Michele Hauf - This Soul Magic

“Witches,” I muttered. “They creep me out.”

Save for the ones who planted skin-warming kisses on me. I did like kissing. Much better than vacuuming.

Ten minutes later, I had been compelled to listen to an elderly witch’s explanation that she could bespell the frown from me (really? I didn’t frown. Maybe? Hmm...), had watched a set of blonde twins perform allotriophagy—they’d made each other spit up butterflies—and had decided that mugwort stank and I preferred frankincense as a scent.

Libby’s boisterous voice carried above the hubbub of chatter. I noticed a thin dark-haired man approach her and lean in close. As he spoke, the frail and poor example of male touched her wrist.

Marching toward my red-haired goddess, my fingers curled tightly and my chest expanded. I growled. The man looked at me, gaped and stepped away from my woman.

Libby turned, and just as I swung up a fist to connect with the idiot who had touched her, she stopped me with a smack of her palm over my knuckles.

“What are you doing?” she asked forcefully. “Reichardt?”

“He touched you.” Had been close enough to kiss!

“It was just a friendly touch. He’s not—”

“I must defend your honor.”

“Monsieur, no...” the man started.

Libby slid between me and the male witch—who cast me a snide look down his narrow nose. “You can’t go around punching witches,” she said. “He’ll return with a blast of magic that’ll send you across this room. Holster it, lover boy.”

“But...”

Libby’s stern gaze deflated my anger and made me feel as if everyone was watching my admonishment. I didn’t want to look around to verify if that were true.

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