“Can you piss already and get lost?”
Ignoring her demand, I lean closer and sniff, fascinated, a sick curiosity building in my gut. It’s amazing how thoroughly she’s covered in this stuff. From her bare feet to the top of her forehead—even the curves of her ears are iced. “You’re a glazed donut,” I say, unable to help myself.
Celine sighs. “I see you can’t be mature about this. You have thirty seconds to get it all out.”
“Starting now?” I blurt, eyes widening.
“Already started, you’ve wasted seven seconds.”
“Did you have a run-in with a flock of lactose-intolerant birds?” Her lips purse tightly. “Or maybe you’re thinking of trying out life as a human candle. Is your hair the wick?” I sniff her face again, inhaling the herbal smell, then shake my head. “Honestly, you should have told me to preheat the oven. You’re clearly marinated and ready to roast.”
“And your time is?—”
“Choo choo!” I make a chugging train engine sound with the last of my breath.
“Up,” Celine finishes, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me into the bedroom. “Honestly, I expected better from you.”
“Damn, babe. I can’t bring my best material while I’m actively in shock. In fact, do you have one of those aluminum-foil-looking blankets humans use after car wrecks lying around? I think I need to sit.”
“You can sit on the toilet.”
I scoff. “I don’t sit when I pee.”
“Not my problem,” she snaps. “Tuck it in or something.”
“Tuck it in?” I look down. “This monster? No can do.” I run my finger through the thick layer of slime on her shoulder. She swats my hand away, leaving a snail trail along my forearm.
“It’s a long-lasting magical moisturizer and pore reducer,” she says. “Not that it’s any of your business, but my appearance pays the bills, and witches are damn good at what they do.”
“Spells?” I ask, my eyebrows rising to my hairline.
She groans. “There is more to witch magic than spells. Were you raised under a rock?”
“Close enough,” I admit, picturing the stone walls of the compound I grew up in. There were witches behind those walls with me, but they weren’t big on sharing trade secrets, and I never once saw one flopping around like a trout freshly plucked from the stream.
“Hurry up,” Celine says. “I need to wash it off in seventy-eight seconds.”
“Roughly,” I joke, wondering again if she has a clock ticking in her head at all times. While fascinating to think about, that sounds exhausting. Anyone as magnetic as Celine should be able to kick her feet up and zone out when she wants to.
“Ciprian,” she hisses, and I jolt into action.
It takes about thirty seconds to take care of my business. I wash my hands, then use my remaining time to poke around in her stuff. Militantly organized, the cabinet under the sink is designed for maximum efficiency. I’m most impressed by the fact that she’s managed to slather herself in a magic potion without spilling a drop.
With about six seconds until my deadline, I open the door and smile at her shiny face. “I bet you’d be unbeatable in a wrestling match right now. Want to give it a try?”
“I would crush you like a grape, demon.”
I shudder, not sure if I’m more scared or turned on by the unshakable confidence in her voice. “It might be worth it.”
“Get out of my bathroom.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute her and leave, feeling energized by the exchange. Celine is inflexible, antagonistic, and guarded. Getting her to trust me will be about as easy as climbing a tree with no branches. I love a challenge.
As I meander toward the kitchen, I tilt one colorful abstract painting about a sixteenth of an inch to the right. Most people wouldn’t notice, but Celine is exceptional. I bet she spots it as soon as she leaves her room.
“Have you seen Celine’s skin lube in action?” I ask conversationally, leaning against the counter that runs about half the length of the kitchen. Luca is standing over the stove with his back to me, shoving something around with a massive spatula.
“What?” He pivots, one eyebrow lifting effortlessly.
