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Motherducking Magic

Michelle Fox

When my latest client—a kleptomaniac werewolf—disappears, I’m on the hunt to drag him to justice. It should be a simple track ‘em and cuff ‘em operation, something I’ve done a hundred times before. Instead, I somehow acquire an unwanted vampire sidekick, wake up in a ditch, and piss off half of shifter nation. It’s not fun, but it’s all survivable right up until I’m accused of being in cahoots with my skip trace to steal witchdom’s most wanted magical relic. Everyone thinks I have it. And the bad guys are on me like a bad cameltoe hex. If they get this relic? Hell will look like paradise.

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Read an excerpt from Motherducking Magic

Summer in Cleveland had all the charm of Satan’s butthole, but I liked to eat and my mom charged me rent, so I showed up for work.

Even though the temp had hit ninety at eight a.m.

Even though the heat was on schedule to top a hundred before noon.

Even though I had to wear jeans and a jacket for my job.

Any other witch would’ve called off and gone swimming, or magicked a deep freeze on their nakey bits.

But not me. I was Sylvie Orion, witch worker bee.

(Also, the deep freeze magic thing didn’t work for me.)

Of course, if I’d known karma had blast-from-the-past mean girls on the menu, I might’ve reconsidered. Plug-in a/c worked fine and I’d rather be chilling than dodging spells from the one person I’d never wanted to see again.

“Lydia, just come down.” We were in her brand new warehouse full of illegal magic. I’d been pleased to find tracking her down had been fairly simple. She’d set up the company with her mother’s name. Took five minutes on the internet to figure that out, but now she was making this hard.

“Not happening, you worm of a witch.”

I wiped sweat off my face.”It’s hotter than dragon balls out. Come down and we’ll grab a milkshake and catch up. We haven’t seen each other since, what? High school graduation?” I didn’t say anything about the police station or court. Those words made people more likely to run or fight.

Pro tip: Use positive language and incentives when hauling people to jail.

“Make me.” Lydia swung her stiletto clad feet and smiled from her perch atop ten food metal shelving. She looked just as I remembered. Round face, pouty lips and dark eyes sparked with malice. Even the fancy business suit couldn’t hid her mean, but it did show a trim, fit physique. She could probably still fit into her dress for the high school witch’s ball.

I considered pushing over the shelving to wipe the smirk off her face, but that might kill her and she hadn’t been classified as ‘wanted dead or alive.’ Yet.

“I said, make me.” Lydia picked up a cardboard box and lobbed it at me. The box landed with a dull thud and nothing happened. A blue logo on the side of the box revealed the contents as Monster-O.

Yes, that O. The O every woman fakes at least once. Lydia had set up a supply chain for the real deal.

And she’d tried to attack me with it. That was a new one.