Page 6 of Summertime Hexy
“The enchanted kind.”
“Oh,wonderful.”
They come barreling out of the underbrush like tiny furry goblins, glowing faintly purple and dragging what appears to be glittery rope. One of them has a harmonica.
“They’ve unionized,” I whisper, horrified.
“Disperse them,” Derek says, cool as you please.
“Oh,nowyou want my brand of chaos?”
“Before they summon reinforcements.”
I yank my wand out of my belt pouch and flick it once. The end sparks, whimpers, and fizzles like a sad sparkler on a rainy birthday.
Derek raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I’m working on it!”
The raccoons are forming a semi-circle now. The harmonica begins to play the opening notes of what sounds suspiciously like a sea shanty.
“I got this,” I say, stepping forward. “Hey little guys, love the whole rebellious woodland vibe—super aesthetic. But we’re gonna need you to, uh,dispersebefore my coworker here gets all medieval.”
One raccoon chucks a glitter-bomb.
I yelp, duck, and accidentally grab Derek’s sleeve in the process.
He doesn’t flinch. “You’re terrible at negotiations.”
“Oh yeah? Maybe they’re just not fans of repressed immortal types.”
“I’m not repressed.”
“You just said ‘I didn’t bite her’ like it was a love language.”
Before Derek can bite back (figuratively), I rip open my backup charm pouch and chuck a distraction sigil. It bursts midair in a crackle of teal light and peppermint. The raccoons shriek and scatter into the underbrush like caffeinated toddlers fleeing bedtime.
Silence. Glorious, weird silence.
“Well,” I pant, “that went great.”
Derek brushes glitter off his shoulder like it insulted his lineage. “They’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Of course they will. They’ve tasted freedom. And glitter.”
He gives me a sidelong look. “You know this is only the first night, right?”
“Wait until you see what happens on full moon Fridays.”
He groans. “There are themed patrols?”
“Welcome to Camp Lightring, baby.”
We circle back toward the cabin. My feet are killing me. I collapse face-first onto the bottom bunk while Derek, because of course he does, takes the time to line up his flask and boots with clinical precision.
“I think I pulled something,” I mumble into my pillow. “Like a soul muscle.”
“You whined less when a cockatrice nearly decapitated you.”
