Page 2 of Summertime Hexy
The truth is—my magic’s been off. Not like “I mispronounced a rune” off. Like “I exploded my hairbrush and accidentally summoned a howling wind in the produce aisle” off. Little things fizzle. Big spells backfire. The more I try to focus, the more it wriggles away. And every time I pretend it’s fine, something else slips. It's like trying to hold water in cupped hands.
I haven’t told anyone. Not Lyra. Not Clara. Definitely not Thorn. Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And I can’t be the girl who ran off three years ago and then came back broken.
So I flash my biggest grin, pick up my bag, and say, “Can’t wait to meet my bunk buddy.”
I hoist my bag and stomp across camp, mentally preparing myself for a bro-y centaur or a werewolf with emotional constipation. Maybe an orc who thinks deodorant is a human conspiracy.
Cabin Nine is tucked near the edge of the woods. Half-shadowed, slightly crooked, and has the vibe of a haunted AirBnB. Love it.
I swing the door open.
And freeze.
Inside, meticulously organizing a cabinet of enchanted first-aid kits, is a tall, pale man with inky hair tied back and an aura of "do not talk to me unless you're on fire." Dressed in all black, of course. Sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that sayI bench-press guilt and unresolved trauma for fun. He's sipping from a metal flask. And scowling.
“You’re the roommate?” I say, pointing, already dismayed.
He glances up, slow and unimpressed. “You tracked glitter all the way to the threshold.”
“Consider it ambiance.”
“You’re Hazel.”
“You’re observant.”
He stares at me like I’ve ruined his entire week. “Derek Virel.”
Oh. Of course. The vampire.
I plop onto the bottom bunk with dramatic flair. “Creature patrol, huh? Guess we’re coworkers.”
He places the flask down and mutters, “Celestial help us all.”
The air between us crackles. Not magical—just… hostile. Or maybe that’s just his broody vampire aura doing its thing.
“You drinkin’ blood in there?” I ask sweetly, nodding at the flask.
He doesn’t answer.
“I brought cookies,” I offer, like a peace treaty with extra peanut butter.
He gives me a look that says he’d rather eat sunlight.
“No worries,” I say, biting into one and talking with my mouth full, “you’ll love me eventually.”
His expression does not shift.
So, naturally, I grin wider. “You want top bunk or bottom? I snore like a banshee in heat.”
No answer.
I clap my hands together. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”
Outside, a pixie screams, someone’s already set fire to the arts & crafts tent, and my glitter bomb’s still raining from the sky. Summer at Camp Lightring has officially begun.
And the bitch?
She’s so back.
