Page 1 of Love Spell (Witches of London #3)

“How do you know the grooms?”

Had Timo missed the Londoners Shalt Get Eyebrow Piercings memo? Not that a mere memo could’ve made him mess with his features. They didn’t need further embellishments.

He gave the questioner a once-over before deciding on his answer. Screamingly colourful fabrics, gemstone rings, female: uninteresting.

Timo said, “I almost married one of them.”

The triple row of eyebrow rings jumped, but Timo was already turning away, just as confident in his ability to murder a conversation as to spawn one.

Time was short with the ceremony over and this garden party reception underway.

He had to mingle while he still could, find out which men had arrived alone, which didn’t want to leave alone, which ones weren’t all hung up on heterosexuality, and he could tick off another social event.

Oh, and congratulate the newly married couple. Yeah, better do that now.

Shit, that guy in the black on black on black was striking.

He must be part of the group of oddities circulating around the other groom.

Unless Rhys had very much changed his own circles.

Perhaps it had been the near-death experience that gave Rhys a new lease on friends, or purely his lover’s influence that meant astrology had apparently played a hand in choosing the first of September wedding date.

The garden party reception also gave nods towards nature and Norse gods in the flower arbours, relaxed dress code, and cake adorned in runes and sigils.

It all felt too Dungeons & Dragons, a bit juvenile to dwell on fantasy on your wedding day, but to each their own. Timo also prided himself on his ability to get along with anyone when he tried.

Speaking of fantasy and trying — he’d circle back to the man in black with those elfin cheekbones once he’d paid his respects.

That guy was in fact gazing at the newlyweds and perhaps about to move in the same direction.

If he walked up when Timo was already in line, Timo might get an introduction while also coming in first place.

Timo moved deftly with the flow of guests including friends, family, and coworkers, not a huge crowd, but a good fifty or sixty strong, and found himself before the grooms in short order.

“Congratulations.” Timo was well aware of how beautiful his own smile was.

It hadn’t been cheap. Add the jawline that was fate’s high card and the warmth in his eyes that could reassure a mother bear into letting him rock her cub to sleep.

“Rhys, Lars, that was the most beautiful vows ceremony I’ve ever attended.

Thank you so much for having me here.” He shook hands with both, noting the slightly bemused smile from Rhys, while Lars was the one totally at ease with his presence.

“Of course,” Lars said. “We’re glad to have you. You’re more than welcome to join us after this. Just a few friends and family going back home for drinks.”

It was as if the big guy, well named as he looked like a Viking with his ponytail and torc even in the tux, hadn’t the faintest idea that the man now shaking his hand had once nearly married the man Lars had just married.

If Timo was Charm with a capital C, Lars was SINCERITY with a capital everything.

All well and good, but didn’t he get boring?

If he couldn’t even get jealous over the ex-partner at his wedding, did he ever get worked up about anything? What did he do in bed? Purr at you?

“Thanks for being here, Tim,” Rhys said, polite, but with only a passing glance for Timo, the newlyweds all wrapped up in looking at one another. “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you in forever.”

Which is perfectly normal for your ex. God, was Rhys going as woo-woo as this lot with crystals around their necks and pride bracelets — probably made from vegan leather?

“Never been better,” Timo said. “Market’s solid, work always go-go-go, and I trounced that last marathon — run times are better than they’ve ever been. So much for turning forty, eh?”

Rhys’ eyes widened. “Did I miss a year or two?”

At the same time, Lars said, “You’re never forty.”

Timo grinned at him. “No. Just looming. But it’s never too early to start looking twenty-nine, right?”

The man in black had not approached. Instead, it was some old aunt or mum, grey-haired, dressed like Dame Judi Dench, pouncing on Rhys for a hug. Yes, an aunt. Timo remembered her. He’d never really met loads of family on the Turner side.

Since the man in black hadn’t moved — still seemed to be watching them, no, watching Lars — Timo hurried on to excuse himself with final best wishes for their future happiness.

There, wedding check and check. Next agenda? Date night.

He’d read somewhere that multitasking was a myth. That no one could do more than one thing at once because the brain didn’t work that way. Fine. Then he did one thing at a time. That didn’t mean he couldn’t fit twelve individual things into every sixty seconds.

Another hugger tackled the man in black. If hugging was from another memo, he was glad he’d missed that one, too.

Dame Judi needed to give this … person fashion advice. And what was up with the partly shaved head thing on women? Not that she necessarily looked like someone who identified as a woman or a she, but going with a quick once-over and the lack of pronoun badge, he was left with little choice.

“Happy blue moon,” she told the man in black.

Timo missed whatever they said next, weaving through the crowd and half a dozen conversations.

The man’s scowl faded as he faced her, making Timo realise for the first time that he’d been scowling.

Was it his imagination or did that guy also have to tear his eyes away from Lars?

So, he had a thing for one of the grooms?

Had Timo found jealousy or resentment, or at least wistfulness after all?

Funny, he didn’t look the sort to want to be purred at. But Rhys had fallen for the Viking, and Rhys had also fallen for Timo once, so Rhys obviously had good taste.

Timo dawdled with hors d’oeuvres, failing to eavesdrop as people, including the man in black and his confused friend, kept circulating through the sunny garden.

Anyone could be forgiven for being surprised to discover such a glorious, blooming, sprawling garden venue emerge on hotel grounds in southeast London.

Timo had long grown used to the idea of London’s green spaces and these days took them for granted. He was spoiled for choice for his morning runs. Background pollution only made his lungs more resilient.

He was just wishing he could get his hands on another bite of the smoked salmon when he felt something hot trickle over his upper lip.

Instantly, Timo bent forward at the waist to save his flawless white shirtfront.

He had the handkerchief out of his pocket in another second and against his nose, but it was a slender thing, not meant for heavy use.

It would be soaked in a second and he’d end up with blood all over his fingers if he couldn’t find something more.

“Hey!” Timo caught the attention of a passing server with a tray. “Please bring me a paper towel, quick, or I’ll be bleeding all over the party.”

“Bleeding? Do you need a doctor —?”

“Paper towel! Not an ambulance! Just get a paper towel!”

The man dashed into the hotel, tray and all, back in less than a minute with a handful of rough paper towels while Timo leaned on a brick wall below deep green ivy, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, pressing the wadded handkerchief against his nose with the other.

Fortunately, the party guests were too busy to notice him, and Rhys and Lars were swarmed with well-wishers. They were just the sorts to come over and pester Timo about his wellbeing if they’d spotted him, despite Rhys knowing that nosebleeds were simply a part of life for Timo.

He turned his charm back on to assure the worried server that he was perfectly all right, then accepted a glass of water before the man would leave him alone.

Not a bad bleed. Timo managed to get the thing to stop with another towel and a half soaked in scarlet, then cleaned up his fingers and face with water from the glass and the remaining two towels.

His shirt? Still spotless. Of course he had a spare in the car — always have a spare, but best not to need it.

Although the bleeds seemed to last an age for Timo, only a matter of minutes had passed and he was pleased to discover the man in black was still there talking to his tattooed friend.

Patience was for second place, a.k.a. losers, but this time his inadvertent patience was paying off because the two started walking his way.

As they closed the distance, about to pass Timo on the stone path, he bunched the blood-stained paper and silk into a ball in his fist and refocused on their conversation. They were talking about … ugh — gaming.

“You can’t just put a spell on anyone or anything to solve your problems,” Tattoos was saying.

“I never use spell work to solve my problems,” the man said. “I solve my problems. Magick can influence outcomes. That’s all.”

So they really were all into RPGs? Talking about their characters?

Still worth a shot. Wasn’t like Timo had to marry the guy. He hadn’t gamed since his early years visiting England when he’d been trying to improve his spoken English, but he remembered his way around some terminology.

“What system do you play?” Timo asked, smiling, meeting the man’s dark eyes with his own radiant ones. “D&D?”

The odd couple stared at him.

“Pardon?” Tattoos cocked her head.

“Sorry.” Timo chuckled, wishing he didn’t have that damn fistful of blood. “Eavesdropping. You were talking about gaming, right? You’re playing a wizard? Sorcerer?” To the man in black.

“We’re talking about our lives,” the man said coldly, no smile or meeting Timo halfway, just shy of a, “So fuck off.” at the end.

Tattoos shot him an exasperated look. “Julian, really.”

Julian’s frown returned. He looked away and folded his arms. “You’re right.” He seemed to be addressing his friend. “It doesn’t matter. The fact that who we are and what we do is invalidated by most people is totally irrelevant.”

“Goddess, what is up with your pity-party today? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I need to congratulate the happy couple. Excuse —”

“Hang on,” Timo cut in. “I’m still trying to figure out what we’re talking about.”

Julian rolled his eyes, landing on Timo. “I’m so sorry we failed to take you into account when planning our lives today.”

“ Julian. ”

Timo bristled, stepping away from the wall to face Julian squarely. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“An excellent question,” Tattoos snapped, and Timo felt a sudden warming for her.

Shoulders tense, Julian seemed to make himself look away this time, breaking some of the tension flowing between them.

“We weren’t talking about our roleplaying group.

” His gaze flickered across Timo’s lips and reached his hand in a flash, noticing the bloody lump in Timo’s grasp.

“We’re pagans. I was referring to real spells I use in my day-to-day life. Magick for the real world. That’s all.”

Tattoos had relaxed, prepared to go on with him, making their way to the newlyweds. Julian also looked more resigned than annoyed.

Timo felt his own anger sharpen at receiving the once-over when he wasn’t at his best. Did he still have blood on his face? He should have walked away, let them go. All part of the rich tapestry, after all. People could believe whatever the hell they wanted.

Perhaps it was a feeling of being judged for a weakness he couldn’t help, or the irritation to discover this guy, Julian, was more interested in a married man than in Timo, that Timo was leaving here alone after all, or simply the tone Julian had used on him — a tone Timo wouldn’t even tolerate from goddamn royalty.

Timo didn’t bother to decide. He simply spoke. “You’re shitting me.”

Julian stopped. Tattoos grabbed his arm.

“Are you just messing with me?” Timo asked. “Or delusional? You can’t really believe you’re casting spells on people.”

Julian turned back to him, Tattoos talking to him all the time. “It doesn’t matter, Julian. Come on, no, Julian —”

He pulled his arm from her, facing Timo squarely, two feet away.

“You’re right, Manda. I would usually let it go.

” He stared into Timo’s eyes, sounding like someone bent on letting nothing go.

“The world is full of arseholes and we can’t plug them all.

But you’ve caught me on a bad day.” He took another step, nose to nose with Timo, who didn’t back down.

“So, instead, I’m going to give you the chance to be the bigger person and apologise. ”

“Apologise? For calling a spade a spade? Bullshit. If you honestly think you can do ‘magic’ —” Timo made air quotes, remembering late that one hand was full. “ — then prove it.”

Muscles tightened in Julian’s jaw, and Timo was sure he was about to be punched. “What?” His tone went flat, newly hushed.

Timo leaned in a bit. “I said prove it. Cast a spell.”

Silence fell between them, drowning out the garden.

Julian nodded once. “Fine.”

Behind Julian’s shoulder, Manda shut her eyes as if in pain.

Julian turned abruptly and walked away.

“That’s it? I blinked and missed it!” Timo called after him.

“Oh, you’ll see it.” Julian didn’t look around. “Give it a few days. You’ll fucking see it.”

They merged into the crowd.

Timo stalked out, tossing his blood-soaked fistful into the bin by the back door on his way. He didn’t have time to go to their damn afterparty anyway.