Page 4 of Hexed Up

McGruff yaps and dives under the sofa again and Mr Hottie snatches my wrist and yanks me towards him, sheltering me in his arms.

Which is both alarming and … nice?

“It’s okay,” I say, my voice muffled on account of the fact he’s squished my face into his chest. “It’s Damien, my friend.”

Damien and I met three years ago at a wellness retreat my mum insisted on sending me to along with my two sisters. While they’d embraced the sadistic torture of forcing our bodies into ever increasingly dangerous back-bending positions, I’d retreated to the bar and found Damien hovering there too. By our third mimosa, he’d convinced me my current boyfriendwas a colossal tosser and a compulsive liar who was probably cheating on me and was definitely never going to treat me right. I dumped him soon after. Fortunately, Damien broke me out of a habit of dating toss-pot liars. Unfortunately, that means I’ve been single for a crazy-long time.

“What the …?!” Mr Hottie shrieks, his voice several octaves higher than it was.

“Am I interrupting something?” Damien says.

“No,” I say, extracting myself from Mr Hottie’s hold and turning to face my best friend. One of his carefully manicured eyebrows is arched, and his arms folded across his chest.

“Are you sure?” he asks with a mischievous grin. “You’re not wearing very much clothing.”

“It’s hot!” I protest, trying not to blush as I scamper across the flat towards my friend. “Please don’t tell me you’re here on account of the …” I point towards the remnants of the explosion, grimacing.

“I am.”

I bury my face in my hands and try not to hyperventilate as my throat constricts. “How long do you think we have?”

Damien glances towards the digital clock on my oven. “I’d say three minutes if we’re lucky.”

“Warlock’s testicles!” I cry, the constriction in my throat tightening. “Can you clear it in time?”

“Hmmm,” Damien says, tapping a long painted claw against his lips, “possibly. But it’s going to cost you.”

I love my best friend dearly, but sometimes his demon-instincts get the better of him.

“Damien!”

“I can try,” he says, tossing his mane of red hair over his shoulder.

For a fraction of a second, I almost feel relief. Then, a voice stutters from across the flat,

“H-h-h-how … w-w-w-what?”

Shit, for a moment, lost in my pit of despair, I’d forgotten about the hot neighbour standing in my apartment, who may or may not have been doused in one of my love potions.

A love potion, I failed to mention, is not … quite … technically legal. Which is a problem considering that the explosion will have alerted the Witching Authorities to some magical misdeed and one of their officers will be arriving any moment to investigate. I’m severely fortunate Damien made it here first.

Mr Hottie is staring at Damien in absolute horror – his mouth so far open I’m surprised I didn’t hear his jaw hit the floor.

To be honest, Damien is looking particularly outrageous today. He’s dressed in tight leopard-skin trousers that don't leave much to the imagination, he’s backcombed his thick red hair and painted the horns that curl over his head a neon pink colour to match the polish on his claws.

“Oh no!” I whisper out of the side of my mouth towards Damien, “I’d forgotten about him.”

Damien sniffs the air and peers towards what’s left of my potion congealing on the floor.

“Please don’t tell me that was a–”

“Uh huh,” I gulp.

Damien’s gaze swings back towards the horrified-looking man still standing in shock in my flat. “And was he–”

“Uh huh,” I admit.

He narrows his eyes. “Do you think it worked?”