Read Online Right Hand Magic by Nancy A. Collins - Free Book Online
Authors: Nancy A. Collins
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nipples were standing so erect they looked like little pink pencil erasers.
“Same here,” Hexe laughed, returning my nod.
I glanced down and noticed my own chest made it look like I was trying to smuggle candy corn out of the country, two at a time. I quickly crossed my arms over my breasts. I wanted to say something clever and flirty, but I decided trying to sound like James Bond wasn’t the smartest move—especially if I ended up coming off more like Roger Moore than Sean Connery.
As we headed out of the maze, I fixed Hexe with a curious look. “How did you know I was in trouble? And how did you know where to find me?”
“It’s simple, really,” he replied. “Phoebe told me.”
“Phoebe?” I frowned. “Who’s she?”
Hexe pointed to the sycamore that stood in the far corner of the garden, overlooking the hedge maze. In its uppermost branches, which were too frail to support anything but the slightest of sparrows, crouched a young woman.
The hamadryad was incredibly beautiful, by human definitions, with long hair the color of grass and large, gray-green eyes. She wore a simple shift made of stitched sycamore leaves, and her exposed skin blended in with the bark of the tree. I lifted a hand in greeting to the nymph, who smiled shyly and waved back.
Hexe spent the walk back to the house reassuring me that the were-cat in the spare bedroom down the hall from me was in no way a danger. I told him that I believed him and trusted in his ability to keep things under control.
I then returned to my room, changed out of my dew-soaked clothes into something drier, and pushed the armoire in front of my door. Then I went back to bed.
It had been a long first day in Golgotham.
Chapter 8
I woke up the next day feeling as though someone had been using me for batting practice. I staggered to the bathroom at the end of the hall and took a shower in the cast-iron lion-footed tub. I’m not sure which woke me up more, the brisk shower or the stinging of my scratches. After changing into clean clothes, I headed downstairs in search of coffee. I found Hexe at work in the kitchen.
“Good morning.” He smiled as he dropped three cinnamon sticks and six cloves into the saucepan sitting on the front burner. “Or, should I say good afternoon?”
I glanced up at the electric clock hanging over the stove—a quarter past twelve.
“Crap. I didn’t mean to sleep this late.”
“You were up late,” Hexe said with a shrug as he added a large lump of brown sugar to the pan. “And you had something of a rough night.”
“That’s an understatement,” I grunted. “By the way—I thought were-cats came out only during the full moon?”
“You’re thinking of werewolves,” he replied as he broke off a chunk of Baker’s Chocolate and added it to the mix. “The bastet can shape-shift anytime they like. So can werewolves, for that matter. That full moon stuff is just in movies.”
“So why did this one attack me?”
“That’s something I’m hoping to find out,” he said, stirring the melting chocolate with a wooden spoon.
I didn’t know what he was concocting, but it smelled yummy. My curiosity got the better of me. “What’s that you’re making?”
“You could call it a restorative,” he laughed as he poured coarsely ground coffee into the saucepan. “The Aztec king, Montezuma, would drink a version of this every night, before visiting his harem. The Mayan priests made theirs with vanilla beans, honey, and chile peppers. ...” He retrieved a mug from a nearby cabinet that had WITCHES’ BREW printed on it in a comical font and set it on the kitchen counter.
“Who’s it for? One of your clients?”
Hexe lifted the saucepan frOM the burner and poured the steaming contents through a small steel mesh sieve into the waiting mug. “No, it’s for you,” he replied. “I knew you were up because I heard the shower running, and I figured you’d be in the mood for a pick-me-up after last night.
“Same here,” Hexe laughed, returning my nod.
I glanced down and noticed my own chest made it look like I was trying to smuggle candy corn out of the country, two at a time. I quickly crossed my arms over my breasts. I wanted to say something clever and flirty, but I decided trying to sound like James Bond wasn’t the smartest move—especially if I ended up coming off more like Roger Moore than Sean Connery.
As we headed out of the maze, I fixed Hexe with a curious look. “How did you know I was in trouble? And how did you know where to find me?”
“It’s simple, really,” he replied. “Phoebe told me.”
“Phoebe?” I frowned. “Who’s she?”
Hexe pointed to the sycamore that stood in the far corner of the garden, overlooking the hedge maze. In its uppermost branches, which were too frail to support anything but the slightest of sparrows, crouched a young woman.
The hamadryad was incredibly beautiful, by human definitions, with long hair the color of grass and large, gray-green eyes. She wore a simple shift made of stitched sycamore leaves, and her exposed skin blended in with the bark of the tree. I lifted a hand in greeting to the nymph, who smiled shyly and waved back.
Hexe spent the walk back to the house reassuring me that the were-cat in the spare bedroom down the hall from me was in no way a danger. I told him that I believed him and trusted in his ability to keep things under control.
I then returned to my room, changed out of my dew-soaked clothes into something drier, and pushed the armoire in front of my door. Then I went back to bed.
It had been a long first day in Golgotham.
Chapter 8
I woke up the next day feeling as though someone had been using me for batting practice. I staggered to the bathroom at the end of the hall and took a shower in the cast-iron lion-footed tub. I’m not sure which woke me up more, the brisk shower or the stinging of my scratches. After changing into clean clothes, I headed downstairs in search of coffee. I found Hexe at work in the kitchen.
“Good morning.” He smiled as he dropped three cinnamon sticks and six cloves into the saucepan sitting on the front burner. “Or, should I say good afternoon?”
I glanced up at the electric clock hanging over the stove—a quarter past twelve.
“Crap. I didn’t mean to sleep this late.”
“You were up late,” Hexe said with a shrug as he added a large lump of brown sugar to the pan. “And you had something of a rough night.”
“That’s an understatement,” I grunted. “By the way—I thought were-cats came out only during the full moon?”
“You’re thinking of werewolves,” he replied as he broke off a chunk of Baker’s Chocolate and added it to the mix. “The bastet can shape-shift anytime they like. So can werewolves, for that matter. That full moon stuff is just in movies.”
“So why did this one attack me?”
“That’s something I’m hoping to find out,” he said, stirring the melting chocolate with a wooden spoon.
I didn’t know what he was concocting, but it smelled yummy. My curiosity got the better of me. “What’s that you’re making?”
“You could call it a restorative,” he laughed as he poured coarsely ground coffee into the saucepan. “The Aztec king, Montezuma, would drink a version of this every night, before visiting his harem. The Mayan priests made theirs with vanilla beans, honey, and chile peppers. ...” He retrieved a mug from a nearby cabinet that had WITCHES’ BREW printed on it in a comical font and set it on the kitchen counter.
“Who’s it for? One of your clients?”
Hexe lifted the saucepan frOM the burner and poured the steaming contents through a small steel mesh sieve into the waiting mug. “No, it’s for you,” he replied. “I knew you were up because I heard the shower running, and I figured you’d be in the mood for a pick-me-up after last night.
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