“No bickering?” Ms. Peach tossed up her hands. “We might as well keep our dang mouths shut the entire night.”
“Fabulous idea.” Nodding exuberantly, Clarissa abandoned the chair and ushered everyone into the hallway.
During the walk to the kitchen, Griff stayed glued to Jemma’s side. As if submitting to some compulsion to constantly touch her, he stroked her arm, his fingertips grazing her skin. She glanced up and caught him watching her. The electrical sizzle that passed between them couldn’t be her imagination. No way. They’d crossed a major threshold in their relationship tonight, one that went far beyond friendship, or even the boundaries of a witch and her familiar.
She almost tripped over her own feet when the last part of that thought sank into her consciousness.
A witch and her familiar.
Other than the time she’d teased Griff about being his boss, she’d never taken the notion too seriously. To her, Griff would always be the man she loved, not her whiskered sidekick. Frankly, she didn’t give a flying monkey about the role assigned to him. But that didn’t mean others were in agreement with her line of thinking, which probably explained Griff’s reticence.
Deliberately slowing her pace to keep the others out of earshot, she frowned up at Griff. “What exactly happened in your meeting with the guild leader earlier?”
Wariness briefly stole across Griff’s face before he managed to snuff it. He opened his mouth—no doubt to utter a big, fat lie—and she squeezed his wrist in warning. “Save it. I can already guess what went down. The guild can threaten us all they want, it’s not going to stop me from loving you. And once this ghost and zombie business is put to the grave, I’ll have a talk with the guild myself.”
“Jemma, it won’t make any difference. The contract—”
“Fuck the contract. If nothing else, this entire experience has taught me that life is too short and precious not to go after the one person in this world who makes me happy and complete. If those assholes in the guild don’t like it, too damn bad.”
Leaving Griff standing there in mute bemusement, she marched into the kitchen. Beneath the glow of candlelight, the dining table practically groaned under the weight of countless platters of food. She sent Clarissa a wry look. “Jeez, you weren’t kidding about the celebration.”
Clarissa patted the chair at the head of the table. “And as our honored guest, you get the best seat in the house.”
Nothing like putting the pressure on. If her magic proved to be merely a pretty light show, all this royal treatment would be for nothing. Choking down that bitter reality pill, she settled in the proffered seat. Griff took the chair to her right while Logan grabbed the one to her left. Suddenly recounting the amazing sexcapade they’d enacted no more than twenty feet away from where they sat, a wave of self-consciousness swamped her.
“What’s the matter, sugar? Your cheeks are all flushed.”
She peeked at Logan. Noticing his wicked grin, she pretended sudden interest in her cutlery.
Ms. Peach shuffled into the nook, hot on Gloria’s heels. “Where the devil were you?”
Clarissa gave an exasperated sigh. “Would you stop badgering Gloria and come eat?”
Grumbling beneath her breath, the elderly woman settled across from Clarissa and snapped her napkin open. Her smile painfully tight, Clarissa nodded toward Gloria. “You really outdid yourself. Everything looks fantastic.”
That was putting it lightly. Jemma stared at the succulent standing rib roast holding center court on the table, her mouth watering. “How in the world did you have time to fix all of this?” It was particularly a mystery considering the only thing cooking in the kitchen an hour ago had been Griff’s sex sauce.
Gloria shrugged. “It helps having a magic oven.”
Jemma’s attention veered to the stainless-steel appliance. “I don’t suppose they sell those at Home Depot?”
Tittering in amusement, Gloria circled the table, ladling out portions of a thick, cream-based soup. Jemma leaned forward for a closer inspection, the sweet and savory aroma flirting with her senses. “Is this crab bisque?”
Gloria lowered the crock to a waiting hot pad. “Griffin insisted it be on the menu.”
“He did?” She swung her focus to Griff, her heart swelling with the knowledge that he not only knew what her favorite dish was, but made sure she was treated to it. Feeling a little sappy that the gesture managed to bring tears to her eyes, she cleared her throat. “You did request the calorie-free version, right?” Hey, a gal could dream.
For the next ten minutes or so, the sound of busy utensils competed with the occasional hum of conversation. Eventually the surrounding voices became blurry and faint, a muffled soundtrack as Jemma struggled to stay awake long enough to cut a bite-sized portion of the rib roast. Her forearm weak and heavy, she attempted to slice through the slab of meat resting on her plate but the knife kept slipping. She struggled to contain a yawn. Maybe she should have taken Griff’s suggestion and snuck in a nap before coming downstairs. She lifted her head, the motion an extreme effort, and noticed that everyone else seemed to be suffering even worse states of drowsiness.
All except for Gloria, who was staring at her with an eerie intensity. The cook lifted from her seat, her flip-flops oddly silent during her approach. As Gloria neared, her eyes grew darker, revealing pinpoints of brilliant light swirling in her pupils.
Jemma’s befuddled mind tried to piece together where she’d seen those lights before. Suddenly it came to her. They were the same ones that’d led her to Nettie. Oh shit. She fumbled for the knife on her plate, her sluggish limbs refusing to cooperate. Finally she got a grip on the utensil and swiped a clumsy jab at Gloria.
Effortlessly knocking the potential weapon aside, Gloria offered a chilling smile. “Now, now. That’s a fine way to treat the woman who’s taking you to your destiny.”
Chapter Seventeen
Something was terribly wrong. He just couldn’t focus his thoughts enough to figure out exactly what. Prying his eyes open, Griffin peered around the table. Food. Mountains of it. He could still detect the lingering taste of crushed rosemary from some phantom meal. No, recent. For God’s sake, why wouldn’t his damn brain function properly? Uttering a growl that sounded strangely garbled, he tore his scrutiny from the barely touched feast and glanced toward the unconscious diner across the way.
Logan. Griffin frowned, trying to make sense of why the werewolf would be sacked out at the table, his face buried in a plate of uneaten roast pork. A moan came from the vicinity of the floor, and he spotted Clarissa struggling to push onto her elbows.
Disjointed images flashed through his mind, all of them circling back to one in particular. Bowls of crab bisque. Jemma’s fav—
Some of his brain fog cleared and the dim echo of a warning signal buzzed through the haze. He wrenched his head in the direction of Jemma’s chair, the mental alarm shrilling louder at the sight of her empty seat.
Another groan floated from Clarissa. “Gloria…took…”
It all came rushing back. The sudden lethargy that’d crashed over him. The distant sounds of a struggle, right before he’d blacked out.
“Have to…stop…her.” Clarissa pushed up another inch before her limbs gave out, sprawling her back onto the floor.
Battling against the heavy tide of fatigue dulling his reflexes, Griffin clawed at the arms of his chair, attempting to leverage himself off the seat. Whatever spell or potion Gloria had slipped into their food refused to loosen its grip. Clenching his teeth in a grimace of determination, he mentally visualized himself yanking free of the invisible shackles pinning him in place. The mind trick wasn’t easy, and it seemed hours passed before he felt the first restraint weaken and finally snap. After that initial crack, the others broke with little resistance.