Page 71 of My Hexed Honeymoon

Andromeda flings a dozen tiny daggers of blood at me, but this time I’m ready, throwing up a golden pane the sharp tips bounce off and break against.

Holding my shield takes an inordinate amount of energy, and the muscles in my shoulders scream with the exertion. So I dig even deeper, tapping into my reserves as I charge forward with a roar.

My mother’s forming herself a rapier sword of blood, long and slender with a hilt that twists around her hand and wrist.

I rush her before she can raise it, barreling into her hard enough, we go tumbling. It breaks the sword and my shield and the ground trembles under the intensity of our popping magic and flying fists.

We both get to our feet in a flash, circling like wrestlers who’ll later shake hands, though that certainly won’t happen in our case.

Before she can feed the weapon any more of her blood, I bind up her feet with the grasses beneath them. Then I give my next strike all I’ve got, pivoting my weight and sending my elbow right into her nose.

Cartilage crunches, the Loom dropping to the ground as she screams and whips up her hands to catch the scarlet gush.

I dive to the ground, scrambling on all fours, the object I desire finally within reach.

My fingers wrap around the bone handles of the Loom…

Andromeda stomps on my hand and then kicks me square in the face, her shoe slamming into my nose so hard I taste the coppery tang of blood.

It fills my mouth and my throat, and I roll away from her, going on hands and knees as I cough up a mess of ichor and gore. My eyes water and bile burns my throat, threatening to come back up as I struggle to regain my bearings.

If only I hadn’t sent Gideon and Elias away.

I’m sure they have their hands full. I keep trying to signal the werewolves to let them know if they’ll take out Riven and that cluster of witches holding the Overcaster Spell in place, we can win this fight it suddenly feels like we’re very much losing.

But maybe I just feel that way because my mom kicked me in the face and I’m getting my ass kicked.

Hey, one could always hope.

It’s not something I have much of when it comes to our odds, so I go the fake-it-till-you-make-it route, flinging out a gilded vine to wrap around her ankle and jerk her off-balance.

Her body slams the ground hard enough I’m sure it knocked the wind out of her—now if I could just catch my breath, I could take the loom from her.

Crouched in an all fours position, I half-lunge, half-crawl, but she’s already moving, a charged whirlwind of magic circling her.

It beats at my skin and sends dirt and dried leaves into my eyes.

The bloodied loom hums, delighted at being used, and a primal, slightly feral type of envy churns through me. I know it’s dangerous how much I want it to be mine again, just like I know Andromeda will do the most horrendous things withit. Considering she’s used the magic she already has to murder entire communities, I trust my judgment way more than hers.

Frankly, I’m too scared to know what atrocities she’ll commit withmyloom.

It’s why I marched these werewolves into war, and I consider it my job to stop her.

Blinking against the spinning column of dust and debris, I plant my feet and gather all the lifeforce I can, wishing there were more woodland creatures to lend me their strength.

As much as I wanted to use what little vitality the vampires have left against them, the flimsy puffs of threads snap and break at the slightest tug, so plants will have to do.

I reach out a little farther to find the towering oak tree in the front yard of the house where I grew up. I spent hours in those branches, drawing and reading and hiding from my mother. It’s familiar and floods me with an extra warmth, until I’m a charged lightning rod, my teeth chattering with borrowed vitality.

Andromeda has reformed her rapier sword and is already advancing, the detritus circling her slowing my steps and pinging against my skin hard enough to leave welts.

Molten flaxen fibers wind themselves around my body and harden, forming glistening armor that effectively blocks the debris. I add another layer, stacking up all the times I felt helpless as she punished and struck me.

I’m furious and ashamed and righteously unhinged.

Every bit of me wants to end her—to wrap my glowing threads around her and squeeze until she feels what it’s like to not be able to breathe.

My threads form vines again, this time with spindly, sharp thorns almost as long as my fingers.

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