Page 9 of What The Hex (The Family Spells)
He jerked the screaming creature toward him, the muscles in his beautiful arms bunching with the motion, and then reached out and snatched a second one by the throat. Okay, one witch-eater, I could do this, right?
Only … I wasn’t sure if I could.
The witch-eaters nearly drove my people to extinction. If it weren’t for the help of the wolves, my race might’ve been nothing but a blurb in a history book. I swung the ivory broom up and out, smashing the last of the monsters upside the face. I heard a crack, like bone shattering, and pursed my lips in grim satisfaction.
The krampus’ eyes blazed, two pits, black as coal. A person could tumble down into those depths and never find their way out again. Maybe that was why the damn things had so many names? They inspired fear in every species. Witches called them, unsurprisingly, witch-eaters; wolves called them vrag; and humans, who didn’t even really believe in them, called them krampus.
I pushed my advantage, spinning the broom around and cracking one of the curved, ebony horns on the creature’s head. The impact traveled down my weapon and into my bones. Hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing compared to childbirth, so I’d deal.
Gods above, the fucking kids.
The last thing I needed was to drag a horde of witch-eaters back home to start hunting my children. That whole coming down the chimney to steal kids thing? It was true. A krampus, if given the opportunity, really would come and snatch witch babies from their beds.
It was fucked.
I twisted my broom back around, snatched a charm from the bristles, and chucked it at one of the nearby trees. It was a crapshoot, that was for sure. The magic I made was of the earth, but down here, it was a whole different ballgame. Maybe the tree would accept the charm, allow itself to fall under my control, and aid me in battle? Or … maybe not. The stupid tree rejected the charm with a fizzle of energy, leaving me to battle the demon one-on-one.
Thing is, I was a witch.
Witches weren’t known for our physical prowess.
Son of a fluffy familiar, I cursed, grabbing the ivory handle of the broom in both hands and shoving the length of it against the front of the witch-eater’s throat, pushing him back just out of reach. I let go of the broom, whipped a cursed pistol out from under my jacket and lined up a shot. The bullets in these babies were made from a mix of magics, none of which was, well, witch. I had plenty of witch magic, charms, and curses of my own, so packing heat with a different flavor was always a good idea.
I was an okay shot, but only because launching spells was an art form. Aim was aim, even if I could use some more gun-specific practice. Well, Caine enjoyed an afternoon of target practice, Spec was the opposite, and Argent couldn’t give two wands either way. No wonder I hadn’t been to the shooting range much: family drama. So I used both hands—because I just wasn’t confident in my boss ability to handle two pistols at once—and lifted up the single weapon, my fingers curled tightly around the grip.
And then I pulled the trigger.
It grazed the vrag’s shoulder, spattering strange-smelling blood across the salt-scented shore.
I was so focused on trying to line up a second shot that I didn’t have time to move when the creature unfurled long, clawed fingers and flicked a demonic curse at me.
Aaaand, now I definitely didn’t feel stupid for wearing leather pants and a corset. The magic hit the demon leather and bounced right off, slamming into the dirt and leaving a smoking crater in its wake. The krampus opened his mouth so wide, all I could see were the two rows of razor-sharp teeth. Its breath smelt like rotten meat and the metallic tang of old magic.
How arrogant of the witches to think we’d exterminated an entire race.
I was looking a very old, very powerful witch-eater right in the face.
I aimed carefully, but just as I was pulling the trigger to fire, I was knocked over and dragged back through the brackish water on my stomach. The bullet went wide, and I ended up with a nose and mouth full of putrid water.
Kicking out with my left leg, I made contact with something hard, but my attacks were like mosquito bites to the category eight demon holding my ankle. He squeezed hard enough to crack bones, flooding my body with pain. The healing charms woven into my hat burst into bright, white light, repairing the damage even as the witch-eater inflicted more. Those charms were only going to last so long before I was really and truly screwed.
The second krampus grabbed me by the hair and pushed my face into the water.
