Page 21 of Do You Even Hex, Bro?
Plus, if I'm being honest with myself, there's a certain painful irony in seeking refuge at a university. Before Kyle, before the coven, I had different plans. Academic plans. I graduated summa cum laude from Westlake University with a double major in Occult History and Theoretical Magic. I was headed to graduate school. Had acceptance letters, scholarships. Was on my way to becoming Professor Cook someday.
Then I met Kyle at an academic conference where he was the keynote speaker. Brilliant, charismatic, head of his own coven at just twenty-five. He seemed to see me—really see me—whenI asked questions during his presentation. Sought me out after. Told me I had unlimited potential that traditional academia would only stifle.
"Why spend years writing papers on magical theory," he'd said with that brilliant smile of his, "when you could be living it?"
I believed him.
Deferred my graduate acceptance. Then deferred again. Then the deferments ran out, and so did my dreams of academia. Just one more thing I sacrificed at the altar of Kyle Fucking Evergreen.
Stormvale's campus isn't hard to find. The architecture is a mishmash of classic collegiate stone buildings and sleek modern structures, all centered around a sprawling quad dotted with statues. Students lounge on the grass despite the cool weather, some clearly human, others obviously not. A pair of girls with the telltale shimmer of fae around their edges sit beneath a tree, books hovering in the air before them. A boy with fangs too prominent to be fully human laughs with friends near a fountain.
Council wards buzz at the perimeter. It isn't enough to keep anyone out, but it's enough to notify authorities if violence erupts. Probably enough to catalog the magic of every entity that sets foot on campus for easy expulsion if they cause any problems. I step through the wards, their tingling energy prickling against my skin. Even with my magic reserves almost non-existent, I can sense their power. Old magic, steady and reassuring.
I'd spent the early morning in a city park, feet bare against the earth, hands pressed to tree trunks, gathering what little naturalenergy I could. It wasn't much—Bonded siphons aren't built for nature magic—but enough for perhaps an hour of glamour if I desperately need it. I'm saving it, letting my scars show beneath my hood's shadow for now.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since yesterday. A campus map near the quad entrance shows various buildings, including something called "The Cauldron" that's marked as a café. Somewhere I can afford coffee and maybe a pastry. Somewhere to sit and think.
The Cauldron turns out to be exactly what the name suggests. It's a supernatural-friendly café on the bottom floor of the Humanities building. Inside, the lighting is soft and warm yet dim, with retro-styled booths along the walls and tables scattered throughout. The air smells of coffee, cinnamon, and the unmistakable tang of magic.
I order the cheapest coffee on the menu and a day-old muffin that's half price. The barista—human, from what I can tell—doesn't react to my scars when I reach for my wallet and my hood shifts. Either he's seen worse or he's got excellent customer service training.
"Five thirty-five," he says, and I watch another chunk of my pathetic savings disappear.
I take my coffee and muffin to a booth in the darkest corner, tugging my hood back into place. From here, I can see most of the café while remaining relatively hidden. Students come and go, many with the distinct auras of practiced magic users. A group of three witches at a table near the center are clearly discussing a spell, hands moving in synchronized patterns above a textbook.
For a moment, I let myself imagine an alternate reality where I'm one of them. Where I chose graduate school over Kyle. Where I'm working on my dissertation, teaching introductory magic classes, worrying about normal things like publication and tenure. Not running for my life from my narcissistic ex.
I pull out my phone, checking the time.
Five hours left.
And I'm too fucking exhausted to use this reprieve to plan my next move. The coffee helps a little, but what I really need is magic.Realmagic, not the traces I pulled from trees this morning.
The café door opens, and the atmosphere shifts instantly. Conversations quiet. Bodies tense. My instincts go on high alert before I even see who's entered.
Four massive guys stride in like they own the place. Even if I couldn't feel the predatory energy rolling off them in waves, they'd obviously be shifters. All muscle, all movement, all swagger. My money's on wolves from the way other patrons subtly edge away.
Perfect. Just what I needed.
A pack of fucking wolves.
I sink deeper into my booth, pulling my hood lower. The last thing I need is to attract a wolf's attention with my scars. They're territorial about marks left on humans, even ones they didn't make themselves. The vampires' reactions made that even clearer.
The tallest one leads the group. An alpha among alphas. He's built like a marble statue came to life and decided to put on aHenley that clings to every muscle like paint. Dark styled hair, sharp jawline, radiating the kind of confidence that only comes from knowing you're the apex predator in any room. The others fan out behind him. There's a linebacker type with shaggy dirty blond hair who's built more like a bear, a leaner alpha with glasses and tousled dark hair who looks bored as fuck, and a fourth with black hair brushing his broad shoulders and dark, watchful eyes.
The pack leader scans the room, and I swear his nostrils flare.
Scenting. Great.
They approach the counter, and the barista visibly steels himself.
"Killian," he says with forced cheerfulness. "The usual for you guys?"
"Thanks, Dax," the huge alpha—Killian, apparently—responds with a grin that's all teeth.
I study my coffee cup with intense fascination, willing myself to become invisible. Wolves make me nervous at the best of times. Now, with my magic depleted and Kyle's deadline hanging over me, they're the last thing I need to run into.
Then Killian's gaze lands on me from across the room like it's magnetized.
