Page 21 of My Hexed Honeymoon (The Bridgewater Pack #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It’s ridiculous how well Diego’s combination of teasing and motivating works.

With his mouth at my ear, the promise of delivered pleasure still ringing in it, I’m a puppet, eager and willing to let him pull my strings.

I should probably be annoyed at how easily he can disarm me, but his tricks are easing my anxiety enough to allow my magic to crackle and buzz, so I lean into it.

Into him.

I know he’ll catch me if I fall, and that’s boosting my abilities, too, although I’m not sure turned-on is the best way to go charging into the nether.

I’ve got this. Find the Blood Loom. In and out, simple as that.

Even with the help of the man slipping a hand beneath the fabric of my shirt, I know it won’t be simple or easy.

But with his hand so callused and warm against my skin, my certainty in him as my anchor catapults my belief in myself and how far I can roam. I can feel each of the glowing threads of the universe, from the plants in various shades of green to the glowing lifeforce of several critters.

Birds, insects, rodents—a handsy werewolf.

His lips skim my neck as he palms one of my breasts.

“Okay,” I say breathily, “now that’s getting a little distracting.”

Diego groans against my skin, the vibrations of his deep voice rumbling through me. “You never know where the line is unless you go looking.”

“Well, you’ve found it, Lewis and Clark.” I tilt my head to give him better access to my neck, not helping myself one bit. “Notice I listed them both, as you’ve got the groping skills of at least two men.”

His huffed laughter hits the skin he’d recently be lavishing open-mouth kisses on, and I’m about to spin around and initiate round two, and that simply won’t do.

For reasons I’m struggling to recall right now.

“Get to it, then, bruja ,” he says as he gives my ass a pat, going from naughty to a teammate on a football field in a flash.

Just kidding, he’s filling his hands with my ass cheek and squeezing, so I take that back. And while I shouldn’t like him calling me a witch in Spanish so much, it causes a full body shiver every time.

“That’s my promise that we’re not nearly done,” he whispers in my ear with a low growl, “Till we meet again, Talia’s ass.”

While my corporeal ass will remain on this plane with him, I don’t bother mentioning it. And not just because I want to be fully present when he makes good on his promise.

Diego’s doing his job of distracting me from the level of magic I’m about to use; it’s my turn to stop hiding from what I am and give it a spin.

I widen my stance, planting my feet firmly on the lush carpet of vegetation.

My breaths slow, then deepen.

The wind rustling the leaves in the trees quiets; the birdsong overhead fades.

It’s as if every living thing senses I’m about to open a portal to somewhere nobody would want to go.

It’s also time to stop stalling, so I go ahead and give the threads a tug.

As they part, I stop being gentle and yank.

Like a sweater undone with the tug of the right strands of yarn, the air parts and peels away, revealing a soulless void I greet not with hesitation—but with the attitude of let’s go ahead and play.

The Hollow beckons me in like it’s been waiting for me, and I let myself fall into it.

All the sights and sounds of the physical world get distorted as I’m sucked sideways through the veil.

The forest blurs, my ribs stretch apart like something inside me is expanding…

Then I’m standing on the dismal gray ground of the Hollow, slightly floaty from the shift in gravity.

Rather than fade away, the gold and iridescent threads I’ve used to open the rift weave a path beneath my feet, guiding my steps. They’re the only thing in the universe I’ve ever trusted, so I put my full trust in them now.

My steps are bouncy, like I’m on the moon. For a second I wonder wouldn’t that be weird if this realm was really just the moon the whole time?

I swear the darkness answers me back, angered at being compared to a hunk of rock in the sky. I’d apologize, but I have no idea who to address.

At my back I feel a tug, the tether Diego’s providing, the mate bond pulsing strong.

It makes it easier to keep walking in this place where time doesn’t move—it bleeds. My thoughts feel far away; my emotions thin out until they’re intangible threads in danger of fraying away completely.

Everything I felt so strongly this morning—affection, warmth, connection—drains like color from a washed-out memory.

Through the thick yet gravity-less air, I try to hold on. To Diego’s kiss, the strength in the arms that held me all night, the way he made me feel worshipped and wanted in ways nobody has ever done before.

I grit my teeth and push forward, wanting to find the Blood Loom and get out of here, never to return. The only positive in a sea of soul-sucking agony is the abundance of magic up here on the summit that sharpens my senses and allows me to feel every living thing.

Nothing inside the Hollow’s alive in the same way it is on our side, though.

Every root feels sick, as if the gnarled trees are only for show, not capable of growth.

I’m not sure why I squint, but it seems to work anyway. There in the distance, I feel the powerful thrum of a different lifeforce—a magical one, ancient and primordial.

Sentient and discerning and…almost human?

I glide toward the vital spark, navigating the tangled web of gray, sticky threads and hellish rock and gravel terrain. My body is weightless, but my soul is being pulled, drawn toward that flicker of life, while the tether at my back feels weaker and farther away.

It doesn’t make sense that a weapon or even a magical tool would have that kind of signature, but I know in my bones I’m going the right way.

Through a tangled thicket of bushes without leaves or berries but plenty of thorns to snag on my clothes and rip at my skin, I stumble into a clearing.

The air is denser, colder. Utterly devoid of joy or life or anything. It’s so close to the meadows back in pack territory—for instance, the one where they throw axes.

In fact, it’s eerily similar in a way that makes me question what I’m seeing and feeling; if there truly is anything that could live in this place.

A laugh echoes around me, and I spin in a circle. Figures take cloudy shape, faces obscured, and then I’m reliving one of my nightmares as the werewolves I was just beginning to know all go from laughing to gasping and backing away.

You don’t belong with those mutts, anyway, precious threadling, an ancient voice purrs, feminine with all harsh edges. You have the power of your witch ancestors in your veins, but you’re too afraid to use it.

Joke’s on her. I don’t even know how to use it.

You tug at the seams of the universe and bring your enemies to their knees, the voice answers my unspoken question, velvety smooth but dripping with venom.

Smoke obscures my vision, my lungs straining with the black, belching clouds.

It’s only by letting go that you can truly be free.

I cough and wave at the smoke, my eyes stinging as the belching black cloud envelops me.

I glance back the way I came, but the hazy black exhaust is all I can see.

No tether, no Diego, no crack of sunlight to guide me toward fresh air and into the strong arms of a werewolf.

My werewolf.

That’s more than the bond talking, I’m almost sure.

They have the wool pulled over your eyes, Realmweaver. You’re so much more than a mate, more than a witch. You’ll always be too much for them, but you could be exactly what we need.

Let us teach you. The words caress my skin, cool against the blazing heat of the smoke, though I still can’t see the flames.

All at once, the smoke parts, and I see her.

I expect Andromeda, but it’s not my mother.

It’s me.

Standing on a ridge above the werewolf compound of the Bridgewater Pack, flames turning the sky orange. My hair blows wild around my shoulders, my eyes glow bright, and my mouth is curled in giddy joy over all the destruction I’ve caused. The wolves below scatter, women and children in the mix.

Buildings burn.

Either join us out there or join us in here forever.

And that’s when I see it—glinting in the reflection of the firelight, clutched in my other self’s hand. Bones hobbled together in a loom, the threads between made of ichor and blood that shimmers red in what seems like moonlight despite the lack of a moon.

The Blood Loom.

Powerful enough to return vampires their magic, something witches have hoarded for centuries, without question. I’m not sure I’m ready to hand over that type of power to the vampires, but I’m also not sure I have a choice.

“I need that loom,” I say, my voice hoarse from the smoke.

All at once I’m standing in front of myself, my heart pounding like it means to beat its way out of my chest.

I imagine my shadow-self handing me the bone rods that create the bars of the loom, and she slowly extends them toward me, this bloodthirsty warrior woman I could never be.

The second she-me places the gore-slicked tool in my hands, every instinct inside me screams.

Run.