As the instructor hurries away, Skye gives a soft gasp and pulls from my arms to trot over to the corkboard hanging beside the door.
I stalk after her, fingers drifting over my forehead to confirm that I indeed no longer have horns. I’ve spent the past few months bemoaning my ability to shift fully, yet I now feel oddly naked without them.
“Oh, no, no, no,” the little witch moans. “This can’t be happening.”
“What is it? What has your magic done?”
She raises a trembling hand to point to the header tacked to the top of the board:
Miss Michelle’s Dance Studio
Youth Ballet, Tap, & Modern Classes
Adult Ballroom Classes
“That’s the name of the dance studio in my book,” Skye whispers, her voice even more hesitant than usual.
“Skye! Luke!” Miss Michelle waves for us to return to the center of the room. “We’ve got another thirty minutes of class to go.”
The witch spins to point at the instructor. “And she’s acharacterin the book.” Skye looks up at me, a million questions clouding the blue of her eyes.
“A book you’re writing?” I ask. What an intriguing idea: an author able to pull people into their stories, literally. I haven’t heard of any such magic, but human witches have different powers from fae.
“No, it’s the book I just started reading.”
“So we’re inside of said book.” Equally impressive, because it might mean she can send anyone into any book. Imagine the research possibilities! “What interesting magic you have. We must study it fully once we’re back in my library.”
“What do you mean, my magic?” Her nose scrunches. “Isn’t this your magic?”
“Dragons are supremely powerful. We have flying and fire magic as well as the ability to imbue crystals with a rangeof spells. But even we have limits. No dragon in recorded history has ever done such as this.” I wave a hand to take in the dance studio. And no dragon has been able to shift me into a man.
“Mymagic took us into a book,” Skye breathes, a look of awe brightening her face until she looks lovely.
I give her a few moments to digest the information, then stare at her expectantly, eyebrow lifted. When that doesn’t elicit a response, I say, “Go on. End the spell.”
The pretty little witch squirms under the force of my gaze, her cheeks pinkening until they match the color of her dress. “I don’t know how.”
I grunt. Perhaps one of my enspelled crystals will help determine the root nature of her magic so that I can more easily break her spell. I reach for the magical invisible “pocket” where I store everything I want to carry. The familiar seam doesn’t tickle across my fingertips. My hand paws at the air in front of my stomach… which remains nothing but empty, featureless air. The pocket is gone.
Next, I call upon my magic, expecting the familiar swell of fire to leap within my chest.
Nothing.
Fuck.
A growl rumbles deep in my throat, and a chill washes through me. I’ve been alive for over three hundred years, yet I’ve never gone a single day without my magic. Even when the doors of Faerie slammed closed and the Moon Goddess flung me and other fae into a secret realm hidden from the Dark God, I always had my powers.
Now one small human witch has wrenched it all away.
“You will try,” I growl.
“Okay. Yes. Of course you’re right.” She nods nervously, and then her cornflower eyes look at me, full of questions. “Umm, how?”
“Reach into the heart of your power”—my hand reaches outward and curls into a fist—“and take control.”
Skye closes her eyes and strains, her nose scrunching and lips pursing with effort. Her hands grasp at the air. After several tense moments, she lets out a sigh, her body deflating. “I can’t feel anything.”
“May I?” I stretch my hand toward her. At her hesitant nod, I press my palm to the top of her chest, the swell of her breasts teasing the heel of my hand, my fingertips tracing over the petal softness of her neck where her pulse beats rapidly.
