Page 69 of Hexed, Vexed, & Undersexed
“When?” Bellamy demands.
“How?” I wonder.
“When?” Bellamy counters.
“Why?” I whisper.
“When—shortly after Halloween in your current time,” my too-many-times great-grandma supplies. “How? With a very powerful spell and corrupt witches. Why—because they can.”
“Who is ‘they’?” Bellamy queries.
He clearly has his head in the game and knows which questions to ask.
“The network,” is the crone’s response.
“HA! I knew it!” I crow triumphantly, pumping a fist in the air.
Bellamy looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“You knew about this?”
“Er, no, notthisspecifically, but I knew the network was rotten to its assholish core.”
“And you found this out when?”
“When I elbowed you during filming before the trial began—butsomebodydidn’t take the fucking hint. FYI, because you’re a little dense—it was you.”
Bellamy opens his mouth to say something douchey, I’m sure, but no sounds come out. I start to laugh uproariously at his incredulous expression, except that the sound is immediately muted. Fuck a duck—Mother Shipton has silenced us.
“Are you two going to listen or bicker?” she inquires in exasperation.
It’s a good thing I can’t answer because it’s probably the latter—and clearly the former is more important.
“Exactly,” Mother Shipton concurs, still reading my thoughts.
I raise a hand and my sweet—not—old granny releases me from her spell.
“Yes?”
“Why is the network doing this?”
“Wrong question.”
This time, Bellamy raises a hand.
“Who is the network?”
“Better,” Mother Shipton praises and I scowl.
Of course, Bellamy is a little teacher’s pet.
“The owner is none other than Samuel Parris’s descendent—Mindy Trump.”
“Figures,” I comment. “Never trust anyone with a name likeTrump.”
“Why is Samuel Parris’s name familiar?” Bellamy mutters in thought.
“Oh my goddess—that was Tittie’s owner!” I squawk.
