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CHAPTER ONE

Corey

Fall’s my favorite time of year, and not just because Halloween is my Christmas. Not to mention Samhain, Dia de los Muertos, All Saint’s Day…. Hell, I’ll even embrace Bonfire Night.

But right now, I was in my element in the crisp autumn night with its lantern moon. My heart gave a happy skip at the depth of shadows over the staircase I needed. Black enough to shield me from the neighbors. The steps led up to the deck with the sliding door where I’d begin my breaking-and-entering adventure into Joe Nevada’s house.

Shhh. Don’t judge.

Joe wasn’t a good dude. Trust me.

He was a huge thorn, not only in my side, but that of Aunt Sue’s Place, the organization where I volunteered with LGBTQ+ youth. How Nevada slept at night after actively keeping unhoused kids from eating and forcing them to sleep on the streets was a mystery to me.

It should not matter if the kids were gay, lesbian, trans, ace, or any other rainbow letter. They were vulnerable, often unsafe at home if they even had one, frequently forced to make terrible choices just to put a roof over their heads, and they deserved better. They deserved full bellies and warm beds.

So yeah, I was breaking into Joe Nevada’s house to do two things—one, find a weakness to exploit and force him to back the fuck off, and two, leave a token of my “affection.”

Hexes were so much fun, and if I do say so myself, one of my greatest witchy talents.

Again, don’t judge. Joe Nevada deserved every nasty thing coming his way.

Was I worried about the Law of Return, which says the energy a practitioner puts into the world, whether positive or negative, returns to them threefold?

Not really. Like any spiritual practice, it’s all interpretation. Technically, technically, a hex on someone is negative energy (and a hex is less troublesome or long-term as a curse). But also, Joe Nevada was negativity personified. From a mathematical perspective, multiply two negatives, they become a positive. By that interpretation, my hex would be a good thing, two negatives canceling each other and balancing the world.

Or at least this corner of Chicago’s queer community. Frankly, that’s all I cared about.

I was righting a wrong. Many wrongs, if we were counting how many vulnerable people he’d hurt. But that raised my blood pressure, and I’d rather take my anger out on him, starting with jimmying the lock on his deck door.

Except, I didn’t have to. Huh.

The sliding door of this pretentious motherfucker’s multi-million dollar house in Lakewood wasn’t completely shut. As though someone closed it too hard and it bounced back an inch.

Bless the person who created sliding doors; they open so quietly. Once inside, I thanked the Goddess responsible for my continuing good fortune. I was prepared for an alarm system, but it didn’t trip. While my inside information for the disarm code was pretty good, there was always a chance it was outdated.

Still, no one was supposed to be here, so why no alarm?

I should’ve left. Staying to finish my plan was possibly the dumbest thing ever.

But you know what they say about curiosity and the cat, and cats are my favorite animals. They’re the perfect combination of dignified, bitchy, and beautiful.

Also, I didn’t know when I’d have another chance to get into Joe’s place.

In the low light spilling from a hallway into the living room, I stopped to listen. I saw what was supposed to be tasteful, minimalist décor, but it really showed off zero personality. Greige, boxy furniture, black accents, and, okay… bored now. Whatever. I wasn’t here to shop for tchotchkes. Still, if someone spilled a frozen daquiri on the furniture during a party, the splash of color would improve the room immensely.

No sounds. I couldn’t tell if I was alone, just surrounded by the kind of silence that hums.

I could still do what I set out to do, probably. Maybe the negligent douchebag hadn’t noticed his deck door was open when he and his wife left for schmoozing his douchebag friends on a Saturday night.

And what, he just… let the alarm not set correctly? Doubtful. Corey, get your head out of your ass.

Whatever. Deeper into the house I went. I’d hit Joe’s office first, have a rummage around, and plant the hex bag, then vamoose. Job done.

Part of my hesitation to leave was the effort I’d made for the hex itself. These things took time, concentration, ingredients, and intention, even if they weren’t as intense as curses.

Hexes were my specialty. My recipes reflected onto the hexed soul the pain they’d caused others. Mr. Nevada would, at least for a time, get firsthand experience with how his lobbying efforts to block funding, string more red tape, hamstring social programs, and being a general oppositional twatface to the LGBTQ+ community resulted in increased problems for unhoused youth.

Joe would be struck by illness, hunger, uncertainty, misery, abandonment, anxiety, and fear. His loved ones would turn their backs on him, and those from whom he sought help would sneer at him like he was gum on their shoe. Whether he’d actually become unhoused, go genuinely hungry, and face real danger… probably not.

A little nightshade, some patchouli, a pinch of black salt, and a malachite stone did quite nicely to concentrate these intentions. A bit of cayenne pepper sped up the process.

The hex bag was tied with a greenish-yellow piece of yarn to sew discord, conflict, strife, and more illness. The yarn’s three knots symbolized the imbalance, obstacles, and challenges good ol’ Joe would face.

Then I sprinkled the whole thing with lavender to cause lack of sleep, more depression and fear, and a miasma of unease. Plus, it made it smell nice. I couldn’t have him finding and destroying it before he was properly put in his place.

When I felt he was worn down enough, challenged enough, abandoned enough, I could swoop in and back him down with whatever sensitive material I was about to unearth about his shady dealings—they all had something to hide.

I’d see to it the people who cared about such things learned of his ugly bits. While he was down, I’d relish extracting promises to leave Aunt Sue’s Place and her kids alone.

This strategy worked often when I needed people to do the right thing. Manipulative? Maybe. But when you’re dealing with the Joe Nevadas of society, you speak their language.

My hexes were powerful but impermanent, and didn’t require reversal.  However, just to be safe, I’d limited this hex’s effects to the target only. His family would be fine. I’m not a monster.

Plus, I’d tied a magical anchor point to the hex. It was at my apartment above my salon in Wicker Park. If something went wrong—and one never knew with spellwork, so I was always cautious—I could immediately put an end to the hex. My magic, my terms.

Creeping down the hall, I pricked an ear for any sounds, and heard very little. There might’ve been a muffled thump upstairs, but even after freezing for several moments, I didn’t hear it again. Still, that didn’t mean it hadn’t happened. I needed to hurry up.

My source for the alarm code had also given me photos of the layout, so I knew right where his office was. Slipping inside, I went right to Joe’s computer, which was password protected.

Password schmassword. When you’re a dickbag to the service people cleaning your home, they don’t have a lot of loyalty, Joey boy.

Using a password the cleaning girl had given me during one of our bitching sessions, I was in and sailing through his file directory in no time. However, I wasn’t there to browse. Luckily, I’d prepared for this. Extracting a 2TB thumb drive from my cargos—ugh, the only time I wore those godforsaken things, but the pockets couldn’t be beat, and my ex told me my ass looked good—I got to copying files and had a scoot around the office.

The bookshelves held pretentious titles I absolutely knew Nevada had never read. Books someone he probably thought made him look smarter, but that he’d never deign to crack open.

Oh.

Huh.

I pulled a couple off the shelves, the ones that appeared in the most pristine condition, their dust jackets without a single crinkle. Were the insides hollowed out? Maybe there were hidden things. Notes, money, whatever.

Shaking the pages produced nothing from the first book. Nothing from the second or third.

The fourth book produced paydirt. A series of printed photographs cascaded to the floor, and I scooped them up. A quick glance showed a balding man in a compromising position on all fours, ball gag in his mouth, leather bondage fist mittens on his hands with puppy paw prints in a contrasting color. There was a tail in a suspicious position, too.

Behind him, holding the leash, was Joe Nevada, decked out in leathers.

“Oh, Joey. What do we have here? Your church friends might clutch pearls.”

I pocketed the photos. This would be enough on its own, so I really needed to finish up. A quick flutter around the room produced an ideal hiding spot for the hex bag. This minimalist decorating style was the bane of my existence, but a man of Nevada’s ego couldn’t resist giving himself a pat on the back wherever possible, which meant trophies.

Of course the guy had peaked in high school, so they were all old. But they were hockey, which meant amid the sticks and pucks, there was one mimicking the Stanley Cup. Into that glorious replica went my hex bag, along with a small incantation.

“Judgment passing, intention true, from the ether and unto you. With pain and grief you so readily give, be returned to where you live. Joe Nevada, feel what you’ve done. Change your ways, bring harm to none. Cease with the pain—”

Overhead, there was a huge thump.

“—and feel right as rain.” I hurriedly finished the hex.

That sound was not my imagination, something innocuous, or a pet jumping from a perch.

A human was upstairs.

I really should get my copy of Nevada’s computer files and get the fuck out of there. Go home, snoop through his shit in the comfort of my bed, sipping a decaf peppermint mocha with a manbun and some menthol masque on my face.

Really, that was the best course of action.

So why in the blue incandescent fuck of a dragon’s scale was I taking the stairs up?

The long hallway’s plush carpeting kept my footfalls silent. There was so little light up here, I might as well have been blindfolded. Of the four doors, one stood open—the bathroom—spilling the faintest glimmer of light, maybe the mirror redirecting moonlight from a window.

Having studied the photos from the cleaning girl, I knew this level was mainly bedrooms. A gruff breath came from behind the door to the primary bedroom. Not something I’d have heard from below, but definitely audible now.

Turn around. That’s confirmation, and it’s enough. Get out.

The door swung open and a man I recognized but couldn’t quite place stood there, completely unsurprised to see me. He propped an elbow on the frame and cocking a hip, so at ease, it’s like he was expecting me.

And my Goddess, he’s hot. I know him… where do I know him from?

“Well. Corey Roberts, isn’t it?” Even his voice rubbed up on familiarity in my mind.

The man’s normally perfectly coiffed brown hair was more mussed than I’d ever seen it—even though I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember where I’d seen it—and his eyes were a warm brown crinkling at the corners with his charming smile. “I’m really glad it’s you.” He straightened and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve run into a bit of….” His hesitation was almost endearing, as though he were sheepish, and he didn’t know how to act because of it.

I got the impression it was an uncommon position for him to be in, and I found my guard dropping as he went on.

“Well, a bit of a snag. Would you mind helping me? I’d really owe you one, and I don’t say thatvery often.” He laughed, a wind-chime of a sound that played havoc with my stomach, which fluttered, and what the hell was that?

Wasn’t he even curious why I was here? What I was doing in Joe Nevada’s house? Uninvited? Wearing all black like… well, like a common thief?

Like my feet had an agenda of their own, I approached the bedroom as though I’d already decided I was helping him with whatever. Damn that laugh, those eye-crinkles, that smile.

“Who are you? I swear I know you, but I can’t remember from where.”

“Oh! Silly of me.” He stuck out his hand, and I immediately noticed his cotton gloves, even as he raised his brows at my nitrile gloves. Seemed we were both up to shadowy things. “I’m Lincoln Baker. We met at the Aunt Sue’s Place fundraiser in August.”

The puzzle piece clicked into place. This man had written a substantial check on top of having schmoozed half a dozen other attendees into parting with serious cash that night. He’d made quite the impression, on top of being one handsome devil. If I hadn’t been there with a the aforementioned ex, I might’ve been inclined…. But no, I wouldn’t have. I didn’t mix with the donors like that. I’d been tempted though.

“Ah, yes, I remember. Sorry for blanking. This is, well.” I gestured to our surroundings. “Very out of context, running into you again. What kind of snag can I help you with?”

He took me gently by the elbow, sending a frisson of electricity up my arm. So I was a little bit distracted, comprehending the next bit.

“Last week, I twisted my ankle while jogging, and it seems I can’t manage my weight and his.” He guided me into the room and gestured to Joe Nevada on the floor, eyes staring sightlessly. “Would you mind helping me get rid of the body? I mean it when I say I’d owe you one.”