Always ​a Witch (Witch 2.) 6 csillagozás

Liam's voice chokes off with a wet gargle. „Mother,” he gasps finally. „I'm rather fond of my windpipe.”

„Mother,” Rowena yells again. „You need to explain something very important to my father.” She flings one arm back to identify our father as if our mother is unclear on just who this man might be.

„Where's Rowena?” she whispers.
„I froze her,” I say, setting down my backpack and stretching my arms to the ceiling. „She makes a great statue in the garden.”
Gabriel snorts and ducks his head into the open refrigerator as the knives slip from my mother's grasp and crash back on the pile of silverware. „You did?” she asks, a note of hope throbbing through her voice. Clearing her throat, she tries again. „I mean, you did what? You can't just freeze your sister.”

Gabriel inhales on a laugh, then begins choking on cake crumbs. Alarmed, my mother whirls around. "Which one did you eat?' she cries.
„The chocolate flower one,” I say. „Will he live?” I help myself to another cake, this one covered in sugar violets. „Is this one okay?” I ask, and then pop it into my mouth.
My mother closes her eyes briefly. „Yes.”
„Yes I'll live or yes the second cake that she just ate is okay? It's kind of important that you be specific here,” Gabriel says.

„Well, you won't enjoy this,” I snap. Holding up one palm, I shoot a gust of fire directly at him.
At least I try to. Nothing happens. Not even a spark flutters out from under my skin.
The man lifts one eyebrow at me. „Impressive,” he murmurs. „Truly.”

The smell of sawdust and sweat fills the air, as well as the scent of something burning. Glancing sideways, I watch as a half-naked man painted in blue symbols swallows a whole torch full of fire to the accompaniment of gasps from the crowd. I really hope the burning smell isn't coming from him.

„How'd you find this out?”
„I—” I cast another look down the hallway toward my parents' room. A light suddenly snaps on underneath the doorway. „My room,” I whisper.
„He was in your room?” Gabriel says, loud enough to wake up the whole stupid house.
„No,” I hiss. „Let's go to my room now.”
„Tamsin, I thought you'd never ask—” Gabriel says in an entirely different tone.
„Oh, shut up.”

Finally, I confront myself in my bedroom mirror. I look like I just escaped from a mental asylum that doubles as a nineteenth-century thrift shop.