She drops her touch, but I’m not sure if it was my command or if she was simply finished with whatever magic she was working.
“There’s not a drop of poison in you.” Violetta pouts. “Pity.”
“That’s a bad thing?” Clementine’s voice stutters, and she smells like sweat.
The witch takes a deep sip of her drink, pursing red-stained lips. “If it were poison, I could have made you an antidote.” She smirks. “For an exorbitant price.”
Clementine frowns at the bar top, her arm dropping down so she can bury her fingers in Shrimp’s scruff. The dog stood up at some point and now leans his big body against his person’s leg, as if he’s trying to soothe her.
Violetta pinches a menu and slides it toward herself, unconcerned with the discord she’s sown with the truth she shared. “We need more soups on this menu.”
“We’ve already got two.” Both at Violetta’s demand.
“And we needmore.”
“If it’s not poison, then why won’t it heal?” Clementine asks, ignoring our bickering.
Violetta grins wide. “A mystery.”
15
CLEMENTINE
The deafening crashof thunder wakes me.
I’ve never been able to sleep through a storm. Whenever one crops up, I think about how I should have moved far away from rain and lightning and bad memories.
But, no, I’m stuck in northern Georgia, where thunderstorms are a staple in the spring. This night is worse than normal, when I’m just trying to fall asleep and forget the growing ache in my side.
Whatever magical prodding Violetta did earlier, I wouldn’t say it made the wound worse, but it’s certainly harder to ignore.
Still, despite her lack of tact, I appreciate knowing the issue isn’t poison. After Violetta left—carrying her glass of wine as if the stemware were a to-go cup—I called Mor to update her, hoping carving out what the causeisn’tmight help us determine what itis. Then I asked Griffith if we should be worried about Violetta drinking and driving, and he informed me that her son is Levi, monster representative on The Council, and that hetexted the guy to head his mother off before she caused any mayhem in town.
I admit, I have a morbid kind of fascination with her. But I’d prefer to watch Violetta’s antics from afar.
There’s another round of lightning, the flash bright enough to creep around the window shades. Two seconds later, a crack of noise, so loud that I swear the glass panes will shatter, spears into my bedroom.
And Shrimp keeps snoring, unconcerned with the chaos in the sky.
“Curse The Finned One’s games,” I mutter, scrambling out of the sheets, now soaked with my sweat. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, I try to calm my rapid heartbeat by breathing in time with slow counts.
Anotherboommakes me yelp, and I hurry out of the bedroom, suddenly claustrophobic. Problem is, the doorway spits me into the sunroom, which is filled with uncovered windows that let in a deafening amount of rain noise. I scurry through the exposed space, hoping the interior of the house will be quieter.
But the open floor plan muffles nothing.
“I need a fucking noise-deprivation chamber.” I flinch at another flash of light, gripping the kitchen counter in preparation for the noise. Even bracing doesn’t stop the anxiety spike along my nerves.
Needing something to do, as if a simple task will take my mind off of Mother Nature having a bitch fit outside, I search out a glass in the cabinets, then fill it at the fridge, trying to ignore how my fingers shake.
“Clementine?”
The shriek I let out is worthy of a horror movie stabbing. Acting on instinct alone, I whirl around and chuck the only weapon I have at the intruder—my full glass of water.
There’s athunk, then, “Fuck!” then another thunk.
The kitchen light flicks on, and I blink in the sudden illumination. As the spots clear from my vision, I find myself staring at a scowling Griffith, who is clutching his head. Making an educated guess, I’d say that’s the spot where my water glass hit him.
Also, he’s soaked.
