Page 49 of Hexed Up

“Yes?” I say wearily.

“Can’t you just, I don’t know, magic money up if you need it? Or create some kind of potion that will make you rich?”

“Hmmm,” I lean back in my seat, “Magicking up money isn’t possible, just like it’s not possible to magic up food or water. Wecan manipulate matter that already exists but we can’t create or destroy it.” I wave my hand through the air vaguely. “Something to do with the laws of physics.”

“Right,” he says.

“But there are potions you can create which I guess could help you to become more wealthy.” I tap my fingers against my lips. “There’s this one that will make you lucky. But it’s notoriously difficult to brew – and dangerous; I had a great-great-uncle who literally blew off his own head trying to make it. It’s also obviously pretty illegal. It would put all the bookies and casinos out of business if it ever became widely available.”

“Have you ever tried brewing it?”

“No, and please don’t ask me to. I rather like my head.”

“I like it too,” he says, glancing at me again, “besides, I believe you make your own luck.”

“Of course, you do,” I roll my eyes, “but isn’t it lucky you were born with stupidly good looks and hasn’t it been helpful that your step-dad works in the same industry as you? Didn’t you say banking is all about connections?”

“Trust me,” he says darkly, “my step-dad has always been a hindrance, not a help.” I go to question him about that remark, but he diverts the conversation back to potions. “So, you’re happy to break the rules when it comes to love but not wealth?”

I shrug. “I guess so. Love seems more noble and innocent. Wealth is more corrupting and nasty.”

“Did you never consider that people may have corrupt reasons for making someone fall in love with them?”

“Like what?”

“The usual. Money. Power. Sex.”

“Or much more likely companionship and family and belonging.”

He shakes his head. “Unlikely.”

“You’re very cynical. It must be your old age.” I grin.

“No, it’s experience,” he says.

“Well, before you get any ideas, I did not bewitch you into falling in love with me for money, power, or,” I glance his way, “sex.”

“Just so we’re clear, the sex is still on the table if you want it. In fact, sex on a table can be fun.”

“It sounds uncomfortable,” I tell him, turning to face the window to keep my dirty mind from racing away with new ideas. “And that was a definite rule break. Do I need to have my chaperone,” I point to McGruff snoozing in the back, “intervene?”

“No,” he says, “I can behave.”

And I really hope that’s true because this weekend seems increasingly fraught.

Chapter Sixteen

Soon we’re off the motorway and driving through fields of wheat and alongside meadows bustling with wildflowers and buzzing with bees, butterflies, and other insects. We follow the curve of a river, weeping willows lining its banks, ducks idling in its waters, and reeds wallowing in its edges. The hedgerows grow taller, the roads bumpier, and eventually Horatio is forced to pull over and consult his sat nav.

“We should be here,” he says, tapping the screen, “but there’s nothing in sight. Are you sure you have the right place?”

“Uh huh,” I say with a wide grin. He looks at me in utter confusion. “It’s a paranormal hotel in the middle of the Cotswolds. You didn’t think we’d be able to find it just like that, did you?”

He scratches his head. “I guess not. So how do we find it? Do we need to walk through a magical wardrobe, fall down a rabbit hole, or hitch a lift with a tornado?”

“You’re so dramatic,” I say, “we just have to look out for a red telephone box. There must be one further along this road.”

Horatio stares at me for one long second and once again I get the distinct impression he’s questioning his own sanity. Then he starts up the car and we crawl slowly along the lane, peering intohedgerows for signs of a red telephone box. Eventually we spot one perched on a grass verge as the lane bisects another.