Page 17 of Warlocks Don’t Win (Singsong City #9)

I marched down the stairs, dust puffing with every step until I got to the dim foyer with the slashed painting of our engagement portrait. I glanced at it and then froze. It wasn’t slashed anymore, but perfectly restored, although still coated in a thick layer of dust.

Had I ever been so young and stupid? I shuddered. And Winston was so heroic looking, strong jaw, slightly lifted like he could see into the future. Would anyone notice if I slashed it to pieces again? No, I had better things to do this morning.

“Parsley, you have to lay her to rest right this second!” I yelled, bursting into the kitchen to find Portalia sitting at the table in her hot-pink turban, drinking a cup of hibiscus tea while the butler rolled out dough at her side.

Winston stood on the counter, washing the ceiling, his linen shirt sleeves rolled up, baring his muscular, extremely manly forearms.

“Oh. We have company,” I said stupidly, wishing I wasn’t wearing floral pants.

“Lay who to rest?” Portalia asked, raising a thin brow and looking at me askance.

“Her mother,” the butler said, rolling the dough placidly.

“Like I said, your Clarinda, aka, ‘Stripes,’” he added, doing air quotes with his doughy fingers, “is the Clary Sage. Heir of Sage house, voice of the Salem Coven, wife of Winston the Warlock.” He made it sound super boring, even yawned at the end.

I still flinched with every single word he said. “What are you doing here, Portalia?” I asked, turning to her with a pained smile.

She sniffed and raised her chin. “When you disappeared, we were all worried. That Parody you left in your shop is useless. So we made a circle of finding, and then hired a sorcerer to put together a portal. I came through to find out what was going on. There have been so many energy fluctuations throughout the coven, and they’re all tied to you.

Explain yourself, Clarinda. What is this man talking about? ”

I rubbed my forehead while a headache started to build behind my eyes. “It’s like this…” I started.

I glanced at Winston, but he was ignoring everyone else while he scrubbed the black ceiling, revealing shiny copper tiles that I’d never seen during my lifetime.

“So…someone’s trying to kill me.” I didn’t mean to start with that.

Or end with that. Or say that anywhere in the middle, but I was having a hard day.

Winston kept scrubbing, flexing his forearms, shoulders, back, and he was standing there with bare feet on the counter that wasn’t as filthy as earlier, but he still might get tetanus or something from a rusted nail.

“That’s why you were hiding in Singsong City?” Portalia sipped her tea and eyed me with fresh interest. “Are you really the Sage heir? You shouldn’t have abandoned your house like that. Places like this are sacred.”

The house shifted, clearly liking her and wondering why she wasn’t the Sage heir instead of me. Same, house. Same.

“No. I left because I didn’t want to deal with my legacy. I wanted to live my own life.”

She tsked and sipped her tea. “I understand. It must be difficult for a felon with a record like yours to find acceptance with any coven. Singsong City Coven is the most accepting and open-minded coven in the world. I’ve worked hard to make sure it remains an oasis in this world of judgment and prejudice.

So this murderer found you in Singsong City, so you had to follow them back here to get to the root of the evil?

You should have told us. We’re your coven. We already miss your sausage rolls.”

I sighed heavily and sat down. “Yeah. That’s because they’re spelled to be addictive and put you all under my will.”

She snorted a laugh and then patted my shoulder.

Somehow I didn’t hiss at her. “Yes, dear. So funny. You’ve always been such a controlling leader of the coven.

” She winked at me. “So, what are you going to do about this house?” She gazed up at the ceiling and Winston the Warlock, who wasn’t trying to not be a paragon of masculinity and sex appeal.

“Do?”

He was so distracting, particularly with bare feet. He was definitely going to get tetanus.

“You can’t leave it like this. Have you thought of putting a way door in between here and your shop? That’d probably be the best way to manage both places. Unless you intend to sell your shop and stay here, but I can’t imagine you giving up Change Your Stripes. It’s practically an institution.”

I blinked at her. Brain stuttering and stalling.

“Yeah, Winston was going to do the way door,” I finally said.

“It’s going to be really cool. Have to use a room with more than one door.

In case it malfunctions, because that’s how people lose rooms. That’s what happened with the last way door put on Sage House. I don’t think it liked it.”

It creaked a grumble of agreement. It had not liked the way door.

I sank into the chair opposite the butler kneading bread while Portalia sipped her tea. I poured myself a cup, which had a crack down the side, so it leaked on my fingers.

Winston dropped to the floor, graceful like a predatory cat, then he came over and lounged on the chair between me and Portalia.

“Sage House would like us to clean it together,” he said.

I blinked at him while I drank as quickly as I could so I consumed more tea than dripped all over the table. “I thought you were going to make a way door,” I said then slugged back the rest of it and set the cup back on the table.

“I’ve asked Jordan to bring the necessary supplies. Your friend Parody can help from her end once we get things in place. But first, the house needs to be cleaned, personally, by its mistress.”

“That’s right,” the butler said, shiny head gleaming in the morning light as he happily rolled out dough for sausage rolls.

“The kitchen…” I looked around with a critical eye.

It was cleaner than I’d ever seen it, every surface washed down, including the ceiling.

He must have saved that for last, which was nonsense, because everyone knew you were supposed to start at the top and work down.

Apparently Sage House had different rules.

If I wanted the house’s cooperation with things like finding the source of a curse and unraveling it, I’d have to humor it.

Winston was right. It wanted more attention before it settled into any form of servitude to me, its abandoner.

“Fine. Let’s do the conservatory,” I said, standing up. “There should be fresh plastic rolls in the shed. I’ll go get them.”

“I’ll come with you,” Winston said, still barefoot.

I pointed at his feet. “Where are your shoes?”

He leaned close so I could see the flicker of purple magic in his eyes. “I’m a Warlock. I don’t need to wear shoes.”

I leaned towards him until our noses brushed, sending a shock of heat and awareness through me. “Tetanus,” I breathed then spun around and headed to the back hall, past the back parlor, the office, and then the conservatory.

It smelled like my mother’s ghost, only more mildewy.

Dust and mold reigned in that large, tangled jungle, mixed with pot shards and spilled potting soil.

The old deteriorated plastic hung down like cobwebby curtains, shredded, not keeping out the chill outside the glass.

Hopefully the pipes didn’t freeze. The house groaned like it was thinking about whether or not to spontaneously rupture a pipe, freezing or not.

“Let’s get this done,” I muttered and then started pulling down the shrouds of dust and carapaces.

Working with him was fine. He wasn’t a snobby actor with a reputation who couldn’t get his hands dirty.

The only problem was when we’d be folding up one of the long, shredded shrouds, and then our hands would brush, and I’d be dragged back to reality.

The one where we were married, however unreal that seemed.

“The House refused entrance to the rest of the coven,” I said, trying not to notice how close we were standing as we rolled up the plastic.

He raised a brow. “It must have used the energy it got once we were?—”

“Sure. I guess that’s what happened,” I said quickly, cutting him off. The M word was not to be mentioned.

We went out to the shed, overgrown, almost impossible to get into until Winston started yanking out the overgrown vines sealing the door shut.

I let him, just stood there and watched my warlock battle the fifteen years of neglect like a superhero.

Like a manly warlock who should have a beard at least down to his pectorals to declare his masculinity.

“Why don’t you have a beard?” I asked while he struggled.

He glanced at me. “A beard?”

“Warlocks should have beards. That’s what the Warlock’s Kiss is always arguing about, which warlock’s beard is the most manly, ergo the most warlocky.”

He raised a brow and then continued yanking out the rest of the vine blocking the door. “As an actor, my facial expressions have to be visible, or they’re not as effective. Also, manliness isn’t defined by the size of one’s beard.”

I sniffed. “The Warlock’s Kiss thinks so.”

“The Warlock’s Kiss is the Singsong Coven’s band, right?”

I shrugged. “They’re not the official coven band, but we don’t have another one so…”

“Do you spend a lot of time with them?” He yanked the door open, green peeling paint flaking off as it did, reluctantly, with a great deal of creaking.

I snorted. “Yeah. You know how musical I am.”

He disappeared into the depths of the shed. I followed, peering around the rusted wheelbarrow to see the rolls of plastic against the wall.

“Perhaps one of them is responsible for alerting the Salem coven of your existence.”

I stiffened up. “Why would you say that?”

“You’re not very calculating with men. You mostly overlook us, or are distracted by our manliness.”

I squinted at him. “Distracted by your manliness? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Do you want me to grow a beard? It wouldn’t take any effort.”

“I thought you needed your bare face for your acting.”

“I think I’m going to be killed off early in the next season.”

I stared at him, the dim light through the filthy windows making him look kind of soft and blurry. “Why?”

He picked up a roll of clear plastic, a good four foot long, hefting it over his shoulder like it was nothing. Very manly. “I’m a married man. I can’t go around kissing other women, even if it’s only pretend.” He flashed me a heated look as he brushed by me on the way out.

I followed him, tongue tied, thoughts whirling around, fastening on the way he moved, smooth, perfectly controlled energy, but taut, like a compressed spring about to bounce. That’s what I needed to do, bounce before anything even worse happened.