“Lemon drop,” Graham said. “Another girly drink.”
“This is straight tequila,” Misty said, licking her tingling lips. “It’s plenty manly.”
“Bellini,” Graham went on as Misty doled out more petals and more alcohol. “I don’t even know what the hell that is.”
“Like a mimosa. Champagne, but with other fruit instead of orange juice—peaches or berries, say.”
“Great. You ever seen me put berries in my beer?”
“Beer can be fruity.” Misty raised the third glass. “Like hefeweizen. Bars serve it with lemon wedges. Or orange.”
“I know. Ruins the head. It’s beer. A hundred years ago, no one put fruit in it. We just drank it. By the barrel.”
“You shouldn’t tell me how old you are,” Misty said, giving him a little smile. “Chin-chin.”
Another clink, another shot dumped into her mouth. This time, Misty’s entire tongue went numb. But the thirst was still there. The dehydrating alcohol was only making it worse.
“Let’s hurry and do the last one.” Misty’s hand fumbled as she poured the last shot. She was almost out of rose petals.
“You are so beautiful.”
Misty jumped, tequila sloshing from her glass. Graham was staring at her, moonlight on the thick glass in his hand throwing spangles over his face. His eyes were pale gray, wolflike.
“What?” Misty stammered.
“You heard me.”
Misty thought of the searing kiss they’d shared this afternoon, under the equally searing sun. How he’d touched the tip of her nose and said, You and me. We’re not done.
The gruff note in his voice tonight was the same. Graham wasn’t comfortable with the words, but he’d said them anyway.
“Cheers,” Misty said softly.
She clinked her glass against his. Graham reached over and brushed his fingers along her hand before he turned his glass and poured the shot down his throat.
Misty swallowed, wincing at the fire in her throat. Her mouth burned, and her tongue felt thick. Good thing the spell book said only four shots. Misty would be flat on her back if it had said five or six.
“I still don’t feel any different,” Misty said. “Except a little drunk.”
Graham thumped his shot glass to the table and slammed his hand down next to it as he swallowed. “Nope.”
“Maybe it really isn’t a spell,” Misty said. “Maybe whoever wrote the book is laughing at us.”
“We’re not done yet.”
“That’s true.”
Bury the rose petals in the earth, turn thrice, and open to the cleansing rays of the moon, the Mother Goddess.
Misty stood up, and clutched the edge of the table. “You’re going to have to help me dig.”
Graham was less shaky than Misty, but he definitely swayed a little as he got to his feet. Shifters could handle alcohol a lot better than humans, he’d told her. Their metabolism burned it off quickly, same way they burned food. But they could still get drunk and have hangovers—it just took more doing.
Misty and Graham went together to the corner of the yard, where the ground was soft under the rosebushes. The jutting branches of the neighbor’s tree plus the wall of Misty’s garage shielded that part of the garden from the house, and the glow from her lit back windows was muted here.
Misty crouched down under the rosebushes. In spring and fall, these plants were a glory of red, yellow, pink, orange, and white. In August, it was still too hot for blooms, but even now, buds were showing in the shadiest spots.
Misty awkwardly poked at the dirt with her trowel. Graham closed his big hand over hers, shoving the trowel in and turning over the earth. The strength of him came through her hand and sent heat to her heart.
She scraped the last of the rose petals from the shot glasses and dumped them in the hole, adding the petals she’d cut but hadn’t used. Graham’s hand still on hers, they filled in the hole and smoothed the dirt over it.
Graham released the trowel and stood up. He reached down and pulled Misty to her feet, remaining close to her in the shadows. “Now what?”
“We turn around. Three times. Like this.”
Misty stepped out into the moonlight. She opened her arms, lifting her face to the moon, the Mother Goddess, and turned in place once. Graham watched her, then he spread his arms and did the next circle with her.
Misty thought Graham might complain he looked stupid rotating in Misty’s yard, but then, Shifters performed rituals all the time. Misty had seen a mating ceremony, which was a little like a human wedding, though much briefer and rowdier. They called it mating under sun and under moon—one ritual performed in daylight, the next under the full moon. After the full-moon ceremony, the Shifters were considered officially mated.
She had also seen a ceremony to celebrate a cub coming out of Transition to full adulthood. Sadder, she’d attended a Shifter gathering to recognize the yearly anniversary of a loved one’s passing.
Graham and Misty did another turn together, then Misty stopped, and Graham did his third one alone.
When he finished, they looked at each other. “Now what?” Graham asked.
“I don’t know.”
The book hadn’t specified whether the moon should be full, waxing, or waning. Or whether the roses had to be fresh cut, or other details like that. Could be the book was just the ramblings of someone who loved whimsy, and it wouldn’t help at all.
Graham was watching her, his body quiet in the darkness, moonlight glinting on his Collar. He belonged out here in the night, a wolf, a being of the moon.
Other Shifters Misty had met could look and act exactly like humans, but Graham never quite could, not entirely. Graham was always a beast—tall, broad, raw strength in his bare arms. She had the feeling he kept to human shape only for convenience . . . his.
“Nothing’s happening,” he said.
“I know,” Misty said glumly. “Maybe we—”
Pain choked her words to a halt. She bent in agony as blood surged through her veins as hot as the tequila had been, burning its way to her heart.
Misty thought she screamed, but only a faint cry escaped her lips. She pressed her hands to the hot core of her chest, struggling to breathe.
Not a heart attack. She couldn’t be having a heart attack. Could she?
“Call . . .” Misty coughed, lungs begging for air. She clawed at her chest, trying to open it, to let the air in. What the hell was happening to her? She was falling, falling . . .