The Ex Hex (Ex Hex #1)(3)

Vivi studied the label. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure ‘Orchard Hayride’ isn’t in league with darkness.”

“Right,” Gwyn said. “So yeah, no harm, no foul, except that we scared baby boy here.” She had managed to coax Sir Purrcival into her arms, and he snuggled in even as he seemed to glare in Vivi’s general direction.

“Don’t know my own strength, I guess,” Vivi said, and then, as one, she and Gwyn added, “Never mix vodka and witchcraft.”

Laughing a little sheepishly, Vivi set the candle back on Gwyn’s desk.

“Feeling better?” Gwyn asked. “Fake-curse that man right out of your hair?”

It was going to take more than one bath, several drinks and some magical silliness to forget about Rhys, but for now, Vivi nodded. “I think so. And you’re right, it was just three months, and now he’s back to Wales, so it’s not like I’ll ever have to see him again. He can go back to his life, I can go back to mine. Now, let’s clean up all this salt before Aunt Elaine comes up here and figures out we were drinking and magicking.”

Vivi turned away and neither she nor Gwyn saw the candle briefly ignite again, the flame sparking, the smoke curling back toward the open window and the full moon.





Chapter 1





Nine Years Later



Of course it was bloody raining.

For one, it was Wales, so rain literally came with the territory, Rhys understood that, but he’d driven from London that morning through sunshine with the occasional cloud. Gorgeous blue skies, rolling green hills, the kind of day that made one want to take up painting or maybe develop some kind of poetry habit.

It was only once he drove into Dweniniaid, the tiny village where his family had lived for centuries, that it started pissing down.

He was fairly sure he knew why.

Grimacing, Rhys parked his rental car just off the High Street. He didn’t have to drive, of course. Could’ve used a Traveling Stone, been here in the blink of an eye, but his insistence on driving everywhere irritated his father, and Rhys liked that more than he liked the convenience of magical travel.

Although, he thought as he got out of the car and frowned up at the sky, today it felt a little like cutting off his nose to spite his own face.

But what was done was done, and Rhys tugged the collar of his coat up a little and set off into the village proper.

There wasn’t much on the High Street—a few shops, a church at one end and at the other, a pub. That was the direction he headed in now. There were only a handful of people out this afternoon, but all of them crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him.

Lovely to see the family reputation was still robust as ever.

At the end of the street, The Raven and Crown beckoned, its windows warm rectangles of light against the gray day, and as soon as Rhys pushed open the front door, he was assailed with some of his favorite smells—the malty richness of beer, the sharp tang of cider and the oaky warmth of aged wood.

God, he’d actually missed home.

Maybe it was just because he’d been away for so long this time. He usually tried to drop in every few months, more frequently if he thought his father was away. It put him right in between his two older brothers in terms of familial loyalty.

Llewellyn, the eldest, ran this pub and stayed in close contact with their father. Bowen, the middle brother, had fucked off to the mountains of Snowdonia two years ago, and they got occasional communications from him, mostly to alarm all of them with how intense his beard seemed to be getting.

So Rhys was, for once, not the most disappointing son, a title he was happy to hang on to until Bowen decided to stop doing whatever it was he was doing up there.

He was never going to be the favorite, though. Wells had won that role long ago, and Rhys was happy to let him have it. Besides, it was kind of fun being the black sheep. When he fucked up, that was taken as a given, and when he managed not to fuck up, everyone was pleasantly surprised.

Win-win.

Taking off his jacket, Rhys went to hang it on the coatrack by the door, the one just under an old advertisement for Strongbow cider, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of the man behind the bar watching him.

And when Rhys turned around, he realized the man behind the bar—his eldest brother, Llewellyn—was the only person in the pub.

Llewellyn was their father minus thirty years: same stern expression, same Roman nose—well, to be fair, they all had that nose—same thin lips. Only slightly less of a prick. But equally committed to staying in this tiny little village where everyone was terrified of him and running this pub that only the occasional tourist—and erstwhile brother—wandered into.

“Hiya, Wells,” Rhys said, to which Wells only grunted in response.

Typical.

“Business still booming, I see.” Rhys sauntered over to the bar, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a glass bowl there.

Wells shot him a dark look over the polished mahogany, and Rhys grinned, tossing a peanut into his mouth.

“Come on,” he cajoled. “Admit that you’re delighted to see me.”

“Surprised to see you,” Wells said. “Thought you’d abandoned us for good this time.”

“And forgo such warm fraternal bonding? Never.”

Wells gave him a reluctant smile at that. “Father said you were in New Zealand.”