Page 27 of Do You Even Hex, Bro?
My foot catches on an exposed root and I go down hard, scraped palms slapping against the forest floor. Pain shoots up my arms as my knees slam into the dirt. I push up to sitting position, breath coming in ragged gasps, and assess the damage.
Great. Just fucking great.
My jeans are torn at both knees, blood seeping through the frayed denim. My left palm has a nasty gash across it, dirt already grinding into the wound. I wipe it against my hoodie, smearing crimson across the gray fabric.
Blood. A literal trail of it now, leading the wolves straight to me. As if they needed the help.
I stagger to my feet, ignoring the burn in my knees. Keep moving. Just keep moving.
The forest has grown darker around me, the canopy thicker overhead. How far have I run? It feels like miles, but my sense of direction is shot. I could be running in circles for all I know.My limbs feel like fucking lead, each step more difficult than the last. Magical exhaustion coupled with the physical type is a dangerous combination.
A howl pierces the air, closer now. A second joins it, then a third and fourth in quick succession.Fuck. Four massive wolves tracking one depleted witch. The odds of getting out of this situation in one piece couldn't possibly be worse.
I stumble forward, forcing my body to continue despite its protests. The trees start to thin ahead, pale light filtering through the branches. A clearing? Maybe I can find my bearings, figure out how far I am from city limits.
As I break through the tree line, I freeze, disbelief washing over me. This can't be right.
The Victorian mansion looms before me, its weathered facade exactly as I left it. Impossible. I've been running for at least half an hour, downhill and away from campus. There's no way I could have circled back here.
Unless...
Unless something pulled me back. Something magical.
The thought sends a chill down my spine. Wards can be defensive, yes, but they can also be designed to trap. To lure. To contain.
I don't have time to contemplate the implications. Behind me, I hear voices. Human ones. Kyle and his lackeys, gaining ground. From the opposite direction, the snap of branches and low growls signal the wolves' approach.
I'm cornered. Again.
The mansion stands silent, dark windows staring down at me like empty eyes. As I scan the facade desperately, I spot a window on the second floor, partially open, within reach of the branches of a massive oak growing near the house.
I sprint across the lawn. Tree climbing wasn't on my list of anticipated skills for the day, but neither was bathroom-window escaping. I'm building quite the resume of desperate exits.
My bloodied palm slips on the rough bark, but adrenaline propels me upward branch by branch, Ignoring the screaming protest of my injuries, I climb until I'm level with the window. It's a stretch—about two feet of open air between the closest branch and the sill—but what choice do I have?
I take a deep breath and launch myself forward, catching the windowsill with my forearms. For one heart-stopping moment, I hang there, legs dangling. Then I heave myself upward, squeezing through the narrow opening and tumbling onto a hardwood floor in an ungraceful heap.
I've climbed more windows in the last hour than I have my entire life. At this rate, I'll be competing in Olympic window-diving by nightfall.
If I survive that long.
I lie still for a moment, catching my breath, taking stock of my surroundings. I'm sure I'm going to get thrown in witch jail for trespassing, but that's the least of my worries right now. I'll take supernatural incarceration over being dragged back to Kyle or torn apart by wolves any day.
The room is dark, but moonlight shining through the window provides enough illumination to make out shapes. A bed withrumpled sheets. A desk cluttered with books and papers. A wall covered in... football posters?
As my eyes adjust, details emerge. Trophies line a shelf. Actual sports trophies, not magical artifacts. A varsity jacket hangs from a hook on the door. Textbooks on kinesiology and sports medicine stack haphazardly on the nightstand.
I've broken into some jock's bedroom in what appears to be a supernatural frat house, if the Greek letters on one of the pennants are any indication.
Just my fucking luck.
But something's off. The room doesn't smell like I'd expect a football player's personal space to smell. No dirty socks or stale pizza. Instead, there's a warm, spicy sweetness in the air. Like... gingerbread? My nose must be broken along with the rest of me.
I push myself to my feet, wincing as my knees protest. I need to keep moving, find a better hiding place or a weapon. As I cross the room, a jersey draped over the back of a desk chair catches my eye. Without thinking, I pick it up, bringing it to my face.
What the hell am I doing? I must have hit my head when I fell.
But the scent—gods, the scent. It smells like home, if home had ever felt safe. Like warmth and spice and something wild underneath. I could wrap myself in this smell and disappear forever.
