Not Your Ex's Hexes (Supernatural Singles, #2)(40)
“Holy halos … it’s working.” It wasn’t much, but was a damn good sign.
With a little extra pep in her step, she headed down the block. This late at night, the traffic was no longer too horrible, mostly filled with people like her heading home after long days at work.
A motorcycle rumbled past and quickly hung a right at the end of the block, causing a nearby driver to lay on his horn. The sight wasn’t usual by New York standards … not the bike, nor the noise, but that leather jacket …
Not to mention the rider.
A small flutter of awareness low in her stomach told her it was Damian. She stood there on the sidewalk in the middle of Queens, debating her next move. Her bed practically called her name like a siren, but the sanctuary …
With a final glance at the still growing number on her phone, she decided she wasn’t waiting until tomorrow to tell Damian Adams I told you so.
Abandoned construction equipment hindered Damian’s speed-demon pace, but she still moved faster than a mall walker in order not to lose him. One block led to another, and before long, she’d ventured into an unfamiliar area of the city. All her earlier excitement melted away, replaced by the soft gallop of her heart as she glanced around the nearly deserted street.
If it wasn’t for the flickering neon light of what looked to be a bar a few buildings down, she would’ve thought there’d been a blackout. Windows that hadn’t been boarded up were blackened abysses of nothing, and trash, moving in the breeze, skittered across the eerily quiet street like urban tumbleweed.
She contemplated turning back, and brought up her GPS app, cursing when her phone showed nothing but black-and-white snow. She smacked it and held it up to the sky, hoping to get even a shoddy signal. Instead, it died completely despite her battery being at 79 percent.
“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. What else can happen tonight?”
She shouldn’t have asked. A prickling sensation ran up the length of her arms, almost as if she’d poked her finger into an electrical outlet. Magic—and not her own—hovered in the air, and thickened with every step she took.
“A cloaking spell…” Rose realized. The minty scent was impossible to miss now, and whoever was responsible wasn’t only damn powerful but the reason for the failed technology.
Not only did it deter Norms from entering the area, but Rose’s phone wouldn’t work within the spell’s veil, and she couldn’t pick a direction and risk walking deeper into it.
“And my sucky luck returns,” Rose muttered.
Two figures stumbled onto the street from a tattoo studio’s alley. The taller man laughed at his slightly shorter friend, who’d nearly crashed face-first into a nonworking lamppost. They laughed and stumbled a few more steps before registering her presence.
“Hello there, sweetheart.” The shorter guy tripped over his feet before catching himself. “Aren’t you a dessert for the eyes.”
The stench of alcohol and maliciousness poured off him in thick rolling waves that turned Rose’s stomach. Choice made. Going anywhere was better than letting these two get any closer.
She headed toward the flickering neon light and the sound of low, pulsing music.
“Hey! I was talking to you, bitch!”
His friend chuckled and they tussled playfully. “She’s not any ole bitch, Mike. She’s a witch bitch. Can’t you see the Magic on her? She practically glows … and I only know of one witch bitch family that has that amount of power. She’s a fucking Maxwell.”
Hex me …
A warlock. They were the only Supernaturals who could see the mystical glow of a Magic wielder.
“A Maxwell? You sure? What the hell would a Maxwell be doing all the way out here? So far away from all their loyal admirers?”
“Why don’t we ask her?” the warlock teased, his comment making his friend howl.
“Hey you! Are you really the Maxwell witch bitch?” Mike bellowed. He took an obnoxiously loud sniff. “Damn. She smells like fucking cinnamon. My cougar’s practically salivating.”
Hexing hell …
A warlock and a shifter. Her luck just kept plummeting.
Rose picked up her pace, but so did Mike and his friend, the two Supernaturals continuing their disturbing conversation as they followed. Rose stepped off the curb and crossed the street, hoping that walking into the Blood Moon—the bar with the only working neon-lit sign—wouldn’t be yet another mistake of the night.
It looked more like a hole-in-the-wall than a thriving business, but decent music leaked out from the slightly ajar door, and considering the now cackling men behind her, it was definitely the lesser of two evils.
Rose stepped inside. The closing door smacked her on the ass, pitching her forward.
Dozens of heads swiveled in her direction as she eyed the one and only empty barstool, and gave an awkward little wave. “Good evening…”
One by one, most of the patrons turned back to whatever they’d been doing with only a few watching her step farther into the bar. Her Supernatural senses told her vampires and shifters made up most of the crowd, with an occasional demon thrown into the fold.
Two women, sandwiched between a pair of glowy-eyed vampires, gave her outfit a critical once-over before continuing their flirt-fest. She self-consciously tugged her puffer jacket around her body when a shifter fight broke out on her left. A few people scattered out of the way, but most hung around waiting to see who drew first blood.