Page 7 of Hexual Healing
Oh.Oh, shit.
“I can pay for—” I started to say, but he cut me off.His voice was gruff and off-putting.
“With what?”He tilted his head slightly.Not curious.Calculating.“The four dollars in your bra?The potato chip wrapper in your pocket?The dilapidated car that's more rust than metal, currently bleeding oil into my driveway?”
Heat flooded my face.Then my hands.Then the curse in my chest woke up and stretched like a cat made of molten lead.The room's temperature jumped about ten degrees.
“I didn't mean…”
“To trespass?To damage property?To bring whatever's obviously hunting you to my door?”He stood, and Jesus, he was bigger than I'd thought.The chair creaked with relief.“Which one didn't you mean?”
My magic stirred.Not the helpful kind.The messy kind.The kind that happened when I was trapped and embarrassed and running on fumes.The quilt started to smoke.Little wisps curling up like accusatory fingers.
“Shit, shit, shit.”I batted at the smoking fabric, which only made it worse.The smoke turned green.Then purple.Then started spelling out words I hadn’t consciously chosen.
S-O-R-R-Y-D-A-D-D-Y
“Oh my GOD.”I yanked the quilt off and threw it at the floor, where it continued its pornographic smoke signals.“That's not… I didn't… Fuck!”
Baz watched the display with the kind of calm that suggested he'd seen worse.Or was planning something worse.Hard to tell.
“Your magic's unstable.”Again, just stating facts.Sky is blue.Water is wet.Witch is a disaster.
“It's been a rough week.”
“It's Tuesday.”
“Like I said.”
He walked to the quilt, picked it up without flinching at the heat, and shook it once.The smoke stopped.The letters dissolved.The fabric looked pristine again, as if I hadn't just tried to set it on fire with my emotional dysfunction.
“How did you…” I started to ask, but was so flabbergasted, I couldn’t finish my sentence.
“You're not the first magical problem to show up here.”He folded the quilt with military precision.“You're just the loudest.”
That should have been reassuring.It wasn't.Because the way he saidproblemmade it clear that was exactly what I was.Not a guest.Not someone in need of being tended to by an empathetic and generous benefactor.A problem.
The curse pulsed again, harder this time.My skin felt too tight, like something underneath wanted out.Or in.My hair, which had been whatever color exhaustion had previously made it, shifted to a deep, warning red.
The mountain man noticed.Of course he noticed, but instead of commenting on color-changing hair, he busted out and said something I never expected.
“You're cursed.”Not a question.
“Uhhh, yeah.”
“Dragon cursed, specifically.”He set the quilt on the dresser.“I can smell the sulfur under your skin.Old magic.Personal.The kind that doesn't let go.”
My stomach dropped.“You know about dragons?”
“I know about a lot of things.”He moved back to his chair but didn't sit.“Including what they do to people who cross them.Or leave them.”
The way he saidleavemade me want to run.But my legs were shaking, my magic was basically throwing a toddler tantrum, and I had nowhere to go anyway.
How the hell does he know?
“I need to leave,” I said anyway, because stating the obvious was apparently contagious.
“No.”