What the Hex (Hex #2)(7)
Author: Jessica Clare

 

For some reason, I feel like this Willem might be a kindred spirit. Maybe he’s like me, and he believes in following the rules and just got pushed into breaking them this one time, and he got caught. Now he’s stuck doing embarrassingly small castings because he doesn’t have an apprentice. For a warlock used to working on bigger spells, that must be hell. My heart is full of sympathy, and hearing this decides me. “When can I start?”

 

 

 

 

 

4

 

 

 

 

 

WILLEM

 

 

I’m glad the Zoom meeting I’m on is a view from just the waist up. Above the waist, I look impeccable. My deep green Dolce & Gabbana suit jacket looks excellent on camera, my crisp shirt and narrow black tie a good, solid contrast, and there’s not a hair askew on my head. I look calm and poised, a row of books artfully lined up on the office shelf behind me to give my background a distinguished air.

 

Under my desk, however, my foot won’t stop twitching. My leg jiggles incessantly as I wait for Felix Atticus to make a decision. To spit out the answers I need. This could be the break I need, the inroad back to the higher echelons of warlock society.

 

When Atticus remains silent, I take the bait and speak first. “You know I’m the best one for the position. I want it. It should be mine.”

 

“It should be, yes,” Atticus says in an austere voice, his lined face tight with displeasure. “It’s a shame you’re tied up with a small business at the moment.”

 

“The people you’re hiring now aren’t nearly as qualified as I am,” I practically snarl. “We’ve had an excellent business relationship for over a century. I don’t understand your hesitation.”

 

Atticus peers down at me over his wire-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t need them—he could easily cast a spell to enhance his eyesight—so I have to assume they’re for appearances only. “I’m afraid that the job is a demanding one. My oil contacts will need regular dowsing spells, market cursing, scrying upon competitors, the works. The pay and prestige will be excellent, but I’m afraid it will also be impossible for someone with your limited capabilities, Sauer.”

 

“Limited?” I sputter, indignant.

 

“Limited,” Atticus agrees. “What’s on your casting roster this week? Prove me wrong.”

 

I’m silent, my mouth flat with tension. My hands are clenched tight in front of me on the desk, and it’s either that or I’ll start punching holes into the wall behind me. It’s a blatant slap in the face. Atticus knows that without an apprentice to channel power through, I have to cast small enough spells that I’m only slightly drained. I don’t have any fucking clients. I’m busy trying to keep my head above water as it is. Instead, I point out the obvious. “I only have ten years left on my ban.”

 

“Then talk to me in ten years,” Atticus says. He terminates the call, and I’m left staring at a black screen.

 

Furious, I get up from my desk and start pacing. I hate this. I hate that I’m trapped in this ridiculous limbo state. I hate that I’ve been hobbled and neutered by my inability to procure a familiar to act as my power supply. I don’t need the money. At 270 years old, I’ve got millions stashed away. It’s the thrill of casting that makes my blood sing. The rise of power between my hands as I call on the gods. The ecstatic sensation of a spell’s aftermath. Gods, I miss casting. Not the piddly shit I’ve been stuck with for the last twenty-odd years. Real casting. Real warlock business.

 

Not locating missing cats or predicting bingo numbers for the few patrons I have left.

 

And Atticus has the perfect corporate warlock job, and I can’t even throw my hat into the ring. With a fit of rage, I grab my tablet off my desk and fling it against the wall. It makes an unsatisfying thud and crashes to the ground, leaving a black mark on the pristine gray wall. Well now, that’s just irritating.

 

I huff and storm across the room to pick up the tablet. Sure enough, the screen is broken. Even Fortuna, the goddess of luck, isn’t smiling on me today. Scowling down at the shattered display, I see a window has popped up. I click on it—at least that still works—and a distorted view of a text message opens.

 

B. MAGNUS: Remember that thing you asked me about? I found you one.

 

B. MAGNUS: If today is not a problem, I can have her come by.

 

 

 

By.

 

All.

 

The.

 

Gods.

 

Ben Magnus, that moody, arrogant son of a bitch, has found me a familiar. I take back every bitter word I’ve ever said about my rival-slash-frenemy. He’s found a familiar willing to work outside of the rules set down by the Society of Familiars and the Society of Warlocks both. It’s a big risk. If we get caught, we’ll both be expelled and forbidden from casting.

 

That someone is willing to take such a risk thrills me. I quickly type in my address and then rush into my laboratory, pulling out an offering bowl. I toss a sprig of herbs down to Janus, since he must always be given an offering first. Then I slice my finger and drip blood into the tiny silver bowl, pulling out my wallet. “Thank you, Fortuna,” I say, unfolding a couple of hundred-dollar bills and then using a lighter to burn them. As the ashes drift into the offering bowl, I murmur a prayer of thanks to the goddess, in case she’s watching over me after all. I burn another hundred-dollar bill for Abundantia, the goddess of prosperity. Then, because the other gods are jealous and capricious, I do a general offering of incense, followed by another sprig to Vesta to close out the ceremony.

 

The gods haven’t forgotten me. Magic itches and wells up under my skin, the need to cast almost orgasmic.

 

I’m ready.

 

This familiar had better be ready to cast, because I’m going to put her through the wringer, as the mortals say. I’ve got more than twenty years of puny spells to make up for. I’m going to make Stoker suffer. I no longer have to be on the defensive at all times.

 

I can be back in the game.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

A few hours later, I’ve sent home the cleaning staff early and I sit in my office, drumming my fingers on my desk as I wait for the apprentice to show up. I’ve been told that her name is Penny Roundtree (such a bourgeois name, but not entirely unexpected) and that she will be by before seven tonight. I set out a bottle of the finest white wine in my cellar, display the charcuterie board that my cook arranged for my guest, and change into a more sedate navy-blue jacket and slacks.