Page 19 of Hexes and Exes

Stellan leans down and gives her a peck on the cheek. Neither one of them acknowledges me. It’s been seven days since I last saw them. They haven’t forgotten me yet; I’m just being ignored.

“I see you’re out with all the girls again. Can’t cut those apron strings, can you? Need to find some real men to hang out with.”

“Apron strings implies I’m hanging out with my mother.” Stellan pretends to be confused.

My father surveys our group. His eyes skip right over me, as if I’m not there at all. “I’m sure they all pamper you.”

Roman, who had momentarily run off to speak with one of the staff, slides back in beside Josephine. My father narrows his eyes.

“Ah, problem solved. Some more testosterone in the group. Is that better?” Stellan doesn’t come right out and tell my father to fuck off, but they don’t have a good relationship either. When our parents all but disowned me, they thought Stellan would be a dutiful son and do the same. It chaps my father’s ass that Stellan and I are still close. No matter what they do to try to come between us, it hasn’t worked.

Roman eyes my father with the same suspicion he’s getting. Ivan is part of the Lumen coven council. Or was. Now he’s part of the newly formed Luminara coven council. Technically fucking with him could cause trouble for Roman’s family, or his business, if my father took it personally, which he absolutely would. It’s best to tread lightly when it comes to Ivan Vandenberg.

“Ivan.” Roman tips his head in greeting. The corner of my father’s eye ticks. He doesn’t like that Roman’s referred tohim by his first name. He believes in formality, and hierarchy. Roman angles his head and smiles at my mother. “Alice.”

I have no idea how he knows their names. My mother dips her chin, “good afternoon.” She’s perfectly polite. Not a chance anyone could guess she’s my father’s puppet. My mother has trained her entire life to be the perfect spouse. She once told me she was incredible at math and would have loved to go to school to put her talent to good use. Instead, she was made to learn the appropriate settings for dinner parties and shift her focus on shopping for complimentary couples’ evening wear.

“Well, we’ve seen your face.” My father finally acknowledges me. “We can go find our friends now.”

That’s real nice, Dad. I’ve accepted this is our relationship. I really have. And yet his words still sting.

A vine darts up between us and slaps my father across the face. Our circle stumbles back in surprise. Fitz walks into the center of the circle as though we’ve cleared the way for her specifically. Maybe that’s exactly why she did it.

Fitz is an elemental witch with an affinity for plants. She has a garden in her backyard that could rival Versailles. Okay, that’s not true. Versailles is massive, but her backyard is a riot of colors, overflowing with wildflowers, herbs, and vines that twine up trellises and the side of her house. Vegetables produce all year and fruit trees sag with apples, lemons, peaches. It’s like Eden in the middle of Mystic Hollows.

You know she’s powerful because she was able to find a vine beneath the layers of snow and ice. This is part of the reason why you don’t fuck with Fitz.

“Ivan, I see you’re talking out of your asshole again.” Fitz jabs her cane in my father’s direction.

Every witch in Mystic Hollows is afraid of Fitz, at least to some degree. This is a woman who lost all her fucks decades ago and has not had the energy nor inclination to find them. Shedoesn’t posture or kiss ass like a lot of the magical families that hope to get in the good graces of the elite witches of our town. She’s powerful and old enough that she simply doesn’t care.

I love her.

I’m also terrified of her.

My eyes widen to the size of saucers when her sharp gaze turns on me. “I’m going to need you to take my place.”

“Excuse me?” I clear my suddenly dry throat. Where did all my spit go?

“I think I tore a hammy. I’m going to need you to take my spot in broom hockey.”

This time, I choke on my newly summoned spit. “What?”

I know, and Fitz knows, that she wasn’t about to play broom hockey. There are teenagers who don’t bruise like a peach out there, ready to fall a hundred times. “Oh, I’m not really–”

“Yes, you are,” she cuts me off before I finish.

“No, I’m totally uncoordinated–”

“You’ll be fine. Go. They’re waiting on you.” There’s a gleam in her eye that I can’t determine if it’s evil or delight. With a push to my back, I stumble down to the frozen lake.

11

BRAM

“You can’t kill a hundred-year-old woman. Murder is bad.”

“Excuse me?” A pimple-faced teenager with floppy hair that looks like a poodle, gulps as he looks up at me.

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