Page 4 of Do You Even Hex, Bro?
My phone shows a hostel ten blocks away offering beds for twenty-five bucks a night. It sits in "mixed territory"—neutral ground where supernatural factions coexist without too much bloodshed. Not ideal, but better than wandering around until my magic fails and my glamour drops for good.
Stormvale comes to life as I make my way toward the hostel, signs flickering to life and vendors setting up their food carts. I pass vampires heading home after a night out, their skin tooperfect, movements too fluid to be human. They eye me as I pass, no doubt smelling weakness. A witch without full power bleeds in shark waters. My only advantage is that none of them can tell a siphon at first glance.
There's a small handful of creatures on this planet who can do that, and I very much doubt any of them has a morning commute.
I walk faster anyway.
The hostel, when I reach it, meets my expectations. It's more than I hoped, actually, considering the windows aren't blown out. It's a simple converted brownstone with a faded sign above the door reading "Wanderer's Respite" in engraved script. It's not much, but the protection sigils carved into the doorframe are at least reassurance the owner takes security seriously.
The bored kid at the reception desk glances up from his phone as I enter. His eyes widen, pupils dilating in obvious shock as his gaze flicks over my face. I turn slightly so he can't gawk. He can see through my glamour. Not human, then. But he isn't a vampire or a shifter, either, so that only leaves a few options. I don't feel like puzzling through any of them tonight.
"Can I help you?" he asks, setting his phone down.
"I need a bed," I say with false confidence. "Just for a couple of nights."
He examines me, eyes lingering on my face. "Twenty-five a night. Payment up front. No refunds."
I count fifty dollars from my sad stack. That leaves seventeen dollars and thirty-five cents. Not even enough for a decent meal.
He takes the money, still staring, and hands over a key with a dingy plastic tag marked with an 8. "Second floor, third door on right. Bathroom's shared, end of hall. Check-out's at eleven. No magic in common areas, no guests after nine, and absolutelynobloodsports."
Standard rules for mixed supernatural housing.
I take the key, nodding thanks.
"You, uh… you might wanna boost that glamour," he adds as I turn away. "It's slipping."
I freeze, hand rising to my face.
"There's a spell amplifier in each room," he continues, returning to his phone and kicking his shoes up on the counter. "Not much, but it might help. You look like you need it."
"Thanks," I mumble.
I clutch the strap of my duffel and head upstairs. My legs drag, each step an effort. Magical exhaustion is setting infastnow that I've stopped moving. Need to rest, save what little power remains.
Room 8 is bare. Single bed with clean worn linens, tiny desk, chair, dirty window overlooking the street. The spell amplifier is a small quartz crystal embedded in the ceiling, charged with enough ambient magic to give minor spells a boost. Not enough to fully restore my glamour, but I don't need to use it when I'm alone anyway. Might help me recharge a little.
Once upon a time, I could siphon decent magic from nature, but it wasn't enough for the really intense spells.
Kyle's offer was a siren's song, too sweet to ignore. Nature energy is at the bottom of the pyramid. Next is human energy. Basic energy vampire stuff. The ability to siphon energy from an entire coven of powerful witches was too good to pass up.
And I was hopelessly in love.
When he asked me to join as the coven's Thirteenth—a rare and prestigious position offered only to those who possessed truly extraordinary abilities, like a siphon—I was elated. Even if the coven bond came with a leash. I could only siphon energy from the coven. Unless I broke my bonds, of course.
When you're alone and young and desperate to belong somewhere, anywhere, even a rusty chain looks like it's made of solid gold.
I drop my duffel and collapse onto the bed. The mattress thins under me, springs poking into my back like they might burst through the worn sheet and impale me, but it's horizontal and that's all that matters right now. I should remove my shoes, change clothes, but I'm too fucking wiped.
My phone buzzes. I expect Cadence, since I blocked everyone from the coven already, but the number's unfamiliar. I open the message.
UNKNOWN: Running won't help. The bond goes both ways. Come home, Regina. We can fix this.
Kyle.
Of course the son of a bitch would buy a burner just to harass me.
His next message makes my blood run cold.
