Hex on the Beach

by Melissa Marr

  So, I stalled.

  I pondered it constantly, though.

  The door downstairs opened, which meant Eli was here. No one else could enter. Not surprisingly, the home of the one and only fae prince was fairly secure.

  I topped off my drink, pouring mead and blood into my glass in equal measures. Think alcohol smoothie. Add a generous splash of blood, and that was my diet. My metabolism was high—and weird. Alcohol fueled me, but I wasn’t intoxicated by it. I was basically a fanged hummingbird.

  “Bonbon?” Eli paused, frowning at me. “Has something happened?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you unwell?”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you planning on explaining or saying ‘nope’ at me until I guess?” He came to the table, took my hand and pulled me to my feet. “Maudlin?”

  “I’m sick of my magical depletion,” I admitted as I stared at the only person not yet frustrated with my moods lately. “I want to do things. I can’t raise the dead, and—”

  “You brought a man back to life, Geneviève.”

  “A bad man.”

  “Iggy hasn’t done anything troubling.” Eli wrapped his arms around me.

  “Yet,” I muttered.

  “Perhaps you need a get-away. Something to let you relax so your magic can resettle.”

  “I feel useless. To do basic things, I need to borrow your—”

  “Our,” he corrected. “Our magic.”

  “Our magic,” I repeated, after a scowl. “Fine. Fine. I can work, but . . .” I glanced up at my husband’s very emotionless expression.

  “You are working, then?” he prompted.

  “Yes.” I moved out of his embrace.

  “But you must rely on me to do so, and that is frustrating after being self-reliant since as long as you can recall,” Eli explained my work anxiety calmly and succinctly.

  I smacked his chest lightly. “Yes, damn it. I feel weak.”

  “You have faced Death more times than anyone I know, and each time Death runs away like a frightened dog.” He caught my chin in his hand and tipped my face up, so I was looking at him before continuing, “You are not weak, Geneviève. You are trying to refill your magical core after managing a god-like feat. You ought to relax rather than trying to force it.”

  I was about to agree that he had a point.

  Then he added, “But you are an absolutely horrible patient, with the serenity of a child who ate a bowl of straight sugar.”

  “Hey!”

  “Am I wrong?” Eli stared at me with the same arrogance that had made him alluring to me when we first met years ago. He was not lacking in confidence.

  I deflated. “No.”

  “So, let us ponder options.” Eli walked away, heading into his—our—living area. I could ignore the invitation or follow. He’d offered me the control.

  And I was reminded for the two million six hundred and eighth time that Eli really was perfect for me. It apparently took the patience of a faery to worm his way into my heart and to live with me.

  I followed him, marveling over the wonder that he wanted me despite my catalogable list of complications. Not that he was without difficulty. He came with a damned throne, longevity, and traditions I barely understood most of the time.

  We compromised a lot.

  He’d added a fight dummy to the far side of the living room when we got married. To most people, it probably wouldn’t seem like a romantic gesture, but I like hitting things. My own apartment had most of the space dedicated to fighting, but now that we were bonded, I preferred to sleep here at least half of the time.

  I touched the dummy, Harper, on the way past. Yes, I name all my fight dummies. Elvis, Bruce, and Doris were my first three, and I’d considered each of their names at length. I liked Doris the best for punching. She was on a wheeled mount so she “flinched.”

  “I have taken the liberty of giving Christy a long weekend off either this week or next,” Eli said as I sat next to him on the sofa. It sounded like a non sequitur.

  “Okaaaay . . .” I wasn’t sure why he’d given his bar manager, who was one of my closest friends, the weekend off.

  “I have also taken the liberty of asking Sera if she would be free. Her schedule is more complicated, but—”

  “I’m going to need more details, Eli. What does any of this have to do with anything?” I interrupted.

  He held out a shiny laminated card proclaiming me fae royalty. I’d seen his diplomatic card, but this one was mine. My name. My passport.

  “You are the future queen of Elphame, Geneviève. You have a diplomatic passport. No questions. No temperature checks.”

  “I . . .” I blinked at him, too stunned to process. I’d never really been able to travel far or often. Sure, there were cities that were exceptions, but there were a lot more cities that were forbidden to draugr. Those were where I wanted to be, cities where I could truly relax. No dead folk to behead. No pressure to patrol. Any gate checks for such cities could expose me, and after my recent injection of draugr venom I was sure I’d fail. I had failed when we tried to go to Houston. If not for Eli pulling his own diplomatic passport, we would’ve been turned away.

  And the fact that there was a draugr with a heartbeat? That was the sort of thing that made international news. The reality was that being one of a kind was dangerous.

  “There were not insignificant delays.” Eli’s voice hid an edge that made me realize that he’d been angrier about those delays than he typically got about anything. “But the matter has been resolved.”

  I clutched the card, staring at it and marveling. I stared at him. “I can travel.”

  He nodded.

  “Holy goat milk! I can travel.” I hugged Eli. “For real, travel to places.”

  “Yes.” He smiled possibly because it had been a minute since he’d seen me quite this excited about anything that involved both of us wearing clothes.

  Eli lifted a thick manilla folder from the side table. “Alice has been researching, and she will be available this weekend.”

  He slid the folder toward me.

  The last time my assistant had researched a trip, I ended up owning far too much frilly lingerie and accidentally marrying Eli. I had no regrets, but sometimes I thought Alice Chaddock had a magical chaos magnet in her body somewhere.

  Tentatively, I opened the folder. “Houston?” was written in Ally’s handwriting across the top of a print-out of stapled pages. I lifted the sheath of pages. Underneath was “Prague? Probably too far.” A fanged frownie face was drawn there. Several other packets were under those two.

  “Alice researched options for a ‘Girls Weekend,’” Eli said, wincing a bit at the term.

  I was across the slight distance between us and in his arms in the next moment. My husband, my perfect faery prince of a spouse, had put the wheels in motion so I could go away with my friends.

  “You are the absolute best,” I announced before setting out to prove that truth.

  Chapter Three

  Later that evening I curled up with the travel options. Prague was, regrettably, too far. I’d seen so many pictures and videos of the Czech Republic that I desperately wanted to visit. And Edinburgh. And Amsterdam. And Berlin. So many places, and suddenly I was allowed to go to places that my genetics had forbidden for my whole life.

  After narrowing in on three options—beach, beach, or beach—I decided it was time to get outside opinions. I called Allie, Sera, and Christy for a meeting.

  Since Christy was visiting her boyfriend Jesse at work at Tomes and Tea, the bookstore I part-owned despite refusing to cash any of my checks, we agreed to meet there. Since the bookshop was in Gentilly, a good five miles away, I texted Allie and asked her to pick up Sera. Jesse was my oldest, dearest friend, but this was a designated Girls’ Weekend, so we’d be leaving him behind.

  I set out on a jog through the city--not that I wanted to jog but I was developing a fear that my draugr speed would vanish, too.

/>   Maybe it was silly, but then again, my necromancy’s absence had seemed impossible before now, too, and yet here I was, unable to raise even a dead rat. My sudden limits had me anxious in ways I couldn’t explain. So, I’d started running a few times a week. It’s not like it would hurt me to get regular exercise that had nothing to do with weapons.

  I fucking hated running, but the part that no one talks about with physical jobs—and beheading the dead was often an exceedingly physical job—was that you had to keep in shape. Not like boxing movie training montages, but everything from push-ups to jogging, yoga to canoeing. Lots of muscles meant that a varied workout was important.

  With my magic on the fritz, I was pouring that frustration into exercise.

  I paused along the sidewalk for a long pull of vodka with frozen blood cubes from my water bottle. Hydration was extra essential. My diet was almost fully liquid. I could—and did—eat solid food, but it wasn’t, strictly speaking, necessary. I used to live on liquor and smoothies, but lately my liquid diet included blood, too. It made me feel gross if I thought about it, but if I ignored that element of my nutritional needs, my stomach cramped, my reflexes slowed, and my general well-being suffered. Draugr, although once thought to be nothing more than Icelandic folklore, were blood-drinkers. They sustained their organs with the blood of the living, which meant that I, despite being alive, had started to need fresh blood. It was as gross as it sounded, but I had no choice.

  So, there were little heart-shaped, frozen blood cubes in my vodka.

  Thankfully, I hadn’t started sweating or weeping blood like some bad film. However, I did sweat enough tonight that I smelled like I’d been on a bender, but this was New Orleans. Even after the draugr were revealed, we were clutching our Sazeracs and Hurricanes on Bourbon Street. Nothing stopped the party that was life in the Crescent City, not even the appearance of the again-walkers. Booze might not literally be the lifeblood of the city, but it was as essential to our locals and our tourists as the history and music that made New Orleans a glimmering light in the world.

  Inside Tomes and Tea, business was still hopping. I was pleased to see little group of readers, including the new start-up “book club with car service” I’d proposed last month. People, locals mostly, were less inclined to go out after hours because of the draugr, but Jesse’s bar was a “no draugr territory”—under penalty of death—thanks to a little discussion with my dear dead grandmother, Beatrice. We’d sort of reconnected. Although she was one of the dead creatures I hunted, she was also my ancestor, and she was eager to make me happy.

  Ergo, my bestie’s bookstore was a secure place for humans.

  Once I knew the shop was a safe space, I’d proposed that Jesse start a night owl’s bookclub. It was an opportunity for New Orleanians who were pretty much locked in from dusk till dawn to go out somewhere that was guaranteed safe. From the looks of it, the club was already larger than we’d initially dreamed.

  When I walked toward the stairs to go up to Jesse’s private space, I paused.

  Jesse had the frustrated expression everyone who has ever worked in a shop has worn at least a few times. Next to him was an older man pointing at one of the books in the containment boxes.

  Jesse had a tight expression. “As I said, that isn’t currently available for sale. They’re more decorative—”

  “Do you have any idea what that decoration is worth?” the older man interrupted.

  “Since I’m the one who purchased it, I do, in fact,” Jesse said.

  “Name a price.”

  “It’s not for sale.” Jesse stressed each word, attempting to sound more intimidating that he was. Although Jesse was the sort of man who looked like he wasn’t afraid of much—muscles, deep eyes, dark skin, assorted tattoos—he was kind to a fault.

  I strolled up with the confidence that came of too much comfort with weapons and magic. A quick glance at the book clarified exactly what I needed to know. The tome in question was one darker than Jesse ought to ever touch, so I’d paid for it when it came to the store. I didn’t use it, but it was, technically, mine. Being mine didn’t mean I wanted the book in my house. Some books ought to be kept in magic-proof cases. This was one of them.

  “Mr. Woods is trying to buy a book that’s not for sale, sis,” Jesse said as he moved back.

  Calling me “sis” casually was our way of saying “step in.” I’d started it, calling him “little brother” when I wanted him to get out of the way, and “big brother” when I wanted him to chase off a guy who was obnoxious. It was also accurate in all ways that matter. Jesse was family in all ways but blood.

  “I believe my little brother has already answered you.” I smiled at Jesse as he walked away. Then, I turned to the man. “We aren’t interested in selling this book.”

  “We?”

  “It’s my store, too.” I smiled again, colder now as I was feeling both irritated at the reality that the customer was, in fact, not always right and because this one was screwing up my good mood.

  “Perhaps you’ll see reason, Miss . . .” The man extended his hand like we should shake.

  “Crowe.” I ignored the outstretched hand. Magic sometimes required touch, and I wasn’t in the habit of making that easier for any potential enemies.

  I felt tendrils of inquiry, magical questions brush against me, and it irritated me. My own magic was still sleepy, but I felt it stirring in defense. To him, though, I seemed weak.

  Slowly and purposefully, I drew a dagger that was almost long enough to be a single-handed sword. At the same time, I used my absolute best customer service voice and said, “Mr. Woods, I am a necromancer. I freelance for NOPD and the queen of the draugr in this region. Do you really want to provoke me?”

  He pivoted and left without a word.

  From behind me, I heard, “You’re sort of scary, boss.”

  Alice Chaddock—thirty, beautiful, and dressed to stun--stood there with a flat of coffee cups from Sera’s place. Next to her was Sera. Both were curvy redheads, although Sera was deep rich red and Allie had that just-set-fire red. Honestly, they looked like they could be related. The difference was that Allie was always ready to pull up a chair and have popcorn when I was in a situation, and Sera gave me that look that said she’d seriously been pondering shoving my ass into a tower in a remote forest because she just wanted a break from worrying about me. My near-death event before the holidays had rattled my friends a lot. Okay. So had my brush with death during the holidays.

  And it was quite possible that I’d caused a bit of anxiety with my recent necromantic event where I raised an ancient cemetery and brought a dead Hexen back to life. Sera was eying me in ways that made me want to scream. This was me. Who I am. What I chose. It wasn’t like I wanted to die, but I was gifted with skills that made me suited for conflict. I felt obliged to do the proverbial “right thing” even though it stressed out my friends.

  In my defense, none of the near-death things had been planned. I didn’t really like being attacked, stabbed, shot, or other things either. It was just a hazard of being me, and for all that my friends loved me, I think my job was exhaustive to them, too.

  “Christy’s upstairs,” Sera said in that tense “not this again” voice. She nudged us that way. “Time for vacation planning.”

  “Should we relocate that book first?” Allie asked. “He doesn’t seem the giving up sort. Should I call Bea—”

  “Not tonight.” I folded my arms and beamed at Sera, trying to non-verbally let her know everything was just fine. Cheerily, I added, “We are planning a trip. The book can wait for tonight. It’s been here three months. Three more days will be fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Allie prompted.

  I looked at Sera, and decided that whatever else was going on, we all needed that holiday weekend. “Positive. Let’s go.”

  Jesse waved cheerily as the man stomped out the front door, and then he flipped the sign to closed, locked the door, and went back to his night owls book club. />
  “Juice in the fridge, Gen!” he called.

  “I really have the best brother.” I flashed him a smile and left him to debate the merits of the latest read.

  As I headed up to the apartment with Sera and Allie in tow, Allie quietly murmured, “I think we ought to tell Beatrice.”

  I sighed. “Agreed. Just . . . not today.”

  My assistant was a lot on her best of days, but I trusted her instincts. Actually, I trusted all of my friends’ instincts. That was sort of the point, though. True friends, we’ll move-a-body-for-you friends, were the people who filled in the gaps for one another. We were a family of sorts, a misfit-band who might not look like we were all one unit, but when things were stressful, we were a team.

  “Seriously?” Christy’s voice came from the kitchen where she was watching one of the security cameras. “I swear that man could be nice to Satan herself—”

  “Do you mean Beatrice or real Satan?” Allie paused in her texting to ask. “Ohh, is real Satan like real?”

  No one answered in the three seconds that followed so Allie kept going: “Can I get a screen shot from the security cams? I took a few pictures, but Lady B’s assistant . . . I wonder if there’s an official assistant group that--”

  “Allie. Focus.”

  Allie walked up to the monitor in front of Christy and pointed. “Right! So, can I?”

  Christy Zehr was both one of the smartest people I knew, and one of those stunning women that pulled off either intimidating or fade into the background depending on which was needed. The towering Black woman looked down at the diminutive chatterbox in front of her and asked, “Gen?”

  One syllable was all I needed.

  “Alice is coordinating info in case the guy downstairs was a magic worker,” I clarified. Then I looked at Allie. “Please, Allie, do not ask my grandmother if she’s Satan. She might be a dead woman, but she’s a Jew.”