Page 16 of Hell and Hexes
“The mate got pegged by a lass with a cock, Oh-ho bend the cook over—”
“Hush,” I hissed to Eshu, leaning toward the werewolves.
“We need to deal with Clinton’s group first, then Stanley,” another said. “I know Dallas isn’t thrilled about killing his only pup, but when your boy disrespects you like that, you need to put him down.”
“Rum and blow-jobs and fart on the mainsail, Oh-ho bend the cook over.”
“Shhh.” I clapped a hand over one ear and tried to focus on the werewolves. It was hard since Eshu was between me and them, and the demon—or whatever he was—kept singing and spinning that bottle on his finger.
“Monday…meeting…agree to whatever… after midnight…every last one of them…. You…. Stanley….rest of us….Clinton.”
“With a cock like a cannon and balls like walnuts, the lass gets poked—oops.” Eshu went to give the bottle another spin and it shot off his finger and into the head of one of the werewolves with enough force to knock him forward. At the exact same moment, a minotaur edged by us, a lemon drop shooter in hand.
The werewolf turned around with a snarl and punched whoever he assumed hit him in the head with a beer bottle. His fist collided with the minotaur’s snout, pushing him back a pace and spilling the lemon drop shooter. Bellowing, the minotaur slammed the glass into the werewolf’s nose and lowered his head. With a toss of his horns, the werewolf flew up and into his buddies.
I’d lived in Accident my whole life. I was no dummy. The moment that beer bottle hit the werewolf, I was trying to get the heck out of there.
“Fight! Fight!” Eshu chanted, a grin on his face. He pumped his fist, elbow knocking over the full bottle of beer the bartender had brought him and spilling it across the bar.
I grabbed his shirt and pulled for him to come with me. The guy had indicated he had a gazillion lives, but that didn’t mean I wanted him dying on my watch. He resisted, and I lost my opportunity to escape as other bar patrons closed in to see a minotaur take on six werewolves.
My money was on the minotaur. And a month ago I wouldn’t have minded sticking around to see the show. Iwasa luck witch after all, and the chance of a stray punch coming my way, or me being trampled by a group of satyrs or getting a pint of cheap beer poured over my head would normally have been slim to none. But I’d died, and ever since then, luck did not seem to be on my side.
A goblin pressed against me, pushing my back against the hard wooden edge of the bar. I shifted left to keep from being pinned and found myself practically in Eshu’s lap. Evidently, the crazy guy thought Iwastrying to get on his lap because he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me there, holding me tight.
Annnnd the guy had a hard-on like a fricken flag pole in his pants. I’d thought he was exaggerating about the size of his member, but evidently not from what I could feel shoved against my butt. I squirmed to get off and regretted the motion immediately as he thrust his hips upward, holding my body against his.
“This is turning me on too,” he shouted in my ear. “Nothing like a good fight and a witch on my lap to make me want to do the magic mambo.”
“We can’t do the magic mambo if we’re crushed by goblins and werewolves or gored by minotaur horns,” I shouted back. “We need to get out of here.”
“And miss this? No way! You’ve died before. One more time won’t matter. Although, crushed by minotaurs and werewolves is far less impressive then dying by hot fudge.”
Pete came around the corner, towel in hand. I exhaled in relief, knowing it would soon be over. Usually all Pete had to do was snap the towel and everyone settled down, but the minotaur and the werewolves were too busy beating the crap out of each other to notice. Pete shouted, cracking the towel a few times, then went to climb on top of the bar. His foot landed in Eshu’s spilled beer and he fell to the ground, his enchanted towel landing on top of my head.
Thankfully Bronwyn had magicked the towel so it didn’t work on any of us Perkins sisters or Pete, so it was merely blinding me and filling my nose with the odor of stale beer and greasy hamburger. Didn’t Pete ever wash the darned thing? Once this was all over, I was going to have a serious conversation with him about proper care of magical items.
I pushed the towel away from my face just in time to see the minotaur pick up one of the werewolves and throw him across the room. One of his buddies barreled into the minotaur, shoving him back toward me. I yelped, scrambling off Eshu’s lap and diving out of the way just as the minotaur crashed against the bar. It cracked. The minotaur tossed his head, and a whole pile of werewolves sailed over the top and into a mirrored wall with whole shelf of booze.
“Eshu!” I shrieked, hoping the guy hadn’t used up all his lives because he’d either gotten crushed between a minotaur and a solid oak bar or ended up being smashed into the rail liquor with the werewolves.
“Couch-witch!” he shouted back, popping his head up over the edge of the bar. With a leap that would have done an acrobat proud, he vaulted on top of the bar, stepping on a werewolf’s head and one of the minotaur’s arms on the way over to jump down.
“Are you a whisky witch or a rum witch?” He stood before me, holding a bottle in each hand as we were being shoved around by the press of the crowd. “I hope you’re a rum witch because I’m in a pirate-y mood tonight. Arrrr!”
“I’m about to be a dead witch or, at the very least, a flat witch if we don’t get out of here,” I shouted. Reaching up to grab the towel off my head, I realized it was no longer there. Ugh. That had been my idea for clearing a path to the door, and now it was probably on the floor being trampled by half a dozen people.
“Don’t worry, my beloved couch-witch. I’ll save you!” Eshu looked back and forth between the two bottles, then smashed the whisky one over the minotaur’s head, clearly deciding the rum bottle was worth saving.
The minotaur roared and flung the werewolves aside as if they were rag dolls, smoke puffing from his nostrils as he focused his rage on Eshu. I screamed, ducking down and trying to find a way through the mob. That’s when I saw the towel.
Dropping to my hands and knees, I prayed for my witchy-luck to return as I scrambled among all the stomping feet and hooves, crawling my way to the bit of white terry cloth I’d spied between two bar stools. Spilled beer and booze dripped down on me, and I stretched out my hand, fingers closing on the towel. Someone grabbed my waist, and I felt myself being dragged backward. With a panicked shriek, I struggled free and started whipping the towel around my head, indiscriminately smacking people in the legs with it. I knew I was nailing lots of innocent people with the thing, but at this point, my main concern was not dying a second time.
Every person I hit went down, legs numb, a glazed expression of confusion on their faces. I was like a tornado clearing a path to the door. When I felt the cool fresh air against my face, I stood, holding on to the door jamb as I looked behind me.
“Pete!” I grabbed a decent-sized rock from beside the door, wrapped the towel around it, and threw it to the bartender. For the first time since my death, my luck held, and the towel-wrapped rock flew right into his hands. Pete shouted for everyone to “settle the ever-loving F down” and started hitting the minotaur and werewolves with the towel, nailing a few goblins who’d joined the fray in the process.
I took a deep breath, ran a shaking hand through my beer-soaked hair and turned, walking smack into Eshu. He steadied me with one hand, his other hand still clutching the bottle of rum.
