Page 258 of Sigils & Spells

WHAT THE FANG?

Jo-Ann Carson Terpstra

CHAPTER1

With the excitementof an executioner raising the blade of a guillotine, I stood alone in the parking lot outside Murphy’s Bar. According to Dakota—my lying, cheating, bastard of an ex-fiancé—it wastheplace for him to make contacts that would build his career. For that reason, I knew he would be inside telling his worn-out jokes and flirting with the waitresses.

The fog had grown so thick, I could barely make out the neon sign above the entrance, and the acrid smell of beer turned my stomach. But nothing was going to stop me. I crept along the first row of parked cars, searching for Dakota’s big truck. It was the kind men love to show off, as if the tread on the tires signifies their manhood.

Every few minutes when the bar’s front door opened laughter spilled into the night. I ducked for cover whenever a figure appeared near me in the mist. The cloak-and-dagger aspect of my mission both thrilled me. Adrenaline rushed through my veins. My body tingled with anticipation. This was heady stuff for a book-nerd witch, like me.

I wanted revenge more than I wanted my next breath. Dakota wronged me, and he would pay for it. I gave him my heart, and he broke it into a million pieces. I won’t go over the tawdry details of how he ended our three-year betrothal, and how it shattered my life plan. Let’s just say the ending-to-end-all-endings involved a dominatrix with big hair, siren-red lips, and a whip.

That memory haunted me. Adding salt to my wounds, Dakota told everyone who would listen to him that in these modern times, his romp in the motel room was no big deal. “Boys will be boys,” he said over and over again, with a wink.

Boys will be boys.Hmph. To that I say,Witches are witches.He should know not to cross a sorceress.

Dakota deserved all the pain I could unleash on him, and I planned on delivering it in ways that would hurt him most a bit at a time over the next year, or ten. One should never cross a witch.

My mission this night was number three on my get- revenge list. I wanted to hit him where it hurt him most, right in the center of his oversized Goodyear tires. I knew some people labelled my need for revenge as immature, but I didn’t care. I figured if I made Dakota suffer, my dignity would be restored and that in turn would help me move on. It’s all about self-love and therapy.

In the distance, the sound of fog horns sliced through the dreariness of the night. The mist continued to thicken. A rat scurried over my foot. I jumped—and slapped a hand over my mouth to muffle a scream.

I swallowed and took a deep breath. I needed to focus on my plan. I imagined him crying as he called an Uber. I would live with the memory of a rat to see that happen.

As I stalked through the second line of parked cars, I passed sedans, jeeps, and trucks similar to Dakota’s, but I couldn’t find his prized possession. I searched the lot a second time but found nothing. I bit my lip. He came to Murphy’s Bar every Saturday night. His truck had to be here somewhere.

Ten minutes later, I found it, his midnight-blue, fully loaded Ram that cost enough to feed a small country for a week. I pulled out my pocketknife and carefully slashed the rear tires. They were tougher than I expected, but I persevered. Of course, I could have used my magic to do the deed, but I wanted the visceral feeling of my revenge. The joy of it travelled through my skin right into my bones. I bent over the final tire with my blade.

That’s when a large hand clasped my shoulder. My stomach lurched, as I jolted and glanced up. An enormous man in a muscle shirt glared down at me. His nametag readArnold.

“What have we here?” he barked, as he seized my hand that held the knife. I dropped my weapon.

“Ah … I’m looking for my car.”

He tilted his bald head to one side and spoke into a device strapped to his chest. “Got a wild one here.”

I yearned to zap him with some of my witch fire, but I stopped myself. The Witch’s Oath that I live by forbids me using my power for my own gain. But I so wanted to. Oh, holy hexen hell, I wanted to.

And that is how I—a quiet, peace-loving, book nerd—ended up being charged with mischief and held in a Seattle prison cell.

CHAPTER2

Being processedfor jail didn’t dampen the warm feeling of victory dancing through my veins. I had been successful in my mission. I ruined three of Dakota’s beloved tires, and he would be devastated. Nothing could diminish my smile. Or so I thought.

“You’re awful happy,” said the heavy-set female cop, as she steered me by my elbow along the corridor to the holding cell. The woman must have spent hours in the gym.

I shrugged. “I’ll pay the fine. Do the time. Whatever.” I had already placed a call to my friend Eliza who lived nearby. She had promised to come as soon as she could to bail me out.

“Let me guess. You were getting back at your lover.”

I huffed. “Ex,” I corrected her. “And he’s gonna be so upset. So deliciously upset. He might even cry for his mama.”

“Mm hmm.” The hard-faced cop shook her head. “Lady, you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into.”

I blinked. “A fine, I suppose.”

“Hah. You don’t get it. I mean what’s waiting for you down the hall, in this jail.” Her eyes hardened. “Tonight.”

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