Page 80 of Autumn L.A.W

The others gathered closer. Sahara, Crystal, Brianna, and eventually Magda. Their facial expressions spoke of questions, concerns, and skeptical worries.

Victoria raised her hand. “Before anyone asks—yes, it’s me.”

Silence.

“Of course it is I!” she snapped. “Would the mansion welcome just anybody into its embrace? Especially someone who looks like this?”

Joell and Crowe exchanged a look.

Crowe tilted his head. “I knew. Cat senses. I never lost them. When she showed up claiming to be Victoria, I was outside and telepathically relayed to Joell that she was telling the truth.”

Joell nodded. “We let her in.”

“As you should,” Victoria said. She stomped off to the library, and the other witches followed.

When everyone was settled at the large oblong table, she walked them through the story—every humiliating, infuriating moment. The dress. The swap. The thief prancing off in her body, as if she’d just won a prize. The trek to Raoul. The bus. The entire nightmare.

She even told them of her rejected, bogus plan to get to Tennessee. It involved hitchhiking and hijacking. Nope. Not a good plan. The ladies of the L.A.W. sometimes bent the law until it cried, but they tried not to break it.

Finally, Victoria crossed her short arms. “Well? Does anyone know how to fix this?”

Silence stretched just long enough to be annoying.

Then Joell straightened. “I’m calling the librarian.” She disappeared toward the kitchen at a near-run.

Victoria blinked. “Well. That sounded promising.”

A few minutes later, Joell came back. “There’s a way,” she said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

“Shocking.”

Joell grabbed a pad and pen, shoved them into Victoria’s hands. “Write.”

Victoria sighed but obeyed.

“Stone dust from the large pyramid at Chichén Itzá.”

Victoria scribbled.

“A corpse plant,” Joell continued. “Largest flower in the world. It’s in Indonesia. And Duke says it smells like a rotting corpse.”

Victoria gagged. “Naturally it does. Continue.”

“Nepenthes Temax. Northern Queensland. Looks like a pitcher.”

“It probably eats things,” Victoria muttered, writing.

“Welwitschia. Fossil plant. Africa.”

“Ancient rock. Fantastic.”

“Ghost orchid. Cuba or South Florida.”

“Finally, something pretty,” Victoria said. “Probably deadly.”

“Dragon’s Blood Tree. Socotra. It bleeds red.”

Victoria paused mid-scribble. “I’m sorry, it what?”