Kevin Hearne - Hexed

I heard police sirens wailing somewhere nearby and wondered if Granuaile had called them. As we scrutinized one another, looking for an opening, a weakness opened up behind me. “Atticus? Is that yer naked bum what I’m lookin’ at?” the widow called from her porch.

With a word they could have killed her, that same brief curse in German that they had used against me three times now. There was nothing I could do to prevent them. They would process it in another second and see how they could hurt me. So I had to distract them.

A clump of the blond witch’s hair was lying on the asphalt where it had fallen from my feet, just to my right. I dove for it, snatched it up, and strung the strands across my mouth lengthwise, as if they were a gag. Then I used the last of my magic to transform myself to a hound and bounded south down Roosevelt, back toward my house.

The witches shouted in dismay and gave chase immediately, the widow forgotten—if she’d even registered on their consciousness at all. If I reached my house, my wards would protect me utterly, and they could not allow that to happen.

I tumbled messily in the street as my amulet punched me twice in quick succession, but I scrambled to my feet and veered across to the houses on the west side, where I could weave in and out of the landscaping and draw more power as I ran. I was careful not to swallow or do anything else to dislodge the hairs resting between my jaws.

Though I was quickly outpacing the witches, I wasn’t going anything near full speed. I wanted them to chase me rather than pay attention to the widow. And I was beginning to wonder if they had anything else in their repertoire besides the single curse they’d been spitting at me. Some witches are bloody terrors if they have the time for ritual but are limited in what they can do in face-to-face combat; other witches are amazing in combat but lack the discipline or magical chops to do anything complicated when you sit them down in a circle and tell them to go to’t. Lots of European witches are of the former type: Give them time and the proper ingredients, and they could open some ungodly cans of whup-ass. Rarely were they prepared for personal fisticuffs—or for chasing a shape-shifting Druid. I was just reflecting that I still didn’t know much about the abilities of Malina’s coven and that Laksha was the only witch I currently knew who was as dangerous in your face as she was with a drop of your blood, when the Germans chasing me tried something new. They attempted to remove my necklace with a spell, recognizing perhaps that it was protecting me from the full force of their death spell.

It felt like I was a steer being wrestled to the ground. My necklace choked and pulled at me in response to the witches’ summons.

It wasn’t going anywhere. It was bound to me and wouldn’t come off without being removed with my own hands—and right now all I had were paws. But the witches were encouraged. They hadn’t been able to do me any real harm, but they were consistently able to knock me off my feet in one way or another, and they were getting closer. Drawing some power from the earth of the lawn I’d slid on and bracing myself for further abuse from my necklace, I gathered my feet underneath me and leapt forward again, widening the gap. I wanted to pant but couldn’t risk losing the witch’s hair; it was the only reason they still pursued me.

They were cursing their fashion sense in German, one observing that their boots weren’t made for running but they’d had to do an awful lot of it this morning. The other said the running wouldn’t be necessary if people would just die like they were supposed to.

They were pretty shagged out by the time they fetched up to my house, but I was completely refreshed and recharged. The sirens nearby stopped, but they sounded only a few blocks away, up near University Drive and a bit to the east.

Granuaile had locked my door, as expected. I almost changed back to human form and knocked on the door, but just in time I remembered Oberon saying Mr. Semerdjian was back. I glanced over my shoulder and, sure enough, the telltale gap in the blinds told me he was watching. If I changed now, he’d report me for indecent exposure and whatever else he could dream up. Instead, I scratched at the door with my paws and called to Oberon, as the witches huffed and puffed and swore they’d snuff me for tearing out some of their hair and making the rest of it wilt.

Oberon was looking out the front window at the witches on the edge of my lawn and growling as I heard Granuaile coming to the door.

No, we have a witness. Must behave .

If they step on the lawn they’ll trigger the wards, and I think they know it .

Granuaile opened the door, and I bolted to the kitchen as she closed it and locked it up.

“Atticus? What’s going on?” She peered out the window. “Where did the porn stars come from?”

I unbound myself from the hound form and gagged a bit as I spat the witch’s hair onto the kitchen table. The third amulet the Morrigan had given me was there, and I snatched it up as I said, “The porn stars are witches, and they tried to kill us. Stay inside until I come back.”

“You’re leaving again? The phone’s been ringing off the hook, but I haven’t been answering it.”

“The widow’s in danger and I have to protect her. Keep ignoring the phone and stay inside,” I said as I headed for the back door.

“All right, but are you okay? Your skin looks like hamburger,” she said, noting where I’d had my unhappy landing on the street.

“I’ll heal.” The phone started to ring, true to Granuaile’s word. “Don’t worry, I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay, sensei,” she said. “Nice ass,” she added as I closed the door behind me. It was a comment I’d have to enjoy later. I tossed the amulet into a patch of grass, drew power, and changed form again into an owl. I hadn’t shape-shifted this much in ages, and it was starting to hurt. I collected the amulet in my talons and pounded the air until I cleared my neighbor’s fence, keeping below the rooftops so the witches wouldn’t see me. I hoped they’d be stupid enough to test my wards or at least waste their time shouting at my house.

The hope was short-lived. I cast camouflage on myself while in the air, and when I had to cross my street to head north to the widow’s house, I saw the witches already chugging back toward Roosevelt, grimly frustrated and looking for someone to take it out on.

I landed on the widow’s porch, screeching to get her attention, and her eyes widened. I unbound myself and remembered to cover my goodies just in time. The widow smiled widely and cackled.

“Whoo-hoo, Atticus, have ye come to give me a show? I think I have a couple of dollars in me purse inside.”

Crouching down carefully to pick up the amulet off her porch, I said, “Yes, let’s get inside quickly, please.” I had to get her out of sight before the witches got there.

“It’s open—get yer naked bum in there.” I dashed indoors, asking her to please hurry, and I darted to her bathroom and yanked a towel hanging from the shower stall to wrap around my hips.

“Aw, why’d ye put away yer twig and berries?” the widow teased when I emerged. “I thought ye were goin’ t’give me somethin’ to confess on Sunday.”

“We need to lock up the house,” I explained. “We’re in danger. Witches are on their way. Do you have a necklace you can put this on?” I showed her the amulet. The widow had lived through the Troubles in Ireland. She knew by my tone that there wasn’t time to ask questions.