Read Online Right Hand Magic by Nancy A. Collins - Free Book Online Page A

You can add milk to that, if you like. Let it cool down a bit before you drink it, though.”
    I stared at the steaming cup apprehensively. “What does it do?”
    “It wakes you up. It’s coffee,” Hexe replied sarcastically. “Not everything I make is a magic potion, y’know. I got the recipe off the Internet. It’s called Mexican clay-pot coffee. Normally it’s made in a Mexican clay pot, hence the name, but since I didn’t have one handy, I decided to improvise.”
    I blushed. Numped again. It seemed like every time I scored a point with the warlock, I said or did something totally uncool. I felt like I was taking one step back for every two steps forward. Luckily, Hexe didn’t seem to be holding my ignorance against me.
    I took the carton of nonfat milk I’d bought the other day from the fridge and added a dollop to my coffee. The concoction was rich and fragrant, and it shot through my weary system like a jolt of electricity.
    “Mmmm! It’s delicious. Thank you for making this for me. It was very thoughtful of you.”
    “My pleasure.” He smiled. “Oh, by the way—our new houseguest has been asking for you.”
    I nearly choked on my drink. “You mean he can talk ?”
    “Of course he can talk. He’s not feral.”
    “What does he want?” I asked nervously. Hexe might be so used to supernatural creatures that he considered shape-shifters to be no more worrisome than raccoons, but I had seen one too many horror movies to act so blasé.
    “He says he wants to apologize. You really ought to go see him, Tate. He’s quite contrite about the whole thing.”
    The thought of coming face-to-face again with the creature that had pursued me the night before made my head swim. I took another gulp of the coffee, hoping it might fortify me further.
    “That’s . . . nice, I guess. Can’t you just tell him I accept his apology?”
    Hexe shook his head. “He insists on doing it himself. Bastet are very proper, in their own way.”
    “It’s not that I want to be rude. ...” I glanced away, trying to control the ill ease steadily growing inside me. “But don’t you think it’s a little soon? I mean, he tried to murder me only a few hours ago. ...”
    “If you’re going to live in Golgotham, you can’t let one bad experience color your understanding of an individual, much less an entire species. You have nothing to fear, Tate. He’s completely harmless.”
    “Are you sure about that?”
    “Scratch is under orders to bite his head off the second he tries something. Does that make you feel safer?”
    “Yeah, it does, actually,” I conceded. Funny how my earlier apprehension regarding the familiar miraculously disappeared once he saved my life.
     
     
    The were-cat’s recovery room was on the second floor, on the other side of the communal bathroom. The knowledge that my would-be killer was only a few yards away from where I slept did little to soothe my nerves.
    As Hexe opened the door, I steeled myself for the sight of the shape-shifter as I’d last seen him, sitting in bed, propped up on pillows, like a feline version of the Big Bad Wolf after he’d gobbled down Little Red Riding Hood’s granny.
    Instead, what I saw was a teenaged boy, around sixteen years old, dressed in a pair of ill-fitting Star Wars pajamas. The fear and apprehension I had about confronting my attacker face-to-muzzle instantly disappeared.
    I turned and stared at Hexe in disbelief. “You’ve gotta be shitting me—he’s a kid?”
    “You must be Tate,” the teenaged were-cat said, struggling to sit up.
    Scratch, once more in his winged house cat form, was curled up at the foot of the bed. He lifted his head and growled a warning at the shape-shifter.
    “Allow me,” Hexe said, defusing the situation by arranging his patient’s pillows.
    I stepped inside the room and closed the door behind me, unable to take my eyes off the young were-cat. He was lean, with the build of a track star, unruly sand-colored hair and a fairly