Page 41 of Do You Even Hex, Bro?
As we approach, I feel the magic saturating every molecule of air around us. The wards pulse like living things, layer upon layer of protection spells woven so tightly not even a dust mote could slip through without permission. Different from witch magic. Different from anything I've encountered, just like Villeneuve himself.
Villeneuve catches my obvious assessment. "The wards are intense, aren't they? They'll keep the wolves out."
I don't answer. My fingers unconsciously rise to the left side of my face, brushing against the ridges and valleys where my glamour spell usually hides my scars.
Being exposed like this is fucking humiliating.
"You needn't worry about that here," he says, apparently reading my thoughts. For all I know, he literally is.
"Easy for you to say," I mutter. My voice sounds dry and cracked. "You don't look like a monster."
"Neither do you." His tone remains even. "You look like a survivor."
I'm not sure what to make of that. But before I have the chance to decide, the front door opens without him touching it. Of course it does. I'd anticipated cold minimalism to match the exterior, but inside feels warm, almost inviting. Open spaces with soaring ceilings. Wood and leather and rich fabrics. Books.Thousandsof books, the gold leafing on their spines shining in the amber light from antique lamps.
"Welcome to my home, Miss Cook."
"Please, just… call me Regina."
I step over the threshold and feel the wards ripple around me, adjusting to permit my entry. Their energy signature is fascinating, ancient and complex yet oddly familiar. I've never tasted magic like this, but something in it resonates with my own power.
The echoes of it, at any rate.
Villeneuve leads me through a hallway lined with artifacts under glass. Artifacts that look older than civilization itself. Things that belong in a museum, not a private collection. Strange symbols etched in stone. Weapons from lost cultures. Maps and sketches of places that should only exist in dreams.
The library—or parlor, I suppose—lies at the end of the hall. Towering shelves cover three walls, interrupted only by stained glass windows overlooking a garden illuminated by hidden lights. A massive stone fireplace dominates the fourth wall, flames crackling beneath an ornate mantel even though no one's here to make sure the house doesn't burn down.
Guess magic takes care of that.
"Please, have a seat." He gestures toward a pair of leather armchairs near the fire.
I hesitate, suddenly acutely aware of my filthy clothes, scraped palms, and blood-caked knees. Not to mention my face. I'm a mess, and his furniture probably costs a fortune. Not a small fortune, either.
"They're just chairs, Miss Cook. They've survived worse than a bit of forest debris." A hint of amusement colors his words.
I sink into the nearest chair, its leather creaking softly. The fire's warmth makes my exhaustion hit harder. I'm so tired, it feels like if I fall asleep here, I could be out for weeks.
"Would you care for a drink?" Villeneuve asks, moving toward a cabinet near the fireplace.
"Actually, yes." My mouth feels like sandpaper. "Water, if you have it."
"Of course I have water. But I can offer something better." He opens the cabinet to reveal not just bottles of liquor but also dozens of small vials in various colors. "It's been many years since I've entertained a siphon, but I think I recall a cocktail or two."
A cocktail ofwhat, exactly?
Yet another supernatural with mysterious intentions, and I have no fucking clue what this one even is. But what choice do I have? I'm trapped here until my body recovers enough to move, let alone formulate a plan for getting my life out of a tailspin.
"How many siphons have you known?" I ask, watching as he selects several vials.
"Not many." He places the vials on a small table, uncorking each with practiced ease. "You are a rare breed. And little wonder—few practitioners these days are well-versed in the proper care and keeping of a siphon."
I bristle at his wording. "I'm not a pet."
He chuckles, the sound surprisingly warm considering he's like winter personified. "No, little witch. You are something far more rare and valuable than that."
He combines liquids from three different vials into a crystal tumbler, then adds an amber fluid from a decanter. The mixture swirls, changing color from deep purple to electric blue before settling into a soft gold. He offers it to me.
"This should help," he says with a slight smile.
