From Bad to Cursed (The Witches of Thistle Grove, #2)

by Lana Harper

room that had started out as Elena’s third wine cellar—because who gets by with just one these days; certainly not my mother—and

And you know demonic shit has always been my love language.”

“Holy fucking spaceballs, Batman,”

“No need to bad-mouth elegant dogs just to excuse your mean-girl flowers,”

Leaf Laugh Love,

All my internal alarms sounded at the mention of Blackmoores,

“Sounds like a charmer,” I said sourly. Probably a fucking Pisces man. In my experience, male Pisces were always the ones with too many overflowing feelings, forever foisting them on everyone else in the vicinity.

“Pisces never forget,” I muttered darkly.

I recalled a general air of overwrought preciousness, and vast overconfidence in his own musical abilities.

Intense stubbornness, an even keel, your standard Taurus slow-boil temper. A boatload of basic decency.”

Rowan Thorn smelled like the best of Beltane, fragrant bonfires and spiked lemonade, day-drinking in spring sunshine. All my very favorite things.

“Because it makes me want to kiss that look right the fuck off your perfect little face.” “Dare you to try,” I whispered, throwing all my noble intentions straight into the fire.

We didn’t kiss, so much as collide with intent.

I’ll show you a tower-dwelling evil sorceress, you sanctimonious prick.

Please consider arriving in your finest carnival attire—though, as ever, pajamas will suffice.

two people who’d been about to get seriously busy on a mountaintop before a necromantic curse cockblocked us.

do to get a little love around here was vanquish a soul-grubbing death monster for a dude.

What a total fucking Taurus.