Page 1131 of One More Kiss

Hexed in the City

Rachel Rawlings

Chapter1

A witch,a wand maker, and a warlock walk into a bar—not together or entirely in that order. It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke but it was the beginning of a bad night, one I hoped to turn around before things got too far out of hand.

Easier said than done.

Jacob Orly - the wand maker - sat at the end of the bar with slicked back silver hair and a lightweight beige jacket zipped up to the collar of his button-up dress shirt, ordering another round as if he didn't have a care in the world.

Of course, his carefree attitude changed the second he saw me walk in. The moment I entered his peripheral he hopped off his stool and took off for the rear exit, running out on his tab and the warrant for his arrest.

To the untrained eye, Orly seemed like any other unassuming tourist visiting a historic mill town. Short stature and wiry frame—I guessed his weight to be somewhere in the neighborhood of my own hundred and twenty-five pounds. His bland appearance made him seem less threatening.

But Jacob Orly was a dangerous man who pedaled power out of the trunk of his car, selling wands to any average Joe on the black magic market, heavy emphasis on the average.

Trading magical wares to ordinary people was something the Arcane Magical Authority took seriously, putting Jacob Orly near the top of the most wanted list.

A tip came in just as my shift ended. I'd been tracking the wand maker for weeks. Hecate herself couldn't stop me from following up on the lead. Maybe Hecate should try a little harder next time.

I should have followed protocol. I could have turned it over to the practitioner on duty.

Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

I sloshed through oil-slicked puddles, hop-scotched my way over bottles and cans littering the street from overflowing dumpsters, and skirted around a herd of alley cats feasting on scraps that had been tossed out from the noodle shop adjacent to the bar. Orly darted left around a corner and almost gave me the slip.

Almost.

If I'd learned anything in my short time with the AMA, it was that cardio was one of the most important skills an agent could have. It was also a skill I had yet to master. I relied on stealth, stalking my prey like a lion on the Serengeti until I was ready to pounce.

I cut left around the corner in the same direction as my suspect. I was closing in and gaining ground until I got hit with the magical equivalent of a baseball bat to the solar plexus.

Another important lesson I'd yet to learn - never chase down a lead alone.

With less than five years under my belt, I was a rookie by most agent's standards and subject to constant ribbing by my peers. As the daughter of two prominent magical officials, I was considered a rising star bymy supervisors - which led to more ridicule and an overactive desire to prove myself on my merit rather than my last name.

So far, I'd say I was doing a bang-up job. My parents and the department disagreed.

Case in point, I let my suspect get the jump on me. The magical blast knocked the air from my lungs and my head into a dumpster. At least Orly's products work. Confirmation the wands packed a real punch upped the charges against him.

"I love watching you work." A familiar pair of black biker boots that used to share a closet with my Doc Martens stepped into view just as my suspect slipped out of my line of sight.

"Yeah? I thought so. I mean, it was obvious. What with the way you bailed on me and our relationship - all telltale signs of how much you love me and my work."

I tried not to think about the ingredients of the dumpster stew that soaked into my jeans - or Griffin's whiskey-colored eyes that held the same subtle burn as the aged alcohol - and peeled off the greasy burger wrapper that clung to my elbow.

My ex hadn't said anything about lovingme per se but I knew what he meant. With Griffin Wildes, you had to read between the lines.

A skill I'd perfected throughout our relationship.

After a year and a half, it became exhausting and a large part of the reason why our relationship had deteriorated to the point of him skipping out on the rent and transferring to a different precinct.

"I called in the tip, Morgan." That was as close to an apology from Griffin as I was likely to get. He held out a hand and offered to help me up.

I grabbed hold of the upper right corner of the dumpster instead and hoisted myself up off the filthy cement. After I picked a piece of what I hoped was gum from my raven waist length hair, I resumed the chase.

With a glance over my shoulder, I offered as much gratitude as I could muster. "Are you coming or what?"

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