THE ART OF A WITCH

  A CURSE OF BLOOD SERIAL | PART 6

  L. L. FROST

  THE ART OF A WITCH

  Copyright © 2022 by L.L. Frost

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design by L.L. Frost

  Book design by L.L. Frost

  Printed in the United States of America.

  First Printing, 2022

  CONTENTS

  More Thigh Days

  Honk for Joy

  Magic Purple Smoke

  The Food Plan

  The Pie Feud

  Owen to the Rescue

  Tris the Sun Dog

  You Said Knot

  From the Author

  Also by L.L. Frost

  About the Author

  MORE THIGH DAYS

  Loud footsteps announce Haut’s return to the house, along with his loud bellow. “Rowe? Where are you? Speak to me, sweetie.”

  Tris bats my head with his wings and honks loudly for attention.

  “Shut up!” I hiss, trying to contain my newly feathered friend. “He’ll find us.”

  “What the…” Haut’s footsteps slow, his tone shifting from worry to anger. “Did you ransack my bedroom? Your pills were right on the nightstan…”

  He trails off as he picks his way over the pile of bedding into the hall and steps into his trashed bedroom.

  I lay low behind the footboard, but Tris gives us away with another loud honk.

  Haut’s fingers curl around the top of the footboard before his angry eyes find me in my admittedly poor hiding place. “What in the ever-loving hell is going on?”

  “Adventure?” I offer, which earns me another buffet of slaps from my partner in crime.

  Haut looks at him in disbelief. “Is that Tris?”

  Tris honks loud as he stomps his flipper feet onto my back, his weight pressing me into the slats I lay across.

  “Were we vandalized while I was gone?” Haut reaches down, grabs Tris by his long neck, and tosses him out the door. “Because that is the only explanation I’ll accept for why you tossed your grandmother’s house and invaded my privacy.”

  I widen my eyes at him. “Grandma made me do it.”

  He curses and stomps away, followed by another loud honk from Tris.

  “No, really, I’m telling the truth.” Grabbing the nearest journal, I scramble over the footboard, leap over the bedding in the doorway, and chase after him down the hall, waving the family heirloom like a madwoman. “Look! She hid them under your bed!”

  Haut yanks open the door to the screened-in porch and shoves Tris out before he turns to me.

  I lean to the side to peer past his magnificent form. “Why are you putting Tris on the porch? He doesn’t like to be caged. It gives him flashbacks to the pound.”

  “Have you ever stepped in goose shit?” Haut’s lip curls in disgust. “Until he proves he’s house trained in this new form, he’s not coming back inside.”

  I straighten to my full height, which doesn’t even bring me to Haut’s shoulder. “Tris has never shit in the house!”

  “How long was he a wolfdog before you met him?” Haut demands.

  Two loud honks answer as the screen on the door rattles aggressively.

  “Two years, give or take a few months,” I mumble.

  “Two years of learning how to control a canine body.” Haut kicks the main door shut on Tris’s protests. “He stays outside until we can figure out what happened and turn him back.” Then, his eyes narrow on the book in my hand. “What did you say was hiding under my bed?”

  Quickly, I shove the journal behind my back. “Nothing.”

  “Did you find her journals?” He pounces before I can run, wrapping me up in his superior strength before easily wresting the old book from my hands. Disbelief fills his voice. “She hid them under my bed?”

  “She must have trusted you to keep them safer than the workroom.” I wiggle and squirm against his hard body. “Put me down, you big oaf!”

  One large hand cups my ass, boosting me higher instead of lowering me, and he strides back to his bedroom. “So, you were playing baby Wendall Witch and cursed Tris with an even less ideal form. That about sum it up?”

  “You don’t know me!” Rearing up, I clamp my teeth onto his shoulder before shaking my head back and forth, growling.

  “Oh, you want to play bad puppy?” He pauses in his doorway. “I don’t know what to rub your nose in first, you bad, bad puppy.”

  I release his shoulder and shove against them instead. “But I found the journals. I did good. I’m a good puppy.”

  “Yeah?” He glances from me to his trashed room. “Can you prove that?”

  “I can.” Nodding vigorously, I squirm out of his arms and swing a leg over the footboard. “I so can. Just you watch.”

  A low growl of appreciation comes from him.

  I glare over my shoulder. “Watch me, not my ass.”

  “I can multitask.” He hooks his thumbs into his pockets, his hands splayed over his thighs and drawing my eye to his bulge. “Watch me multitasking.”

  “Humph.” I tumble onto the slat and crawl to the journals still taped to the narrow board. “No one will ever think you’re a princess. How did you not notice these were under here?”

  “Did you notice when you slept on that side?” he counters.

  Last time I was here, I passed out from too many orgasms then woke up in a panic, but he has a point, so I ignore the question.

  I find seven journals in total and gather them into my arms, along with the two I left near the footboard and knee walk back over to Haut. “Here. Take these and put them somewhere safer.”

  Obedient, he gathers them up, turns, and sets them on his dresser before he shifts back to me and raises his brows.

  With a huff, I clamber back over the footboard, then stride to the edge of the mattress. The tight fabric defies my grasp, and it doesn’t appear to have handles, so I hook my hands on the underside, plant my feet on the wall, and heave upward. The damn thing weighs a ton. Who needs a king-sized mattress, anyway?

  It wobbles, the upper edge tipping toward the floor, before my weight pulls it back down.

  Okay. This is okay. I can do this.

  Abandoning the edge, I scramble up the mattress, using my weight to tip it onto the bed.

  Victorious, I thrust my arms into the air. “Ha! Take that! You are not the king of me!”

  “Very nice.” Haut claps slowly. “Now get the other end onto the bed frame.”

  My hands fall to my hips. “You think I can’t?”

  He smirks. “I want to see you do it, bad puppy.”

  Since walking to the unsupported side will just send it back to the ground, I step over to the footboard once more, my arms out at my sides for balance. The mattress wobbles, but stays in place as I grasp the footboard, and prepare to climb over.

  As soon as one foot leaves the mattress, I know I’ve made a grave error. My eyes widen as the mattress tips back toward the floor, throwing off my balance as my back half rises with it. I scramble for purchase on the footboard’s round edge, but my fingers slip free. I fall to the side, then ride the mattress back to the floor like a down-filled slide.

  Haut’s face appears above mine, upside down so I can pretend he’s frowning instead of laughing at me. “Give up?”

  “Never,” I hiss up at him.

  “I could help,” he offers.

  “But at what cost to my pride?” Somersaulting off the side, I attempt to lift the corner of the mattress onto my shoulders. “Come on squats. Do me proud.”

  My feet slide backward, but the mattress moves. Just not in the direction I want. Instead, it moves to the side before getting stuck.

  Haut comes up behind me. “Looks like you need more thigh days.”

  I plop down on my butt. “New idea.”

  He squats down. “Color me curious.”

  “I never understood that.” I kick at the mattress. “What color is curious?”

  “What’s the idea?” he prods.

  “We cut it in half.” I chop my arm through the air. “Right down the middle. I just need a chainsaw and some safety goggles.”

  Laughing, he grasps the edge of the mattress and stands, easily hoisting it into place.

  “Just so we’re clear, I didn’t need help.” I stand and stride to the doorway, grab a couple pillows, and chuck them onto the newly straightened mattress. “I had that completely handled.”

  Haut throws the pillows right back. “You have to put the sheets on first.”

  Grumbling, I dig out the sheet and shake it out. “You know, it’s easier to make a bed if it’s not crammed against the wall like that.”

  He catches the sheet and stretches across the top to hook one corner under the mattress. “Does it look like I have the space to have it in the center of the room?”

  “It’s unnecessarily large.” I bend over the footboard and tuck the sheet into
place on the corner closest to me.

  Moss-green eyes flick to me as he finishes the sheet at the top. “People who can sleep comfortably in a dresser drawer don’t get to make that decision.”

  About to retort, I peer over at the dresser in question. Like a lot of the furniture in the house, it’s solid wood, handmade, and the bottom drawer actually looks big enough to hold spare blankets. I probably could fit in there.

  “Now the top sheet,” Haut commands.

  I grab it and help him spread it over the bed, followed by the blanket and pillows.

  Soon enough, his room looks like Tris and I never trashed it in the first place.

  Haut crawls onto the bed and leans against the headboard before patting the space between his thighs. “Bring the books and join me.”

  This feels like a trap, but if he knows something about the journals that can help Tris, I owe it to my bestie to do my best. By joining Haut back in his bed. The sacrifices I make.

  I take two trips, piling the journals next to Haut, before I climb up next to him, using his outstretched leg as support.

  “Do I need to get little doggie steps?” Haut teases.

  I pause to glare at him. “I will find a chainsaw and cut the legs off your bed frame.”

  His lips curl in a wicked grin. “Plan on being here frequently, do you?”

  Oh, he is way too good at twisting my words. Grasping his thigh, I roll over his leg and land in the empty space he left for me.

  He grunts and shifts me so I’m not crushing his family jewels. “Now, which book were you reading from?”

  I lean to the side and flip through them until I find the one with the family tree.

  “Ah, the Zweite Auflage.” The foreign words roll off his tongue. He turns the book in my hands to show the sign and taps the number two on the spine. “This is the second grimoire of the Wendalls.”

  “How do you know all this?” I lean over and check the other spines, spotting numbers on half of them.

  “Your grandma hoped you would return, but knew there was a chance she wouldn’t live long enough to see it happen.” His feet nudge under my legs before he crosses his legs beneath mine, creating a loose basket for me to sit in. “She taught me to speak German and Spanish, and trained me in how to use the books, even if I can’t do anything with them.”

  “You were her apprentice,” I murmur, stroking the spine of the book I hold.

  “In a way, I suppose.” His arms curl around me, surrounding me in warmth. “I always felt like a placeholder, someone she could train but who would never be what the town needed.”

  Sadness fills me. “That doesn’t sound like a good feeling.”

  “She was a good woman, who gave me a home when I didn’t have one.” He presses his lips against the top of my head. “I’ll do my best by you, Rowe.”

  It sounds like a promise and a commitment, and holds the same weight of expectation I felt earlier with Owen. I understand it better, coming from my childhood friend. But why is Haut so invested? Is he simply fulfilling an obligation to my grandma? I don’t like the way that makes me feel, but how can I expect more when we barely know each other. And should I expect more? Do I want to expect more?

  Nope, not thinking about that right now.

  I settle the book in my lap. “I didn’t think anything would happen if I said the words out loud. Owen says I don’t tingle.”

  Haut props his chin on my head. “Tingle?”

  I nod, feeling his chin slide back and forth. “Wendall Witch’s smell tingly. Isn’t that why you didn’t believe me when I told you who I was?”

  “I never thought of it as tingly. More like…” He considers it for a moment. “You know when you’re baking something yummy, and you catch that first whiff of sweetness? That’s what your grandma smelled like to me.”

  I elbow him in the stomach. “And you’re still claiming not to have had a thing for my grandma?”

  He tickles my sides. “Say that again.”

  “Stop!” Giggling, I slap at his hands, then grab them and wrap his arms around me as the laughter fades. “What if I don’t have any tingle juice?”

  He nuzzles the side of my neck, chomping playfully with his lips over his teeth. “I think there’s a goose on the porch who would say otherwise.”

  “True.” I straighten with excitement. “And you can help translate the spell so I can do it right next time.”

  “It will take some time to do that.” He takes the book off my lap and sets it aside. “We can start in the morning.”

  I twist to look back at him. “Why not right now?”

  Haut cups my jaw, tilting my head back onto his shoulder. “We’re not leaving this room again today.”

  My pulse quickens. “Because we’re going to start lessons instead?”

  He leans down, his lips grazing over mine. “No.”

  Breath catching, my eyelids flutter shut before I open them once more. “Because you want to rearrange your bedroom?”

  “Read the mood, Rowe.” He licks a hot trail across the seam of my lips.

  A moan escapes. “Oh.”

  “Oh,” he agrees, before his mouth covers mine.

  HONK FOR JOY

  A crash startles me awake, and I groan as a throb shoots up from my hips. Beside me, Haut shifts, the arm under my head curling to pull me closer against his warm, naked body.

  Another groan escapes as the memory of yesterday returns. I did it again. Multiple times, over and over, well into the wee hours of the morning before I passed out with Haut still hard inside me.

  Why can’t I resist this man?

  He nuzzles the top of my head, a contented rumble rising from his chest. The way he keeps putting me in the more protected spot closer to the wall, with his large body between me and any intruder, makes me melt a little, as does the warmth of his skin against mine. No matter how often I’m reminded that I don’t know Haut, his actions show he’ll protect me. He’s also a good cook and makes sure I eat regularly. He’s a bit of a nurturer, which I never would have believed with how we met. And he seems to genuinely like me, despite all my peculiarities.

  It’s not so bad that we started as physical, I suppose. We have time to fill in all the blanks.

  His arms tighten around me like I’m his favorite teddy bear, and my eyes drift closed once more, his body heat lulling me back toward sleep.

  Then, the slappy-slap of flippered feet march down the hall, and my eyes spring back open.

  Oh no, Tris! I can’t believe I let Haut’s hot body make me forget my BFF exiled to the porch.

  Dread fills me as I track the slap of his feet down the hall, my fingers crossed that he continues past Haut’s room. But instead, the slappy-slap gains in volume as he barrels into the bedroom.

  How did he know I was here? There’s no way he could see me over Haut’s body. Are my clothes on the floor? I don’t remember exactly where Haut threw them after he talked me out of them yesterday.

  A honk echoes through the room, followed by a flurry of wings. Tris launches himself up over the footboard, then lands on the mattress, making it bounce, to glare balefully at me and hiss.

  Haut roars to life at the intrusion, rolling me into the empty spot left by his body as he bolts upright. When he spots Tris on his bed, the tension in his body eases as he growls. “We’re having goose for dinner tonight.”

  Tris honks angrily and grabs at the covers, yanking them down.

  Haut snatches them back before he turns to scowl at me. “Deal with him, or I will.”

  I shove him in the chest. “You are not putting him in the oven.”

  He grins, displaying sharp teeth. “Who said I was going to cook him first?”

  With a yelp, I scramble off the side of the bed, landing on my butt when my feet give out. That’s fine, though, since it puts me in the perfect position to find my clothes. They were, indeed, strewn across the floor, right where Tris could spot them. I pull my camisole on first, then ignore the underwear that are out of reach and get my legs functioning enough to yank on pants.