Page 26 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
A black spell circle rose around us, dark vines crawling from its core and entangling our ankles, pulling us together. There was a kiss involved, too, again like a human wedding, and since I knew this ritual was as old as humankind, I had to wonder how much of their inspiration had come from us.
Thing was, I might be a total douche canoe at times, but I wasn’t about to kiss Violet Enfer, not here and now in the middle of this ritual. See, that’s the thing about kisses: they can mean nothing at all … or fucking everything. Here, in the center of all this magic, with all of these err, people? demons? whatever, watching, this kiss would mean so much more.
The sleep spells I had tattooed on my body were nowhere near enough to deal with everyone in that room, but I was hoping they could at least account for some level of chaos. Enough for me to … well, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do, but if I put my grandmother to sleep, then she couldn’t control me.
And, because of her, I was rocking my demon side. If I could get my gram off my ass for two fucking seconds, I could use my own magic to get the hex out of here.
If I could find someone else to summon me—like say, Graceley Spells—then maybe I could work my way out of this mess. Besides that, I didn’t exactly have access to a clock, but I could feel the evening waning, could feel the veil between worlds thinning.
All Hallows’ Eve was nearing its zenith which meant that Grace’s mother didn’t have much time left. Confused as my commitment phobic ass was about my feelings for Grace, I knew that I had to save her. Not only because I understood at a primal level that if her mother died, I would lose any chance I had at even thinking about a relationship with Grace—if I hadn’t already blown it by running out on her after sex—but also because it was the right thing to do.
The decent thing to do.
And I hadn’t been a right or decent guy in a long gods-damn time.
Violet leaned in toward me as her father (a fairly average and unimportant category seven demon) continued to intone the words of the enchantment that would bind us together. This wasn’t any normal enchantment. No, this particular binding spell had been created out of a dual effort between Cabal Ungeist and Coven Wyrmwood over centuries.
It was harsh, unrepentant, and extremely difficult to get out of.
Death do us part, am I right?
And no fucking way was I going through with this.
I waited for Violet’s lips to come within touching distance of my own, and then I blew out gently, releasing the sleep spell that was inked into the inside of my lower lip. My reason for having it there was not a very good one.
In short, I was a total prick.
I’d had the spell tattooed on the inside of my lower lip with the sole purpose of unleashing it on Violet when I really, really wanted to get away from her carnal attentions. That’s how much of a dick I was; I couldn’t just say no. I would put the girl to sleep and run like hell.
A common problem of mine, apparently.
At least in this case, it worked out for the best; we’d never consummated our relationship.
Violet blinked rapidly at me and pulled back, touching her fingers to her lips in confusion as I spun and shoved up the sleeve of my ceremonial robe. Connard leapt from his position on the floor to claw his way up the back of my garment until he was sitting on my shoulder.
“You truly aren’t such a waste of life after all!” he yowled joyously as I flung the other sleep spell—a much more powerful one intended for muggers or carjackers or dudes I saw at the bar trying to drug girls’ drinks—out at the crowd and straight toward my grandmother.
If she’d been expecting it, it never would’ve hit her.
On another note, having it inked on my nut sack which hurt like crazy made the spell that much more potent. First off, because, you know, I was virile as fuck. Second, because the more the tattoo hurt, the more blood that was shed, the more power in the spell.
Lulu Sorciere grabbed at her chest like she’d been struck while I struggled not to pass out from the pain. Using an ink spell was god-awful torture, like having the tattoo redone all over again, a thousand needle pricks in an instant. But I didn’t have the luxury of giving into the pain.
Rather, I slid the ivory elephant tusk from my sleeve and put the tip to my throat, right at about the same moment that Violet collapsed to the ground with a thump, the priest stopped talking, the vines around my ankles withdrew, and Violet’s mother—Agma—stood up, her eyes blazing.
