Page 5 of Hex and the City
Would it matter either way, though? I could tell he was going to kick my ass the very moment he caught up with me. It was just the two of us in the house all along. I’d wasted a handful of sleeping salt just to make myself yawn.
Blowing some in his face wouldn’t knock him out, either. I wish. My clan’s particular brand of witch magic was more a matter of amplification than truly creating spectacular effects. Sleeping salt would make tired people drowsy, knocking them out eventually.
Everyone was scared of giant, fire-breathing monsters. My magic did the same thing, shining a light on that small, unacknowledged fear, elevating it to heights of primal, bone-deep terror. That dragon illusion sure came in handy. A giant spider might have worked, too.
I just happened to be really partial to dragons. The long, serpent-y kind, like snakes with four legs. Arachnophobia was common enough, sure, but nothing could be more universal than the fear of the unknown, of being confronted by something that wasn’t supposed to exist.
Like this fucking velveteen bag. Where was it hiding? I burst through the door farthest from the top landing. Master bedroom. Jackpot. I sifted through the dresser drawers, tossing out lacy panties by the handful. I moved on to the next one, frowning at the husband’s incredibly boring choice in underwear.
Nothing.
My hands shook as I took the search to the closet. I was a wreck. The bedroom was faring even worse, the carpeted floor littered in crumpled underpants. I’d never bumped into a rival finder on the same heist before.
And he’d be really pissed after he recovered from having the pants scared right off him. Which, admittedly, was something I would like to see. How was this going to end? A punch-out? I’d prefer a make-out. We could kiss and make up, search for the bag together.
Right before I kicked him in the nards and absconded with the goods. Then I could keep the reward money all to myself.
Did I feel bad for frying the inside of that poor man’s brain? Sure. Of course I did. But I had to do it to him, and it wasn’t like I’d left any lasting damage. Just a simple infusion of terror to throw him off his rhythm, and more importantly, to get him off my back.
I glanced over my shoulder, making sure I wasn’t being followed, while also acknowledging that a secret, tiny part of me hoped that I was. He was cute, all right? Handsome, even. A strong jawline, thick brows, dark hair and dark eyes that complemented his somber demeanor.
Actually, I’d copped a decent feel of the muscle under his shirt while I was fending him off, too. Good, strong chest. Hard as rocks.
“Focus,” I muttered to myself.
This was still a mission, not some stupid meet-cute in my own personal rom-com. Still, it was nice to know that Dos Lunas had no shortage of hot relic hunters. Maybe I’d run into him again, Señor Tall, Dark, and Handsome. Emphasis on tall. And dark, and — well, all of it, actually.
“Fucking focus,” I hissed, like that would be enough to knock me out of my wishful fantasies. Maybe it was. Words were very meaningful to someone like me, a maker of magic, a so-called witch boy. Some who’d called me that had meant it as a slur. I didn’t take it that way. The name gave me power.
It’d be cool to claim that I’d received my magic from being born the seventh son of the seventh son. In reality, the gifts I’d inherited had come through something far less complicated than an ancestral pyramid scheme. It was more of a line, really, the spark and fire passing down through the women in my family.
Matriarchal magic that stemmed all the way to the before times: before World War II, before the Americans and the Japanese had even set foot on Philippine soil, before the Spanish had even come to colonize us. Back home in the Philippines, they called my mother and my many grandmothersbruha, a word we took from the Spaniards.
Abruha, in short, was a witch. My mother, her mother, and all the rest of them were powerful women, witches who could work great magic with the smallest of tools. A kitchen knife was a ritual dagger, an athame. A humble cooking pot was as good as a cauldron.
Thebruhasof the Alcantara clan improvised with whatever happened to be on hand. They were both feared and revered, known for their talents in healing as well as their gifts for hexes and curses. But Mom had me, and she never had another kid.
She didn’t want another, she’d said, told me that I was enough, that I was her world. That was very sweet. And then she taught me the little tricks that would give me the world in turn, and that made me the very first magical boy in a long line of magical women. Abruho.
My very existence meant bad luck, some said, an omen of terrible things to come. The magic was only meant to pass through the women. Others said that I was someone to be celebrated. It never really bothered me, what others thought of my status, how I’d inherited our clan’s power.
All that mattered to me was knowing I could fuck someone up with magic when the situation called for it. Kind of like what I’d done to the six-foot-something pretty boy with the muscles and the lashes back there.
“I’m going to rip you apart,” shouted a voice from the bottom of the stairs.
Speak of the devil.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” I shouted back, successfully feigning confidence.
I rummaged through the cabinets even as each of the man’s footsteps thundered up the staircase. In another context, the aggression and commitment would have been pretty damn sexy. But I knew in my heart of hearts that he was going to give my ass the kind of beating it would not enjoy.
And still no velveteen bag. Fuck.
“You,” he growled, panting as he clutched the edge of the doorframe.
“Me,” I replied, fingers somehow tangled in a bra strap. “Hi. Don’t be mad.”
He roared as he charged toward me. I panicked, vaulted over the bed, the two of us separated by the exact width of a California king.
