Page 80 of Summertime Hexy
CHAPTER 27
HAZEL
Ismell the circus before I see it.
Caramel smoke. Spell-dusted popcorn. The fizz-pop of runes barely holding shape in the humid evening air. It wafts through Camp Lightring like a seductive promise and a big blinking neon“Come Break All Your Rules”sign.
Milo tells me first. Naturally.
He runs up, grinning so wide his face might split.
“Hazel! HAZEL. There’s a magic circus two miles from the outer ridge. Actual witches! And a levitating tiger withpearlescent fangs!”
“Pearlescent?” I blink. “You’re sure it’s not just sparkly dental work?”
“No, Hazel, it’s not a glitter spell! This thing roared and half the treesswooned.”
By the time dusk rolls in, half the camp has already skittered down the path into the woods toward the town square. Derek stays behind, because of course he does—he’s broody and allergic to joy. I tell him I’m going “for research purposes” and he gives me one of his patentedDon’t Get Hexed Without Melooks.
“I’ll behave,” I say.
“Youneverbehave.”
“Fine,” I wink. “I’llmostlybehave.”
The circus spills over the riverbank like a fever dream. Lanterns float midair, bouncing in lazy spirals as charmed vines braid themselves into ticket ropes. Music blares from a self-playing hurdy-gurdy that keeps morphing instruments mid-melody—a violin here, a jazz horn there, then a harp that sounds like moonlight.
There’s a man made entirely of moths at the entryway. He bows low and hands me a candied rose on a stick.
“This won’t poison me, will it?”
“Depends on your definition of ‘poison,’” he says, wings fluttering, and disappears into smoke.
Okay. So we’re doingthatkind of magic.
Inside the tent grounds, everything pulses with enchantment. A tent painted in brushstrokes of sunset shifts color each time I blink. A fire dancer twirls with twin torches made of blue flame that scream when they spin. There’s a tightrope walker dangling upside down from nothing at all, humming lullabies to a floating jar of stars.
I know show magic.
I know glamours and dazzle and illusion-layered sleight of hand.
But this?
This isart.
A woman with glowing ink in her skin calls me over after the midnight act ends. She wears a corset made of snake vertebrae and speaks with the kind of confidence that says,I’ve outrun every law that tried to break me.
“You’re Hazel Blackmoore,” she says, smiling. “I felt you from three counties over.”
I don’t even ask how. It’s a magic circus. Boundaries are mostly theoretical here.
“I’m Sal,” she adds, “Lead Spellcaster and Rift Dancer. And you—have a hell of a signature.”
“Uh, thank you?”
She eyes me. “You sealed a tear with blood, love, and wild chaos and made the landbloom.That’s not small magic. That’s legacy stuff.”
My throat tightens.
