The viscous green fluid in Cassandra’s cauldron flashed white as she dropped a pig’s ear into her brew. Her hands trembled. She groped the table behind her for a handful of newt eyes. She didn’t turn. There wasn’t time.
Rat tail. Molasses.
Three extra-large pepperoni pizzas—though anchovy would have been
Cassandra wafted her
potion, eyes watering. Not right. What was she missing? She yanked the phone from her pocket.
Last ingredient in the rejuvenation potion of Antioch?”
“Of Antioch? Well—”
“Please, Joey. My dog is about to keel over.”
“The feather of a
hawk. It must be from the—”
Cassandra knocked her
supply table nearly clean. Her right
hand brushed a tiny stack of feathers.
She plucked a brown one up, tossed it in the pot, stirred her mixture,
and dipped an ancient bucket down into it.
She plopped it down before her shepherd, then hoisted her head into the
rang. She let it ring. “From the tail,” he was about to say. A feather from anywhere else will make a
Her dog. Poisoned.
Twice. By her.