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Chapter One

“ P oo Yie, you look like a gator got frisky with a bag of spinach,” Jocko called from his fishbowl. He banged his claws on the glass rim when I didn’t respond. But I was too busy repeatedly swallowing and willing myself not to toss my cookies all over my parents’ expensive Aubusson rug.

I couldn’t even move my head to look in his direction—instead I remained perfectly still, on the world’s itchiest Victorian sofa. My left cheek was mashed uncomfortably against a scratchy needlepoint pillow, and I didn’t even care. I was miserable.

My stomach churned and roiled as it had from my first whiff of dinner. My mother’s cooking was wretched on the best of times, but tonight’s offering had been particularly disgusting. She claimed the foul smelling offering was shrimp creole but never had that dish inspired terror before tonight.

Etienne knelt beside me, his brow creased with concern. It was honestly unfair for someone that pretty to get so wrinkled up about something as minor as my nausea. My stomach flipped again, and I swallowed. Or maybe this was my impending death.

“ Chérie , I think I should let me call a doctor.”

Being a witch had a lot of perks, and oddly enough the fact that witch doctors still made house calls was one of them.

“Or perhaps an… exorcist,” Jocko suggested.

Normally, I appreciated my familiar’s snarky sense of humor. But not right now.

Etienne brushed a strand of my hair off my clammy forehead, and I caught the smell his cologne and also the faint lingering scent of my mother’s so-called ‘holy trinity’ seasoning mix, which contains neither holiness nor trinity, but apparently a metric ton of MSG and what I suspect is the chemical equivalent of antifreeze.

I gagged, and from Etienne’s alarmed expression, I’d turned an even brighter shade of green.

He started to stand. “I’m going to get you mother, at least.

“Don’t call my mother,” I groaned, “unless you want her to finish the job.”

Speaking that many words threatened a spectacular barf-fountain, so I fell completely still again. I closed my eyes and prayed for the sweet release of death. Or at least for a breeze from the open window behind me to neutralize the barrage of aromas in the air.

Jocko’s claws pounded his fishbowl again, punctuating the silence. “Your mother doesn’t cook, she creates public health hazards. Sacré bleu, she is a menace!”

“Can you not, Jocko?” I said, or try to, but it came out in a croak, like a toad who just choked on a fly. He wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t want to listen to it right now.

Etienne shot the crawfish a look of such withering disapproval, I half-expected a seafood boil on the spot. He turned back to me, worry still clouding his hazel eyes. “I know your mother is a truly terrible cook, but you only took one bite.”

“Sometimes,” I mumbled, “one bite is all it takes.” I buried my face in the throw pillow and burped.

Etienne rubbed my shoulder, proving not only was he a prince, but he was my true soulmate. I knew I looked—and possibly smelled—atrocious.

“Mally,” he said once the newest wave of nausea calmed. “I don’t think this is just the food. This has happened several times in the past couple weeks. I’m worried something is really wrong. You need a doctor.”

I lifted my head from the pillow, meeting his gaze. “It will pass. It’s just a weird flu or something.”

He looked as if he wanted to argue, but he nodded slightly. “Would you like some water?”

“That would be nice.” I managed a reassuring smile.

“Try holy water,” Jocko offered helpfully as Etienne left the room. “I’ll yell if she starts levitating.”

Etienne cast my familiar another warning look, then disappeared toward the kitchen.

Before I could pull myself together to make a comeback to Jocko, the front door slammed open with the subtlety of a shotgun blast, and my sister Violet rushed in, all flaming red-haired and wild-eyed, wearing her “nobody better die today” face.

She spotted me and my greenish complexion before she made it halfway across the foyer.

“Dear Goddess, Mally,” she said. “You look like hell.”

Jocko—who was quickly becoming my least favorite magical creature—chuckled from his bowl.

“Thanks,” I said dryly, but managed to lever myself up onto my elbows. “Did Mom call you?”

I knew she was missing my parents’ family Sunday dinner because she and her new husband, who happened to be Etienne’s brother, had plans to go to an event for her hospital. My sister was a doctor. Not that I’d even thought to mention my recent symptoms to her. Which I guess I should have.

“Yes, she called me. And it looks like it’s a good thing.” Violet beelined to me and jammed two fingers into my wrist to check my pulse, healer reflexes going into override.

I pulled my hand away. “I’m honestly fine. It will pass. I’m sorry you were called away from your event.”

Tristan, her husband appeared in the doorway. From his stunned look, I knew I must still look pretty bad.

But I was determined to reassure them. “You had the perfect excuse not to be here tonight. I’m sorry I ruined your escape plan.”

We loved spending time with my parents, and family dinner would be wonderful if Mom would let us just order delivery.

Violet waved away my apology, then pressed the same hand to my forehead.

“You are sweaty, but I don’t think you have a fever. How much of mom’s food did you eat? And what was it?”

“Supposedly shrimp creole,” I mumbled, collapsing back on the cushions. “Just one bite. Apparently one bite too many.”

Violet’s purple eyes widened. “You know to never touch anything with seafood.”

“I know,” I groaned as I swallowed down another bout of nausea.

“In the old country, we respected food. We did not try to kill our family with soup. Here? It is anarchy! Merde!”

When I felt better, I’d ask him what the heck he knew about the old country. And what old country was he talking about? He was born in the bayou.

Etienne returned with a glass of ice water. He smiled with relief to see Violet and Tristan. He brought me the glass, leaning over me to kiss my clammy brow. The gesture would have been romantic if I didn’t feel like the Swamp Thing’s less attractive cousin.

“Did you tell your sister that this has happened more than this one time?” he asked.

Great, he outed me. I shot him an irritated look over the rim of the glass as I took a sip of the gloriously cold water. He shrugged, utterly unrepentant.

“This has happened before?” Violet said. “Then I doubt it’s food poisoning. Even though that was a reasonable deduction.”

“I heard that,” Mom said, walking into the sitting room, followed by my stepfather, JR. They both looked concerned. No one was making me feel reassured here.

Violet immediately gave Mom a contrite look. Even though our mother’s cooking never improved, we still tried to protect her feelings as much as we could.

“It wasn’t my best attempt,” Mom admitted. Of course, it was hard to pick a better attempt.

“When this happened before, did you have a headache? Or just the nausea?” Violet asked, going back into doctor mode.

“I’m a full-spectrum disaster,” I told her. “Head, stomach, soul, whatever’s left.”

Violet pulled at my eyelids, then made me stick out my tongue and say, “Ah.” Then she spread out her hands and hovered them over my body.

“You’re not dying,” she announced, “but your aura looks like a pileup at a Mardi Gras parade. When did this illness start?”

I ignored her question, frowning. “Why did you poke me in the eyes and stare in my mouth if you could just do the hand thing?”

“Habit,” she said, which I guess made sense. She treated humans more than witches. Then she turned to Etienne. “When did she start having these bouts?”

“Off and on for about three weeks or so,” he said without glancing at me for verification. Although he was accurate.

I rolled my eyes and took a sip of my water. Which was helping. Thank Goddess.

My sister put her hands on her hips, her patented “let’s be scientific” stance. “Is anyone else sick?”

Etienne shook his head. “No. And this is the worst reaction she has had.

Jocko snorted, and I knew he wanted to make another comment about my mother’s food. But he contained himself. Shocking.

Violet ignored him. “I don’t think it’s anything dangerous. Do you want me to conjure an emetic or just call it a day with some ginger tea?”

“Neither,” I said, trying to shift upright but only managing to slosh a bit of water on my mother’s decorative pillow. “Just let me die in peace. Or at least with dignity.”

Etienne stroked my hand, his big and warm and steady. “Are you sure that’s all you can do for her?”

My husband could be a major mother hen. Which admittedly could be pretty hot. Who knew?

`Violet poised her open palms over me again, this time staying there longer. She pursed her lips. “This isn’t food poisoning. It feels very magical.”

I grimaced at her. “Magical? What does that mean?”

“Maybe a hex,” Violet said, in a tone that made me nervous.

“A hex?” my mother exclaimed, not reassuring me in the least.

“Merde,” Jocko said slowly. “That doesn’t sound good.”