Page 92 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
As a twenty-something, I had seriously fucked that up for myself.
Going back to see my family … was not something I was certain that I could even do.
“Is that necessary?” I asked, looking at the tome in Monster’s hands. The title written on the front glowed, and it was scribed in a language that I couldn’t read, that I didn’t recognize.
“Unless we wish to attempt to rewrite a centuries old spell,” he concluded with a shrug, as if he didn’t give two fucks either way. “But at least understand that until the Fire Veil is closed, the Witch Queen is at risk.”
“And also that we’ll have to put up with you,” Argent added, and I gave him a look. He pretended not to notice my stare, but I didn’t have the energy to chastise him further.
An artifact from my family.
Shit.
We’d have to hope the queen would grant Grace an audience—even if she refused to see me.
In my search for fame and fortune, I betrayed Kingdom Noir to Kingdom Crown Aurora. While technically legal, as far as vampires had laws anyway, it was not a good look for me as the queen’s grandson. I’d managed to estrange everyone in both Kingdoms.
Falling in love with Grace was the pinnacle of my life; meeting her and having a quickie out back of the concert hall saved my life. If she hadn’t found me that night and marked me as her property, I’d already be dead.
Or, rather, I’d probably be a ghost, my head and body buried in separate graves.
It was something that could still happen, if I wasn’t careful. No part of me wanted to spend the holiday season buried six feet deep.
Monster allowed me to keep his spell book. A surprising move on his part. Spells were jealously guarded; even covens didn’t share. For a demon to give up a tome of this magnitude …
I could hardly contain myself.
“My mind is blown,” I murmured, flipping through the thick pages, a glass of cider in one hand, a brooding vampire husband seated beside me. He glanced over at me, but his brows were drawn together, and I knew he was already stressing about this whole ‘artifact’ thing. “The spells in here are so completely different than what we’re used to. Look at this.” I tapped a single finger against one of the pages, drawing Spec’s attention to it. “Invisibility spell, but instead of using cat whiskers and herbs, this one uses black sand and crushed seashells.”
“Yes,” Spectre agreed, blinking pretty lavender eyes at me, as if he were drawing himself back from a sea of dark memories. I wasn’t particularly surprised; he had a checkered past and, if I hadn’t found him when I had, he also would’ve had no future. “But black sand from Hael, seashells from Hael.”
I rolled my eyes.
“That’s not the point. The point here is that we’re looking at a collection of spells that are structured in ways I didn’t think were possible. I mean, I get that demon magic and witch magic are inherently diff—” I paused when I realized that Spectre wasn’t listening. Hex was though, seated in the chair on the opposite side of the room.
He, too, was brooding and beautiful. My heart broke for him, thinking about what Monster had told him about his mother. It was still hard to believe that Monster and Hex had the same father. Part of me wondered if it were even true, but then, what reason would he have to lie about that?
I’d asked Hex several times throughout yesterday and today if he wanted to talk, but he’d declined. Anyway, I was still annoyed at him for the Violet thing, but it was fading. I understood why he’d done what he did, even if I didn’t agree with it.
I put the book aside, meeting Hex’s gaze briefly before turning back to Spectre.
“Don’t fret about the Kingdom thing; we’ll figure it out.”
He gave me a wry sort of look in response.
“Figure it out, how so?” he queried, a bit more imperiously than usual. Sometimes, with as nice as he was toward the family, I forgot that Spectre was a cocky dick to most people. I reached out and put a hand on his knee. He was already wearing Christmas pajamas. In this case, he had on red and green plaid pj pants and a red tank with a lighted tree on it. It took a careful and inquisitive eye to see that the lights on said tree spelled out Merry Fucking Xmas.
I smiled.
“Let me deal with it, Spec.”
He leaned in toward me, nose to nose.
“No.” And then he pulled me onto his lap, hands on my hips. The tree sparkled behind and to the left of him, tucked in the front corner of the living room near the window. It had white lights on it, like many other Christmas trees, but the ornaments and garlands were entirely homemade (and spelled).
