After spending most my life single (for witches it's practically an occupational hazard) I finally found someone to love. OK, so then he got killed, but he's recuperating nicely. And I should be home, nursing him-maybe just a little bit naughtily-back to health.
But no. The Prime Minister asked if I could look after this rock star buddy of his, Zane. Creepy Goth guys in cloaks keep showing up at his concerts and zapping his mojo. Hmm, smells like teen warlock to me. Anyway, I owe the PM, and Zane is fun, too-I mean, what girl wouldn't want to hang with the hottest man in music?
Look, everyone has vices. Right now, I'd like to indulge in one of mine and blow some people up so I can get back to my sweetie in Texas. But if these caped dudes don't show themselves before another paparazzi shot of Zane and me hits the tabloids, I may not have a boyfriend to go home to.
