable to resist, I press my lips to hers in a tender kiss.

Despite every attempt to keep her at arm’s length, I’m undeniably drawn to Isobel. Holding her like this feels far too natural, far too right, and that realization shakes me to my core.

Stars help me, I’m in trouble.