GENRE: Paranormal Romance
Phone. Someone was calling her. Mona lifted her head and shoulders from the couch wincing as her abraded elbows scraped against the nubby, durable fabric she’d let herself be talked into buying. Practical yes, comfortable, no.
Wait. Why was she on the couch?
Right. Smythe's driveway this morning. The ground buckling under her feet. Sheer panic as boulders erupted. Her body slamming into the icy ground as she lost traction.
Training my a**. No matter what shit Warder Smythe tried to tell her, her detecting and escaping the spell wasn’t planned. She didn't remember much after she left him to sell his crap to the thin air. Driving. Cursing Folk and Smythe and the elfblood which made her a Warder. Stumbling in through her front door.
The phone rang again.
She could not answer it and piss Smythe off.
But then, if he was calling because he needed help warding Folk and mortals from errant magic, and someone got hurt because she hadn’t picked up.... S***. Looked like she needed to get off the couch and get the dang phone.
Mona hurriedly sat up, her scraped knees and bruised elbow protesting. The only good news was she might be able to get out of Smythe what really happened. She wasn't buying his story about setting the trap, neither of them could create workings, despite being able to see and manipulate magic. His claiming he set the spell both annoyed and worried her. Why had he claimed he’d created something he couldn’t have possibly made?