The Problem With Hexes

by Lexi Ostrow

  “Try us. Two powerful casters versus a man hiding behind a mask.”

  Dee, he wished warlocks possessed any measure for telepathic communications because he needed her to stop. She acted out of emotion, and that never ended well for hostages.

  “You are feisty. I can see why you elected to help someone in need. Rest assured, your magic will continue to help others.”

  Jonathon watched a jar, about the size of a glass soda bottle, appear from behind their captor’s back. A baby blue swirled with a darker black and a glimmer danced between the colors.

  A hex.

  Though he couldn’t tell, the direction of the man’s head indicated he continued to look at Deidre. Jonathan needed to get the hex from the man, and before he dropped it.

  Swinging his leg, he attempted to smack it into the man’s ankle and drop him to the floor. All it did was serve to land Jonathon on his ass with a painful thud.

  “Cute.” The man spoke. “You may as well know you were chosen for your apparent disregard for power and lack of fear in the face of power. You will do well with this mission.”

  Ignoring his defeat, Jonathon pushed to stand again as best as he could with one hand cuffed to the furniture. “You’re not killing us, and you’re not holding us for ransom. This is the part of the story where the bad guy spills his evil plans.” Come on, give me something to go on to figure out who you are.

  Waving the glass, the man shut the door behind him and leaned against it, ensuring he remained out of their reach.

  “It is only fair that you understand what you are about to do.” The manipulated voice taunted. “Very well, then. It is time for the city to start fresh. New Orleans is a melting pot – always has been. Unfortunately, people of all races seem ignorant of that. Or perhaps they’ve merely forgotten. It is not my place to speculate why.”

  “But your place to punish?” Deidre snapped.

  “Dee,” Jonathon held up his uncuffed hand. “I need you to stop. Let him talk.” Jonathon didn’t turn to see if he offended her. Right now, at this moment, he was not her friend. He was her protector, and he couldn’t succeed if she continued to speak out. Even if her determination is endearing.

  “Listen to the warlock. You’ll get your answers.” The man pulled let his fingers dance over the cork in the bottle.

  Jonathon tensed. If he unleashed that hex before telling them what it did, they could be in for a world of hurt.

  “My place is to punish because those with the proper power are not doing their jobs. The Council Elects do not make the hard decisions if it means punishing one of their own. The police do their best, but your justice does not align with the needs of those being hunted.”

  Anger boiled his blood. Jonathon didn’t take well to vigilantes. They harmed more than they helped and got in the way. “Go on. Enlighten us. Tell me how I fail to do my job. How I fail to protect the people I’ve sworn to help.”

  “You let them die.”

  Four words slammed into Jonathon with the force of a sledgehammer to his gut. Jonathon shook his head, trying to clear the sentence from his mind. People did die all over New Orleans. They couldn’t be everywhere at once. It was a city with dangers unlike any other due to the high concentration of all Supernaturals.

  “I see you understand my point.” Their captor swirled the hex in the jar. “This is the solution. New Orleans needs a cleanse. Rain washes everything away, and luckily for me, is plentiful in the summer. No one will notice when the hurricane roles through. No one will think it an orchestrated event.”

  He chortled behind the mask, and thanks to the voice box, it sounded eerie and disembodied. Keep him talking. There was no telling how long they’d slept, and the small window only showed that it was daytime. Jonathon had to hope someone noticed one of them missing and initiated a tracking potion. Get more information and delay him dropping whatever the hell is in that bottle.

  “Powerful in your own rights, it’s your ties to those who matter that make you the proper casters. Top warlock on the police force two years running and best friend to the Council Elect. Two perfect specimens. This hex is one of a kind. Brewed specifically for this situation.”

  “Quite expensive, then?” Come on, are you a caster or not?

  “That would be telling, wouldn’t it? I can’t have you figuring out who I am and coming after me. Unfortunately, this hex cannot protect me, only force your hands. One little smash and you’re helpless. You’ll find yourselves tied together – much like your marriage ritual. Your life forces will be linked. You will either drain one another dry during a specified time, or you will enact a freak hurricane that sends New Orleans levees overtopping and burying the city under fifty feet of water.”

  “You’re insane,” Deidre whispered.

  That time, Jonathon turned to see her and was unsurprised to see a look of horror splashed across her face. Green eyes were round with fear, and her lips pursed together in a frown. She didn’t tremble, it wasn’t fear casting such an expression over her face, but horror. Two different sides of a similar coin.

  “I might be, but I also hold all the power. Those who cannot swim, or fly, or hell, climb efficiently, will find themselves drowning. Only those fit to survive will do so. Only those so often persecuted against will thrive.”

  Is it Remy? Gators can swim. No, it must be someone with a vested interest in all shifters except wolves and cats – they were rarely attacked in New Orleans.

  “The casters will join together. We’ll stop this one way or another.” Again, Deidre spoke with all the determination of a woman used to dealing with life or death situations, even though she wasn’t.

  “You see, djinn magic is a useful little element. A little wish here, a little blood infusion there, and your free will is mine to command. Fight against your fate. I encourage it. In fact, I would be disappointed if you didn’t. Either way, the hurricane will come, and the city will suffer. You will die when it’s done. Now, I’m not an awful person, there is one caveat.”

  Jonathon wanted nothing more than to drop the roof on his head. Twisting his left hand, he wished there was a way to break his wrist and slip it free.

  “Inform me you’ll cast the hurricane before your life forces drain each other, and you will merely risk drowning, or being hit by a tree trunk, instead of certain death.” The man opened his hand.

  “No!” Jonathon lunged, ignoring the scream of pain through his left hand as he tried to throw his shoulder out to land under the potion. Jonathon knew the snap of his wrist as it broke from the rapid movement. He could fix it later.

  Nothing fell against his shoulder. The sound of shattering glass mere centimeters from his ear caused his heart to stop beating. With his eyes wide, Jonathon watched as the blue and black smoke swirled together, creating a navy blue.

  “Smash the window!” he shouted to Deidre, praying she realized there was a lamp beside her on the table. He pulled his broken wrist through the cuff.

  “No! If it gets out, who knows how many casters will do his bidding without even knowing.”

  She was correct.

  They had two options. Let the hex take them or die.

  I’m not going to ask her to make that call.

  Even being free did him little good, because if he opened the door to chase after the man, they’d still let the hex out.

  We’ll figure this out. Two people hexed is better than a hundred.

  The swirling ball of dark blue covered the room, dropping down over Deidre. He couldn’t see her.

  “Don’t panic. We’ll get through this.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that.” She choked, likely the hex filling her lungs as the magic took hold.

  Closing his eyes, Jonathon sat and waited. There was nothing more he could do.

  Seven

  The sounds of panic and screams did not ensue as Remy closed the door shut behind him. It did not shock him, though. A cop and a woman willing to step into danger to save another wouldn’t run fleeing f
rom a hex. Not if they thought they could find him and force his hand at stopping it.

  “Such a shame. They really are good people.” Remy pushed the hood down and slipped the mask off his face, dropping them onto the grass as he opened the front door. The illusion potion he’d drenched himself in should the mask have slipped off still remained in place, but it was necessary.

  He’d used a rental property under an alias, and he’d used a potent scent potion. It wouldn’t track back to him no matter how many dogs the police brought by. The cops made a mistake last year when they took down a crime lord, they explained how they did it. Therefore, alerting plenty of other criminals of ways to cover their tracks.

  The hex would come to pass, his congregation’s empty bank account made certain of it. “A bank they’ll never track.”

  A bank none could track. The weregators held cash holdings throughout the bayou. If one didn’t run with the congregation, they didn’t know about the money, never mind where to find.

  Still, letting the hex grant his people, and others like them, the ability to leave in peace was worth the burden. They lived long lives. They would refill the money with time.

  “Not having the threat ensures us all we have the time.” Remy waved at the young couple on the corner walking their black lab. They waved back as if everything were fine.

  Remy didn’t enjoy walking, but the Mid City property didn’t have parking, and he didn’t fancy public transit. People tended to panic when they found out he was a gator. He’d walk the mile or so into the city, and his sister would pick him up.

  “You really saved everyone.” He smirked.

  The purchased hex from the black market should have taken months, if not weeks, to fulfill. Thanks to knowing his way around, it took him days. Days and three-point two million dollars.

  Two quick DNA swabs when the witch and warlock weren’t looking.

  One illusion potion.

  One scent bomb.

  One memory wipe potion big enough for a small congregation once it was all done to protect them.

  One hex to destroy them all.

  In all reality, the hex itself shouldn’t exist. When he’d explained to the witch what he desired, she’d frowned before walking into the back room. She left him standing there for nearly six minutes before returning with a piece of paper in hand.

  The witch could and would brew a multi-faceted hex, but not alone. She ensured him the hex could bind lives together, silence those same lives on specific topics, and have a time stamp trigger for a chain of events. He’d get his hurricane, all the while showing Deidre Jackson and Jonathon Trevors what happens if they attempted to stop the hex in any way. He’d just need to bring in others to complete the hex that she described in detail.

  Remy made peace with the number of deaths he would cause. Deidre and Jonathon would be two more to the list, the hex draining them of their life forces entirely upon completion. Still, he wasn’t destroying an entire race or world. Just the intolerant scrum in his area.

  His people would never be implicated if Remy got caught. Once they’d agreed to his plan, he’d used the memory potion to wipe them clean. All they would know was it was time for a vacation and not to talk to the cops. He alone would go down with the ship if it sank, but he didn’t intend on letting it sink.

  “And how could it?” Remy mused as he waited for the light to flash with the white silhouette, signaling for him to walk. “Everything was thought of. Their lives are tied together. They can’t speak about it to anyone or risk the other person’s death – not that they know that yet.” He chuckled. Some things were best left up to surprise. “Separation isn’t an option. They’ll have multiple chances to cast the hurricane on their own and survive, or they can wait for the clock to strike on each of the predetermined times.”

  No, Remy wasn’t a villain, but with every death of his kind, his ability to emphasize or care about others dwindled away, leading him to his current disposition. His congregation would survive. Others equipped to flee the storm would as well. Every person in the city could be a threat to his kind, though it wasn’t often other shifters attacked. Who knew, the wolves might even be able to outrun the storm.

  One thing was for certain. It was going to be a very wet July and August down in good old New Orleans.

  The taste of burning rubber threatened to pull Jonathon’s late-day breakfast back up.

  Jonathon swallowed, ignoring the disgusting taste as he did. His head spun, not with dizziness, but the simple after-effects of dark magic. One of the main reasons people didn’t deal with black magic wasn’t karma, but the immediate issues that arose.

  He spit on the floor and set his hands on the floor, biting down to stifle a scream as pain shot through his wrist.

  “Broken for sure.” He dug in his pocket, unsure if he’d find a wand since he hadn’t had one on him at home.

  “What’s broken?” Deidre blinked and waved away the last of the navy-blue smoke lingering before her.

  “My wrist.” He felt nothing. “Damn it. Do you have a wand?”

  She scrunched her face. “You think if he planned to trap and hex us, he’d leave me my wand?”

  “Just check. Please. I prefer healing spells be focused, and while my wrist doesn’t hurt me now, I’m going to need both hands to get us out of here. Whoever that is isn’t going to send someone back for us. His people wouldn’t be disposable to him.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I would kill whoever he left.”

  Deidre let her gaze drop as she slipped her hand into her pocket. “Goddess, they didn’t take it.” A small smirk lay on her lips when she lifted her head and waved the wand.

  Leaning forward to grab it, Jonathon hoped he could use her wand. Sometimes they held magic from the caster, and spells went awry. “Diorthósete.”

  A trickle of pale green light streamed from the tip of the wand over his wrist. Despite it not hurting, Jonathon winced as the bones knit back together, and a sliver of pain shot through his arm. Moving to stand beside her, he ignored the nervous tension rolling off Deidre in waves.

  “Xekleídoma.” The wand shot a burst of green magic – her magic – at the lock on her ankle, and the cuffs opened. The one flaw of magical cuffs was that magic undid them. Great for cops, bad in this situation for their captor. “Thanks.” He held the wand out to her, tip pointed toward him to avoid any accidental casting.

  “Are we going after him?” She rubbed her ankle and stood.

  “No. He masked himself, literally and magically. Whoever that was could be anyone and anywhere. It’s safe to assume he had a transport potion as well.”

  “Then we go to Remy. No!” She seemed almost gleeful. “No, we report him. I know it was him. I can prove it.”

  “Right. Remy can give us access to whoever did this.” I’ll skin him and dump him in the bayou for good measure once he talks. The dark thought wasn’t uncommon for Jonathon, but he did his best to let justice be served the legal way – not his way. “Cell phone?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t bring it with me to the cemetery. It seems rude.”

  He nodded. “Okay, first things first. Time to get the hell out of dodge.” He twisted the brass doorknob, and the door swung effortlessly into an open hallway. “Stay behind me. I’ve got a tracker on me, and when I didn’t show up today, it’s likely they activated it. Even so, I don’t want you in the line of fire.”

  “I work for the NOPD, too, Jonathon.” Deidre seemed to hiss but did as he asked.

  “You consult. I work. Stay behind me, and for once don’t act like your damn friends.”

  He crept out into the hall and found boring white walls without a single photo or piece of art. The hall remained narrow as they moved forward toward the front door. A shotgun. Not the West Bank. Not a single sound made it to Jonathon’s ear, and that alone made him nervous. Utter silence could mean the house doubled as a prison.

  The sun is shining through the windows. It’d be pitch black with an isolation spell in p
lace.

  “I think it’s just us,” Deidre leaned against the wall and bumped into him. “Sorry.”

  Jonathon ignored the slight warmth from her shoulder against his arm. “We are.” Touching the doorknob could prove dangerous. He glanced around. The kitchen across the way was clean, but a spatula sat on the counter. “I’m not letting either one of us touch–”

  “All clear.” Deidre stood next to the open front door.

  “Dee,” Jonathon growled, abandoning the walk to the kitchen. “I thought you were the safe one of the trio?”

  She arched a perfectly manicured black brow. “Who said that?”

  “Me.” He stepped out. The streets were quiet, without even a child on a bike, but Jonathon could see into other houses. They were in a run-of-the-mill neighborhood.

  “I’m so glad you see me that way.” Anger sounded behind him.

  Sighing, he turned. Deidre’s eye narrowed to slits, and her arms crossed so high up on her chest they nearly touched her chin.

  “I didn’t say it as an insult. Lita is a daredevil. Ivy has more power than she can control. You’ve always come across as grounded.”

  “You’ve known me for less than a year. A year I’ve done without my husband. If I seem like anything, it should be depressed.” She stepped so close to him their toes touched as electricity buzzed in the surrounding air. “I am not for you to make judgments on.” She whirled and her words were spoken toward the street, not him. “I’m done. You report this. I need a fucking drink.”

  Another man might have stopped Deidre. Jonathon couldn’t care less. She wasn’t his partner. Yes, they had to figure out what happened, but if she needed to cope in a way that wasn’t going straight to the gator, he’d let her off the hook.

  As she retreated, the ground seemed to shift under Jonathon. The earth tilted to the left, and he crashed against one of the porch’s support poles. Queasiness rolled through him out of nowhere. Squeezing his eyes shut, Jonathan continued to lean on the beam to keep him upright.

  “Dee—” Jonathon’s stomach lurched as hot bile, and disgusting chunks of breakfast rushed past his lips. His body leaned forward out of habit, and he missed his shoes by a centimeter. Putrid flavors filled his mouth and the vomiting sent his eyes watering.