Page 135 of Bespelled

I am a powerful witch, daughter of those who shaped the world and bent it to their will. I have a legacy to uphold.

Which I’ll do on another day.

I turn on my heel and dash away. I also nearly eat shit three steps into my getaway sprint.

Alcohol and sand do not mix well.

I flail, then right myself and book it, using a pinch of my magic to spur me onward and help my balance.

Behind me, Kane growls, the sound full of annoyance and maybe a little possessive promise. Then he’s chasing after me.

I manage to run a total of maybe ten steps before his arms wrap around my waist and he swings me over his shoulder, causing my skirt to ride up. Only a quick spurt of my magic prevents the whole party from seeing my ass.

A group of nearby witches and mages whoop and catcall us.

“I’m done playing,” Kane growls into my ear, ignoring the attention we’re receiving. “We’re going.”

I see red.

Who’s offended you,est amage?

You stay out of this.

I fear for the person who crossed you,Memnon says a little too gleefully for the sentiment to be genuine.Also, the eyes are a great place to attack first.

I’m not interested in Kane’s eyes.

To Kane, I say, “I will curse your dick to shrivel up and fall off if you don’t put me down.”

“That’s more than a little disturbing,” Kane says, “but you and I both know that I won’t be cowed by a threat.”

Before I can respond—or gather my magic—Kane presses his nose into my side and gives me another sniff. “You still don’t smell right,” he says.

I want to scream. Instead, my power rolls off me in agitated waves.

The lycan must sense it, because he says, “Don’t make a scene.”

Going to murder him. Going to enjoy it too.

“Says the man who’skidnappingme,” I hiss out. Ibethe doesn’t want a scene. Makes him look bad.

“I’m notkidnappingyou,” he says. “I’m—” His words are interrupted when another shifter comes up to him, asking about fuck knows what.

Across the party, I catch sight of Sybil, who mouths,Are you okay?

No, I respond.

Immediately, she shoves her drink at someone and begins walking toward us, determination in her eyes.

Before she can do anything, however, I reach my arm out toward the cliffside, where over a dozen brooms rest.

“Come to me,” I order in Sarmatian, flicking a bit of magic out. I feel like a drunk Jedi as I call out to one of the brooms.

The alcohol is blunting a bit of my power, because for a second, the broom I focus on does nothing more than tremble where it leans against the sheer rock. But then, a little sluggishly, it peels itself from the wall and cuts through the crowd, knocking supernaturals aside.

The broom lands in my hands.

Success.

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