Page 63 of Bad Witch

Turning to the page I needed, I ran my finger down the recipe.

This could mean the end of my life as I knew it, but that was something I’d think about later. There wasn’t time to wait for a cure. There were children suffering, people dying. I couldn’t help the humans, but I could save the others.

I rushed around, gathering the ingredients I needed, and got busy making the potion. There was no guarantee this would even work, but it was the only thing I had.

When I returned to the clinic, everyone was run off their feet, far too busy to notice what I was doing. I entered Jessica’s room, and it was easy to see her time was almost up. She was unconscious. Gods, she had deteriorated so much in the short time I’d been gone. I wouldn’t dream of using the Agattealia Pontella on her if there’d been another option, not when I’d never used this recipe before and had no idea how it might affect her. The grimoire had called this potion a cure-all. I prayed to the mother that I was doing the right thing, then taking the dropper, I opened her mouth and placed one drop on her tongue.

Something cold slid over me and I froze. A dark shadow caught my eye, and I spun toward it. The man I’d seen last week, the one who’d grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise it, strode past the door. I rubbed my throbbing wrist, trying to force the pain away. Jessica remained still and unconscious. I didn’t want to leave her, but something wasn’t right—he wasn’t right.

I rushed to the door, catching a glimpse of him as he rounded the corner. Breaking into a run, I went after him, but he was gone.

Someone shouted. I spun back, terrified it was Jessica, but the sound came from another ward. I ran toward the sounds of panic. Jack, Mags, and several other healers were frantically working on the patients in the room. Four of them were crashing. I dove in to help, but they’d already advanced past any help. They’d been in only the early stages this morning, this shouldn’t be happening.

Jack cursed and tore off his gloves. “Time of death. Eight forty-seven p.m.”

“Which one?” I said.

“All of them. They all died at exactly the same time,” he said, sounding confused and horrified. “What the hell is going on? What the fuck is this? How is this possible?”

He said what we were all thinking. No one had an answer.

What I did know was this wasn’t some random coincidence. I rubbed at my aching wrist again. Someone, or something, had made this happen—they’d wanted these people to die, and they’d wanted us to know they’d caused it.

Chapter

Eighteen

Tempest

* * *

I’d searched the clinic again for the male in black, but there’d been no sign of him. Then I’d gone back to check on Jessica. She was still unconscious, but her vitals had improved. The Agattealia Pontella was doing something. I didn’t know what, or if these improvements would be permanent. I didn’t know anything, but it was all I had. So I continued to ignore the insistent knocking on my subconscious by the Matildas and administered the potion I’d made to as many of the others as I could get to, starting with the pups in intensive care. All started to show signs of improvement.

It was 7:00 p.m. when I dragged myself into the break room, every fiber of my being exhausted, and found Fender sitting there waiting.

I pulled up short, unable to hide my surprise. “Hey…what are you…”

“Made you something to eat, peaches.” He stood, and I noticed the containers in front of him. “Not sure what you like, so I brought a few different things.”

He’d come to see me. He’d even made me dinner. My gaze slid over him. He was in worn jeans, boots, and a black, long-sleeved T-shirt that hugged his strong and muscled chest and wide shoulders. His auburn hair was tied neatly and braided down his back.

He was exactly what…who I desperately needed to see after the hell of the last eighteen hours. Gods, seeing him now made my throat tight and my eyes sting. I wouldn’t cry. I refused to.

“Peaches,” he said, and just the sound of his voice gave me belly flutters.

“You cooked for me?”

He gave me one of his quick grins, the one that flashed his pointed canines. “I’m no great cook, but I know my way around a kitchen.” He’d crossed the room and closed the door.

I didn’t know what to say. No one besides my mother and Matilda W had ever cooked for me. “Thank you,” I said, and my voice came out wobbly.

He took a step toward me.

Before he could reach me, though, I took a quick step back.

He paused, his head tilting to the side. “You running away from me, Temp?”

I realized I was still backing up and stopped myself, planting my feet. “No, I…I didn’t mean to.”