Page 30 of Hex and the City
Leon’s eyes flitted toward my wrist again, a momentary glance at my watch. I knew exactly what he was thinking, likely another snipe about my expensive taste, my irresponsible spending. I kept my lips shut tight, silently promising myself to say nothing if he did the same himself. I didn’t even own a bottle of Diablo 69.
Well, mostly because I missed out on the first batch. Maybe next time.
“See?” Roscoe dusted his hands off. “And what else are you going to do when you have no other leads, anyway? Done and done. Roscoe saves the day. Again.”
It wasn’t the worst idea I’d ever heard. I’d said so myself. Diablo 69 was created by a local perfumery, a budding small business. Atomica’s first and so far only store was right in the city.
“That’s so cute,” Johnny said, “and you really are our little genius, but enough already.”
Johnny pressed the palm of his hand against Roscoe’s cheek. It started out as a sweet gesture until he began to smoosh Roscoe’s face. Roscoe sputtered, flapping his fingers vainly to beat Johnny’s hand away.
“Gotta knock him down a peg sometimes,” Johnny explained. “His head gets too big, he’ll float away, and then where does that leave me?”
“The two of you are adorable as always,” I said, shaking my head. “Sorry, did I say adorable? I meant insufferable.”
“Jealous?” Johnny puckered his lips, blew a kiss, then flipped me the bird. “Right back at you, sweet cheeks.”
My very best friends in the entire world.
15
LEON
Iadjusted the AC vent on my side of Max’s car, sputtering when it exhaled its payload of icy air too excitedly into my face. It smelled really nice in there, at least, something like leather, mingled with something that must have been Max’s signature scent. I couldn’t put a finger on it, exactly, but it was sharp, dark, mysterious.
Kind of like him, in fact.
We’d decided to wait for nightfall, maybe because finders really were just a more esoteric sort of criminal. Finders and cat burglars both worked best under cover of darkness, for a start. Max had insisted on it, actually.
He drummed a discordant rhythm against his steering wheel, pursing his lips like he was whistling, except no sound was coming out. I could tell he wanted to talk about something. I just wished he wouldn’t take forever getting around to it.
“So. Emanate, huh? Is that like, part of your witch magic? Is that your spell word?”
Ah. This shit. He must have heard me, back in the fight against the anomalist. I rested my forearm against the window, trying to look disinterested.
“I guess you could say that,” I said, feigning a yawn. “Just a thing to make the magic go boom. Wait. What? What’s with the side-eye?”
“Oh, nothing. Just that, you know, if it was part of your clan’s tradition, dating back through decades, hey, maybe centuries — you’d think your spell word would be from a native language.”
My forehead furrowed. “English is my native language. The rate of English literacy in the Philippines would shock you.”
He nodded at the windshield. “Oh, I know that, and it’s great. But again, for something as fundamental as a fire spell — wouldn’t that sort of magic date back to pre-colonial times? So before the Americans came. Before English came to the Philippines. Wouldn’t it make more sense for the spell word to be Filipino, or maybe Spanish, even?”
I threw my hands up, frustrated that my range of motion was restricted by the stupid seatbelt that Max had forced me to fasten. Why did he have to know so much about where I was from? No fair.
“Maybe we adapted. Did you think about that? Maybe we simplified. Anyway, what’s with the third degree? Do you know any Filipino words?”
Max shrugged. “Salamat.”
I did a double-take, squinting at him suspiciously. “How do you know that one?”
“Um, because I’ve met Filipinos before?” He rolled his eyes. “Tina and I go for Filipino food sometimes.”
I shook my head. “Again with these imaginary friends of yours. Is Tina in the car with us right now?”
“Don’t be a little prick. You met Johnny and Roscoe, and they’re real. But yeah, eating in Filipino restaurants? You pick up one or two things. Nothing wrong with learning how to say ‘Thank you’ in another language. Which reminds me.”
His hand clapped my thigh. Goosebumps rippled all across my body. Thank God he was too busy driving to inspect my skin for what his mere touch had done to all my stupid little arm hairs.
