Page 75 of Hex and the Kitty

“Will do, Chief.”

Warrick moved casually toward a side exit, not wanting to alarm any guests. The cool night air hit his face as he slipped outside, instantly heightening his senses. His pupils dilated, vision sharpening to penetrate the darkness between buildings. His nostrils flared, sorting through myriad scents until he caught it—Gus’s distinctive odor, tinged with something acrid and wrong.

Dark magic. The scent was unmistakable like sulfur and decay.

Warrick followed the trail silently, his expensive dress shoes barely making a sound on the pavement. His tiger stirred closer to the surface, lending him enhanced stealth and strength without fully emerging. The utility shed stood isolated behind the community center, surrounded by shadows the decorative lights couldn’t penetrate.

From within came a faint muttering—words in a language Warrick recognized as corrupted Latin, the kind used in darker spellcasting traditions. He crept closer, identifying Gus’s voice despite the strange cadence of the incantation.

The door stood slightly ajar, a sickly purplish light seeping through the crack. Warrick positioned himself beside it, listening intently.

“...and when the flames consume the outsiders, the true children of Whispering Pines will reclaim their rightful place,” Gus hissed, his voice thick with malice. “Starting with that tiger pretender and his witch whore.”

Rage boiled through Warrick’s veins at the slur against Molly. His tiger surged forward, claws emerging from his fingertips before he forced the transformation back. Not yet. He needed to understand what spell Gus was casting before confronting him.

“Accept this sacrifice, ancient ones,” Gus continued. “Blood freely given for power freely taken.”

The scent of fresh blood joined the acrid smell of dark magic. Warrick peered through the crack, seeing Gus hunched over a crude circle drawn on the shed floor. A small animal—a rat, perhaps—lay motionless at the center, its blood feeding whatever malevolent energy Gus conjured.

The purple light intensified, pulsing in time with Gus’s chanting. Tendrils of energy snaked upward, coalescing into a swirling vortex that seemed to fold in upon itself before shooting outward—directly toward the main building.

Warrick lunged for the door, but too late. The black magic had already found and eaten through a weak ward, racing inside the community center like a vengeful ghost.

Screams erupted almost immediately. The sound propelled Warrick back toward the building at supernatural speed, his heart hammering with dread. He burst through the side entrance, confronted by a scene of escalating chaos.

Crimson flames licked across the starry ceiling, no longer a beautiful illusion but something malevolent and hungry. Though they emitted no heat, the fire behaved uncannily like the real thing—spreading, consuming, transforming the once-beautiful decorations into charred ruins.

Worse, the building’s sprinkler system had activated, drenching everyone and creating slippery conditions that hampered evacuation. Panicked guests scrambled toward exits while Celeste and other witches tried frantically to counter the illusions.

Warrick scanned the crowd desperately, seeking one face among hundreds.

Molly.

He found her near the stage, hands raised as she attempted to combat the illusory flames with cooling magic. Her green dress clung to her body, soaked from the sprinklers, but determination hardened her features as she worked.

Relief flooded him, but only briefly. Behind her, unnoticed in the chaos, a support beam wavered. The magical flames had somehow compromised its integrity, transforming illusion into genuine threat.

“Molly!” Warrick shouted, pushing through the crowd. “Move!”

She turned at his voice, confusion crossing her features before understanding dawned. The beam gave an ominous crack, beginning its descent directly toward her.

Warrick lunged forward, summoning every ounce of his shifter speed. Not fast enough. The beam struck with sickening force, catching Molly’s shoulder and sending her sprawling across the wet floor. Blood bloomed instantly, staining her emerald dress with shocking crimson as she lay motionless.

Something primal shattered inside Warrick. His vision tunneled, the world reducing to a single point of focus: Molly, injured and vulnerable. His mate.

He reached her in seconds that felt like eternity, dropping to his knees beside her. Blood matted her curls where the beam had struck, but she stirred weakly, eyelids fluttering.

“Warrick,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the chaos.

“I’m here.” He cradled her face, cataloging her injuries with clinical precision born of centuries of battlefield experience. The head wound bled profusely but appeared superficial—scalp wounds always did. Her shoulder had borne the brunt of the impact, possibly dislocated from the awkward angle.

“The flames—not real,” she murmured, struggling to focus. “But something’s wrong with them... feeding on fear...”

“Don’t talk.” He tore a strip from his dress shirt, pressing it gently against her head wound. “Help is coming.”

SIXTY

Relief mingled with rage as he realized her injuries, while serious, weren’t life-threatening. The relief allowed him to think; the rage demanded action.

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