"Why have I been so tired?" Melvin asked. The three of them sat in rickety wooden chairs around a circular table covered in a blood red tablecloth. In the middle of the table sat what Melvin could only assume was a wax hand. The ends of each finger of the hand glowed with flame. The finger flames were the only light in the room, and the faces of the two women flickered as Melvin exchanged uneasy glances with both of them.

"It's hard to explain," Morgan said. "But I'll give it a go." She leaned back in her chair and kicked her feet up on the table. She wore red flip flops which she slid off with her toes.

"Ok, here goes. Now imagine you're a kick ass Jaguar. I mean like the car Ms. Briswell here drives and not like the animal. So you're the biggest and most bad-ass Jag ever created. The ladies get wet just hearing your engine rev, ya know? Well, what happens when you kick it out to 120 miles per hour every night? Sooner or later, you run out of gas. The tank gets empty. You've got to head to the gas station and refuel, and that's where I come in. Follow me?" she said.

"That explanation sounds pretty vague to me," Bridget said with a sigh. Her face wore a look as if to say she wasn't buying a word of this.

"Being vague and mysterious is part of the allure of being a witch," Morgan said, her lips peeling back from her teeth in a smile. "But that explanation will have to do. It's the closest to the truth."

"So how do I refuel?" Melvin asked. The witch pulled her feet of the table and leaned in.

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