What kind of a worthless cop couldn’t hit someone in the chest from ten feet away? Damn it! Twist had been certain all his problems were over when he’d heard the gun shot.
And his “good fortune” spell had completely backfired! How the hell was screwing the quarterback lucky for her?
Oh, wait.
Maybe he’d misunderstood how she was supposed to “get lucky.” He began to suspect those damn spells were purposely enigmatic.
Hm. Maybe it’d worked, after all.
He flipped through his bookmarks. “Aha.” Green candles, amber incense, bay leaves, yada, yada, yada. He made a screenshot of the slut on his tablet and stood it up behind the bowl. “Success for her is guaranteed on all the branches of a tree. Money and fame will grow there-on and as I say so mote it be.”
Whoever made these spells needed a new writer. What the hell was a “mote”?