When The Spell Blows
Par šo e-grāmatu
Most days, I’m just trying to raise my kid and not die. So, when a troupe of randy pixies gather in my garden, demanding I protect them, I’m like, bitch, I can barely protect myself. On top of that, I have to worry about monster attacks from enemies new and old.
My grimoire keeps talking in riddles. No help there. Linda the Gnome is more surly than usual. Even less help. Thank heavens for my hottie druid boyfriend, who has my back, front, and side, and a fat cat named Bob, who calms me better than a prescription mood stabilizer.
Tru-craft has been nature’s midlife gift that keeps on trying to kill me.
Earth nearly turned me to dust.
Fire almost extinguished my flame.
If I don’t master this new element, Air is going to blow me into the next life.
Literally.
