Page 1 of De-Witched

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Balconies were magic, of this Leah Turner was pretty sure. Why else would they appear so often in books and movies? Only a balcony could serve as the setting for a beauty to tell a beast she loved him. Only a balcony could be witness to Richard Gere braving his fear of heights for his pretty woman.

If only those balconies could be this balcony.

Disappointment drowned her as Laurence the warlock crushed his lips to hers, crinkling her ball gown in his grip. He made a passionate sound, deep in his throat. And she...

Felt nothing. No pleasure, no desire, not even a tingle. Unless you counted ones of frustration. They’d been kissing for several minutes, his elegant hands sliding all over, and her stupid libido remained stubbornly stuck in the off position.

She supposed it wasn’t fair to have expected his kiss to blow her feathered mask off. But hell, he was a warlock. And as a human with limited experience in the magical world, she’d expected something...well, magical. This dude could summon portals, float objects, hell, maybe even start fires. Just...not one in her panties, apparently.

Still, she’d wanted to kiss a warlock for what seemed like forever, ever since she’d learned the big secret years before from her best friends and business partners. The only warlock she actually knew was her best friend’s brother, and Kole was more like a brother to her than someone whose wand she wanted to get familiar with. This could be her only chance.

One more try.

As Laurence changed the angle, moaning, she responded, straining for the slightest spark. Damned if she’d taken this risk for nothing. She’d begged, bribed, threatened, offered favors of any and every nature to come to New Orleans for this witchy ball, thrown for Emma’s birthday by her warlock boyfriend’s family. She’d sworn not to draw attention, agreed to be glamoured to the wazoo and wear a full-feathered mask to boot. It had been weeks before her best friends had caved.

Even their reluctance hadn’t dimmed her excitement. After all, Emma and Tia, even Kole, her self-assigned bodyguard for the evening, had good reason to be cautious. Humans were forbidden to know of their kind without permission from their High Family, despite the fact that witches mingled with them all the time. If she were discovered, there’d be consequences.

And if she was thinking about consequences, Leah concluded with a twitch of her brows, Laurence really wasn’t giving his warlock brethren a good name.

Time to call it. Turns out she’d been wrong; warlocks could be just as disappointing as human men. Every day was a learning day.

She shifted just as his tongue shot to the back of her throat, and her gag reflex kicked in. Her teeth snapped down on the fleshy invader.

Laurence’s muffled cry echoed around the intimately lit balcony. He reared back, eyes wide beneath the white mask he’d pushed up on his forehead. “You bith my dunge.” Releasing her, he touched it gingerly.

Thousands of retorts sprang to mind, but Leah swallowed them back. Mostly. “Sorry. I forget that some men can’t handle pain.”

Wrong thing to say, she judged, as his eyes lit up. He stopped fingering his tongue and leered at her. “Oh, I can handle it. Can you, my naughty mystery witch?”

She wondered if it would be considered drawing attention to herself if she jumped off the balcony.

“Gag me,” she muttered.

He made a purring noise. “If you ask nicely.” He eased closer and she matched him backward, the iron railings pressing layers of skirts into her butt. “Your portal or mine?”

She flattened her lips, trembling with the urge to laugh. Clearing her throat, she gestured to her wrist—which was naked. “Look at the time. I promised to meet a friend for a dance.”

“So? Send them a mirror message. If they knew you were with me, they’d let you go.” A cocky lift of his chin. “I’m of the Brochards.”

Somewhere in the distance, something jabbered. It was the only noise for a long moment. “Cool,” she decided on. “Even so...”

“Don’t play hard to get now.” He leaned in, his smile edged with that arrogance. His finger stroked down the bare skin between where her sleeve ended and her long white glove began. “Ten minutes,” he reminded her. “That was all it took to get you out here.”

Leah stared him down, flushing under her mask at the evidence of her determination to bag a warlock. She wasn’t ashamed, exactly; she loved learning, craved new experiences. But she did wish she’d chosen a different warlock. Now she’d have to endure Kole’s lecture, without even a good kiss to tuck away in her memories.

Her guard slipped as she sent Laurence a withering look. “Lesson learned. Excuse me.”

“Hey.” He wrapped his hand around her arm, not bruising but enough to halt her. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“You’re a Brochard,” she said with admirable patience, barely keeping in a sarcastic “whoopee for you.”

“You’re a lower born, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“I can’t believe this.” He let her go to pace, the tails on his lilac velvet coat flapping. She’d have found the color choice odd if she didn’t know from the past six years with Emma and Tia that witches preferred bright colors. “That’s the trouble with masquerades,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “I should’ve known the Truenotes would invite all the lower circles. No class.”

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