Page 7 of Warlocks Don’t Win (Singsong City #9)

He gave me the slightest smile before he went past me and closed the door.

I was covered in tomato juice, but that didn’t stop me from flinging myself over the bed while my heart raced stupidly in my stupid chest. And he was probably going to come out of there in a towel, and I’d have to have clothes for him to wear, or he’d have to wait for me to scramble around in my towel to get something out for him while he watched, judging my hair.

We used to mock people together, those pretentious try-hards who were so desperate for attention.

I rolled off the bed and went through the suitcase, pulling out the pink shirt and striped pants. He’d look as tacky as me. We’d match. Like a real couple of pretentious posers.

I held still for a moment. In the front hall of the haunted mansion hung our engagement portrait.

We’d looked like a real couple, perfectly matching, because I used to care about that sort of thing, and he’d been the perfect foil to my purple dress, his tie a subtle paisley with bits of violet, not much, just enough to hint at the color of his magic.

Purple was my favorite color, even if my magic naturally manifested as green.

I pulled out clothes for me. I’d take them into the shower with me when he came out. That was a good plan. And then…

I glanced out the window at the dark sky. I was exhausted. It was all Tolly’s fault, because binding to a familiar was big magic that made everyone weak until the binding stabilized. I’d be sleeping on the floor, but that would be better than crashing the truck.

Where was Tolly? In the woods behind the motel, probably.

Dinner came in my head, along with an image of some kind of desicated carcass.

I held onto that image and analyzed it. A mammal, the curve of the jaw and those teeth, a predator.

A fox or a coyote. Maybe I should collect the bones and work out a…

No. I didn’t need fresh bones to do spells with.

That was for curses, not curse breaking.

What did I know about breaking curses? Practically nothing, but there were books that specialized in breaking curses in the old library.

I pulled out my black sweats and a set of purple and green striped underwear, along with a pair of very large men’s boxers I used as night shorts.

I’d burn them after Winston wore them. Of course I would.

They were old and ragged, anyway. And now I wanted to burn them before Winston saw them, but he was there, wearing a towel around his slim hips, showcasing a breathtaking swathe of perfect tan skin.

Muscles, but on his skin, he wore a plethora of mage marks.

He’d been working on his magic hard over the last fifteen years.

And his muscles, too. He was everything a warlock should be, tough, strong, powerful, and…

Was that a sage plant tattooed over his heart?

I pointed at it. “What’s that? Doesn’t match the rest of your power marks.”

“Salvia sclarea is my favorite plant.”

I stared at him while my mouth went dry. Clary sage’s official Latin name was salvia sclarea. “Why? There are much more useful varieties.”

He shook out his wet hair, long, thick, lustrous locks that the whole world drooled over. “It makes the best hair infusion, and you know how vain I am about my hair.” His arrogant smirk faded and he shrugged. “I actually value it most for its anxiety and stress relieving properties.”

I stared at him. “You shouldn’t have told me that. It sounded honest.”

He furrowed his brow. “Did it? It was only partially honest. Who would tattoo a plant on their chest to commemorate their anxiety relief? I’m not that mental.”

I bristled like he was saying I was the reason he had that stupid tattoo. “You’re saying that you tattooed me on your heart?”

He shrugged his broad, annoying shoulders. “I don’t know any other Clary Sages. Do you? I have an extensive collection of sages in the garden. They do better on the west coast than the east. You’d like my garden.”

I walked past him without saying anything else, also without stabbing him, mostly because I was clinging to my towel and didn’t have anything stabby handy.

He’d actually tattooed my name on his chest?

How dare he? Then again, maybe he’d tattooed it before he testified against me and went to jail.

Either way, it was horrible. At some point he’d thought he loved me enough to think it was a good idea to tattoo himself with a plant, but that hadn’t made him loyal. Of course not. He believed in justice.

Whatever. I believed in washing tomato juice out of my hair.

Clary sage did make the best hair infusion.

I hadn’t taken good care of my hair ever since it started sprouting stripes.

It’s hard to appreciate shine when it’s horribly clashing colors.

I should, though. I’d had extremely good hair before stress happened.

And clary sage was good for stress. The plant, not me.

Clearly Winston the Warlock was getting inundated with all the ways I wasn’t the same cute, sweet, wholesome girl he’d gotten engaged to and written into his heart.

I shuddered. What my mother would do with that binding was enough to make me nauseous. No, that was from having a familiar in the back of my head pawing through leaves, searching for fallen berries. Both. Going back home, I’d have to face my memories, my heritage, and figure out what to do with it.

Yes. I’d start making hair infusions after this whole mess was over.