Page 10 of Hexy Beast

As if that is even possible.

I may not be the heir to one of the most powerful forces in Witchingdom like my sister Leona, or a once-in-twenty-generations magic multiplier like my baby sister Tilda, or a witch who can see the future like my badass sister Beatrix, or a mega-smart spell researcher like my cheeriest sister, Juniper, but I am Effie Fucking Sherwood, and no one is going to kidnap me against my will.

Now, if circumstances were different and Darius didn’t have a permanent grump face, I might consider a little light kinky pretend play with him, but to actually do it? No.

Therefore, it’s time to teach Darius a lesson.

Shooting him my most insincere smile, I gather my magic on the inhale, centering the burst of energy so it tickles the bottom of my rib cage, and whisper a home spell under my breath: “Vade in domum tuam.”

My magic’s scent of honeysuckle, as welcoming as a cool night in a summer heat wave, washes over me a half second before I poof away from the highway bordering the Aetos Werewolves’ woods. I’m flying through the in-between space where transportation spells happen, and I can just see the top of our family house in the Charmstone neighborhood of Wrightsville when I’m viciously yanked backward. It’s like there’s a bungee cord tied around my waist, snapping me back and back and back until I’m right where I started, standing next to Darius as his friends watch with amusement.

“No fucking way,” I mutter.

Before Darius can level a grunt my way, I’m tapping into my power again, reaching deep and focusing all my attention on getting myself out of here.

It’s not as easy as the first time. Just imagine lifting a sixty-pound bag of dog food, tossing it over your shoulder, and sprinting half a mile. That’s what this is like, hard but doable (at least on some days). And damn it, I’m gonna do it today. I whisper the spell again. There’s a rush of magic like a lightning strike, and I’m gone almost before I realize what’s happening.

And almost just as fast, I’m rubber-banded back to Darius’s side as he stands next to his motorcycle.

He lifts one black eyebrow at me as if to ask if I’ve had enough.

“Not even close,” I manage to get out between labored breaths.

Closing my eyes, I block out the mocking chitter-chatter from Nikos and the other werewolves, who are starting to laugh (at me, not with me). My heart is pounding strong enough that I feel it in my ears. My lungs hurt from breathing so hard. My knees are a little shaky, like I’ve already walked up fifty flights of stairs and still have sixty to go.

There has to be something—or should I say someone tall, tatted, and a giant pain in my ass—fucking with my magic, making it malfunction. However, Darius isn’t going to stop me. I won’t let him.

I put everything I have into bringing my magic to full strength. The smell of honeysuckle teases my nose as magic-infused adrenaline starts to buzz against my skin, and I’m just about to say the spell when Darius presses the back of his hand against my cheek like he’s taking my temperature.

“Whatever you’re doing, you gotta stop,” he says, his voice so quiet I’m probably the only one who can hear him, even with the other werewolves’ heightened senses. “You’re about to pass out, and you can’t show any more weakness in front of them.”

All the magic fades away before I can even exhale, and I’m left staring up at what has to be false concern shining in Darius’s amber eyes.

“Looks like you’ve got everything under control,” Nikos says with a smirk.

Whatever I thought I saw in Darius’s gaze melts into flat neutrality, and that muscle-bound jerk just grunts in response to the other man.

Is that yes?

Is it no?

Is he saying “I have just made a very poor life choice, because there is no way Effie Sherwood is ever going to let me get away with this”?

It should be the third one, but it’s probably the first.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Nikos says, and then gets on his motorcycle and starts it up with a roar loud enough that it has to be compensating for something. “See you back in Arcadia.”

Then he and his band of merry werewolves drive off into the sunset. Well, not really. It’s only, like, midafternoon, but that just doesn’t have the same ring to it.

Look, I am under duress here, and it’s enough to make a witch lose her whole being-witty thing.

In fact, the only thing I can do is whip up a short-lived magical dust devil storm as we stand on the side of the highway next to Darius’s motorcycle. The extremely localized winds whip Darius’s shoulder-length dark hair around his face, highlighting just how square his jaw is.

“You…you…you,” I splutter, trying to find the right insult and coming up with, “too-good-looking fuzz bucket!”

All the air goes out of me with that one. I have no excuses for that absolutely pathetic callout. Barkley, my sister Bea’s rooster familiar, could have come up with a better one than that, and he can only say cock-a-doodle-doo.

Bracing myself for whatever mockery I’m about to endure after showing myself so horribly unarmed at the moment, I force myself to lock eyes with my tormentor in worn jeans and leather.