Michael

I stare at my soon-to-be bride, who looks up at me like a little golden owl, her blue eyes wide and shocked as she takes in my level of disheveled-ness.

But I’m looking at her bloody finger, the bowl of liquid on the table, and the two guilty-looking ex-witches standing on either side of Faye.

Lowe strides into the house behind me, clicking his tongue and saying, “Potions? This early in the morning, Alma? You know those herbs make my nose itch something fierce.”

Cole stares into the kitchen beside me, searching Emelda’s face before dropping his eyes to the bowl and back up again. “What is that?”

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