Misty set everything up at a table on the other side of her yard, which was reached by the little bridge. She spread out a white cloth, scattered the cut rose petals on it, inhaling their fragrance, and consulted the book.

Gather petals of red roses, washed three times. Check. Chopped with a fine-bladed knife. Check.

Immerse in alcohol . . .

That had been an interesting problem. Misty and her friends drank mostly wine and beer, saving hard liquor for martinis on evenings out. Misty wasn’t sure she wanted to gulp down rose petals in beer, or even in the nice white wine a friend had brought her last time she’d come over.

Then Misty had found a bottle in the back of her liquor cabinet. She hadn’t noticed it in a while and hadn’t drunk any for a long time. But it might work.

Now she put the chopped rose petals into two shot glasses, one in front of her and one in front of Graham.

“What is that?” he asked as Misty poured out the liquid. Graham only drank beer too.

“The good stuff.” Misty sat down across from him, lifted her shot glass and waited for him to lift his. “Tequila.”

CHAPTER NINE

Graham shrugged, raised his glass, and clinked it against Misty’s. “Down the hatch.”

“Cheers,” Misty said. They lifted their glasses at the same time and drank in one shot.

The tequila burned Misty’s mouth like liquid fire. The rose petals felt strange against her tongue, but she made herself not spit them out. Some stuck to the bottom of the glass, but that was all right, the spell said. They would bury the spent ones.

Misty swallowed, and the liquor shot down her gullet in a stream of flame. She coughed.

Drink four quantities.

Misty coughed again. One rose petal got caught on her tongue, and she fished it out and dropped it to the table.

Graham wiped his mouth, shaking his head. “What is this—lighter fluid? Humans actually drink this stuff?”

“All the time. Haven’t you ever had a margarita?”

Graham made a face. “You mean that frothy shit in fancy glasses? I don’t drink stuff with slices of fruit stuck in it. Drinks should be in a bottle.”

“You have no soul, Graham.”

“All Shifters have souls.” Graham spoke without humor. “Can you imagine me with my wolves? Hey, thanks for helping me fend off those hunters. How about we kick back, watch the game, and I’ll make some margaritas? Or mimosas. Or wine coolers. Girly drinks. They’d tear me apart and pick a new pack leader real quick.”

“I get it. You’re rugged.” Misty sprinkled more rose petals into the glasses and added another shot of tequila to each. “Four times, the book says.”

Graham studied the rose petals floating in the liquid. “I don’t feel any different.”

“Maybe we have to drink it all first.” Misty lifted her glass, and again they clinked them. Graham’s scarred fingers touched hers.

The second swallow was even more fiery than the first. Misty shuddered as it went down, her body feeling the heat.

“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.