Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie We're In Trouble! (The Toad Witch Mysteries Book 2) by Christiana Miller Read Free Book Online Page A

in my chest and before I could stop it, I was yelling at the top of my lungs. “Tone down your fucking rituals!”
    I was so mad, every muscle in my body was shaking.
    The thing was, Gus actually did have a point. Locations that would make most people run screaming, are like heaven-sent manna to witches. It was one of the reasons I wasn’t about to give up the cottage. Sitting on top of an open portal to the Otherworld, is beyond awesome—if you’re a witch. If you’re not, you need to get the hell out before the place destroys you. Sell and sell fast. Advertise it to witches and you’ll be able to unload any kind of haunted locale in a heartbeat.
    But, as a witch, you also had to be super-careful what kind of mayhem you called up when you were living in an open portal. And Gus seemed incapable of understanding that concept. I’d bet he’d feign complete ignorance of the word careful, even if I tattooed it and its definition on his ass.
    “You should try some meditation.” Gus said, shaking his head. “All this stress can’t be good for the baby.”
    “Meditation isn’t my problem,” I snapped, when I could talk again. “You are. Instead of driving me crazy and courting the wrath of the Weather Gods and the Winter Queen, why don’t you try being patient for a fucking change?”
    “Because fifty years is a geological pace,” he snapped. “Not a Gus pace. “Think of it as helping a good cause.”
    “It’s the Internet, Gus! Not everything you read is fact. In fifty years, Grundleshanks won’t be decomposed, he’ll be a freaking fossil.”
    I stomped off to my bedroom, followed by the (understandably anxious) puppies. Right now, they were the only company I wanted to share a room with.
     

Chapter 12
    T he next day, I woke up to parka weather, a cleaned-up living room and a depressed Gus. We were out of milk, but he was so contrite about the damage he had caused, when he saw me pouring decaf coffee on cereal, instead of poking fun at me or lecturing me about the evils of carbs, he ran out to the grocery store and completely restocked our kitchen.
    As the week progressed, the weather warmed up. The first few days, we went from a wind chill of 120 below—so cold that the brakes in my car froze—to 30 degrees. It was so warm, it actually started snowing again. From there, the temperature kept climbing and the sparkly snow turned into wet, melted slush. Soon, the snow was replaced by a light rain. As it gently washed away the last of the slush and nourished the earth, winter was starting to feel a lot like spring. Especially when I took the puppies out in the woods and the mud was so deep, it almost pulled one of my hiking boots off. We all needed a bath after that walk.
    Thankfully though, we had no repeat occurrences of indoor weather or that eerie voice. Since Gus swore he hadn’t heard it, I was starting to wonder if it had been my imagination.
    Gus, however, was still moping around. He wanted a ninety-degree heat wave and he wanted it now.
     
    I almost felt sorry for him—until he waltzed into the kitchen one morning, throwing around attitude and judgmental looks.
    “We need to replace the furniture.”
    “The furniture is fine. What we need to do, now that you’re back, is nail it to the floor.” I said. “There’s no telling what kind of weather phenomenon you’re going to call up next.”
    “It’s dated.”
    “It’s antique.”
    “It’s too tacky to be antique.”
    “So says the King of Tacky. Wasn’t your last coffee table a naked mermaid holding a glass disc?”
    “That wasn’t tacky. That was kitsch.”
    “What’s the difference?”
    “Kitsch is fun.”
    I snorted and took a carton of eggs out of the refrigerator. I was having mega-cravings for french toast with powdered sugar.
    “Oh no, you don’t,” Gus said, taking the carton out of my hand and putting it back in the fridge. He opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Take your bad attitude and get ye gone,