Black Arts, White Craft (Black Hat Bureau 2)
Granted, I loved gore when I was a teen too, but the blood I spilled hadn’t been corn syrup and red dye.
A high-pitched buzzing noise whizzed past my ear, and I swatted at it. “Stupid mosquitos.”
A wide palm hit the small of my back and knocked me to the ground as more pests dive-bombed me.
“Not bug,” the daemon rumbled from behind me, having claimed Asa’s skin. “Bullet.”
“A bullet?” I reached down to retrieve my wand. “Clay, you hear that?”
“Yeah.” He crouched, hand on my shoulder. “Stay down, Rue.”
“I’m not going to eat dirt while you two square off against whoever’s out there.”
An oily sensation spilled across my skin, a greasy film that coated the air I breathed, sticking in my lungs.
“Black witch,” the daemon told me, confirming what I sensed as the presence of dark arts. “Bullet hurt.”
“What?” I whipped my head toward him to find dark blood trickling down his torso. “You’ve been shot?”
A low voice rustled through the leaves overhead, carried to us by magic. “Give me the book.”
“Book?” Bile splashed the back of my throat as my mind turned toward the grimoire. “The only book I’ve got with me has a library stamp on the inside flap. I would show you, but I don’t have it on me.” I was an old pro at lying with truth. “Also? I’m not going down the mountain without it. You’ll have to fight for it.”
Ms. Agnes, our librarian and book club organizer, would ban me for life if I didn’t return it on time.
Sure, I could buy my own copies, but where was the fun in that? I needed that bond of community, as all witches did. Plus, I got a cheap thrill when I beat the other women to the sign-up sheet for new releases.
Top of the list, baby.
“Give me the book,” she demanded, her voice cold and stark, “and I’ll let you live.”
“You’ll have to be a smidge less vague.” I pushed up, but the daemon kept me pinned. “How about you put away the gun, and we’ll talk like civilized witches?”
What kind of sad excuse for a witch shot people? With bullets? In a gun? It was so…mundane.
How embarrassing would it be to die that way? No self-respecting para would put it on their headstone.
“How about I kill you,” she countered, “then help myself to the book after your wards die with you?”
This witch had been to the cabin, scoping it out, scoping us out, far too close to Colby for my comfort.
“No,” the daemon roared, straightening to his full height, making himself an easy target. “No hurt Rue.”
“Get back down here.” I grabbed his ankle, but he slipped through my fingers. “Asa.”