Page 8 of Bewitched By the Djinn
I stumble over Kevin’s bat on my way around the desk—again—and mutter a curse as I prop it back up and then reach down, yanking the bag from Ernie’s out from beneath.
Electricity zings up my arm the moment my fingers connect with the smooth yellow surface.
I set it in front of me, one hand gripping either side of the bronze base. Then I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, weaving my magic around it and pushing it through the gap at the top.
Why is it so compelling?
It can’t possibly be a person, but the sensation won’t stop. My magic circles and pools around it, trying to determine the shape and substance.
It’s a condensed ball of pure bright energy. A dense, seething knot of life, coiled tight like a spring, waiting to unspool.
I shake my head. I must be losing it. Lack of sleep. Stress. Stress does crazy things to your body. I had a weird rash on my arm last month and I’ve skipped my period twice this year. Maybe my magic is broken.
I take another deep breath, draw on my magic again, and poke at the circle.
It crackles and then blazes out of the lamp, rushing through the top and exploding like a firecracker above my head.
I fall back in the chair, blinking through the remnants of the flash, a silhouette outlined against the glow in front of me.
“What the?—?”
My heart drops into my toes.
There’s a man standing on the other side of my desk.
Chapter
Three
Without thinking, I grab the nearest object—a paperweight shaped like a star—and chuck it at his head.
It hits him square in the forehead with a satisfying thunk, bounces off, and he catches it midair. He raises an eyebrow, then sets it gently on the desk. “Was that strictly necessary?”
“It felt appropriate.” I narrow my eyes. “Are you a ghost? Were you haunting the lamp?”
“Excuse me? A ghost?”
He has an accent. British maybe. Or New Zealand or something.
The hex bags aren’t working. They’re defective. No way Kevin’s friendly neighborhood ghost could materialize, hold physical objects, and speak coherently without some serious mojo. Mojo that should be hindered by Richard’s hex bags. Even if the ghost has no malicious intent, the bags prevent a manifestation of this strength, theoretically.
I got conned.
I am going to kill Richard. Slowly and with something extra painful, like a cheese grater.
I smack the top of the desk and then point at the spook. “I am calling Richard and getting my money back. Those hex bags were supposed to keep creatures like you out of here.”
“What? Creatures? I don’t—who? Hex bags?” He glances around the room. “Where am I?”
I speak slowly. “You’re in my house. You don’t belong here. Go toward the light.”
“Light?” His brow furrows.
I’ve never seen a ghost like this.
Sure, when we had the poltergeist infestation, there were all kinds of bursts of activity, knickknacks falling off shelves, doors slamming, appliances turning on and off, and all that. I caught glimpses of shadows and movement, but never like this.
He’s clearly formed. Tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders filling out a supple black leather jacket. His features are all angles and contrasts: thick pink lips against a sharply cut jaw, tousled honey-blond hair half-falling into his eyes. His clothes are strange, like he just stepped out ofBridgerton—linen pants tucked into well-worn boots, soft and supple.
