Chapter One
* * * *
“I bet when she comes, it’s with a burst of pink glitter right out of her quim,” Coriander Wormwood whispered spitefully in her lilting London accent.
“Her eyes are pink, too. She looks like an anorexic lab rat that’s been snorting fairy dust. Fucking Valentine fairies,” Caraway Wormwood, her American cousin, responded with disgust.
The target of their ridicule tossed her pink hair over her shoulder and batted her insanely long eyelashes at one Brody Bendopolous, the blond, blue-eyed sex-god troll of every girl’s dreams. At least, if said girl went to UMM, the University of Magic and Mayhem.
Stupid trolls. Why do they have to be so hot? Caraway sighed.
“And her name? Clarabelle ? Sounds like she should be in a pasture somewhere with her dumb face buried in a feedbag,” Coriander said with a giggle.
“Someone ought to strap her down and feed her. She’s so skinny. She’s one of those girls who thinks skinny is automatically sexy. Even though she has no tits at all,” Caraway said and looked down at her own generous helping of cleavage. She wondered why Brody would prefer a female with negative A cups to her own overabundance.
“Maybe Brody’s into blokes. That would explain it,” Coriander replied thoughtfully.
Caraway sighed again as she considered the possibility, as well as myriad ways to make Brody pay for breaking up with her at the Samhain mixer so everyone could see her humiliation in high def.
She turned her head to look across the courtyard— anywhere but at Brody and Clarabelle—but regretted it instantly. There, in all his satanic and well-bred glory, was Alexander Morningstar, crossing the courtyard with his crew of fledgeling warlocks. He was, unfortunately, the TA in her Advanced Hexacology class and on the High Council of UMM— which made him a constant pain in her ass.
Yes, he was hot, too. Hot as Hell, to be precise, the son of the Devil and a female warlock. His hair was as black as sin.
He had a lush, pre-Raphaelite mouth, sharp cheekbones and a nose that had been broken—most likely on purpose so he wouldn’t be so damn pretty. His shoulders were as wide as Brody’s and he was an inch taller. Caraway blamed his handmade Italian shoes and GQ. It was probably a charm.
She’d bet anything he didn’t really look like that. All those white, straight teeth were probably rotten and green. It was what she hoped for, anyway. She’d also decided it was a sin for any man to look that good in a polo shirt and jeans. Even if they were designer.
“Don’t look now, Cous. Here comes Captain Cock and his crew of knoblings.” Coriander tugged on her shoulder.
“I see them.” Caraway wanted to turn and run screaming in the other direction. She didn’t have the energy to deal with Morningstar today. He was always such a bastard and, for some reason, his favourite pastime was goading her . His disciples didn’t generally bother with her, but they all took great amusement in watching the verbal sparring matches.
“Wormwood,” he said cheerfully as he approached.
Damn it. No chance he would move on to other prey. He was disgustingly cheerful. “Morningstar,” she acknowledged.
“I see your footballer troll has moved on to greener and leaner pastures,” he replied in a pleasant tone.
“I don’t know about greener,” Coriander interjected. “That would imply less experience, as opposed to the drive-thru lane she has in her cunny.”
He raised a black brow and smirked. “You have a wicked tongue, Coriander.”
Leaner? Had he just called her fat? He insulted her constantly for her witch heritage, but he’d never stooped to insulting her shape. She could admit she was curvier than the average UMM co-ed, but Caraway thought it looked good on her. And why was he calling her cousin by her first name when all he ever called her was ‘Wormwood’?
Not that she cared.
Her power gathered and crackled in green light around her fingers.
“Just
* * * *
“I bet when she comes, it’s with a burst of pink glitter right out of her quim,” Coriander Wormwood whispered spitefully in her lilting London accent.
“Her eyes are pink, too. She looks like an anorexic lab rat that’s been snorting fairy dust. Fucking Valentine fairies,” Caraway Wormwood, her American cousin, responded with disgust.
The target of their ridicule tossed her pink hair over her shoulder and batted her insanely long eyelashes at one Brody Bendopolous, the blond, blue-eyed sex-god troll of every girl’s dreams. At least, if said girl went to UMM, the University of Magic and Mayhem.
Stupid trolls. Why do they have to be so hot? Caraway sighed.
“And her name? Clarabelle ? Sounds like she should be in a pasture somewhere with her dumb face buried in a feedbag,” Coriander said with a giggle.
“Someone ought to strap her down and feed her. She’s so skinny. She’s one of those girls who thinks skinny is automatically sexy. Even though she has no tits at all,” Caraway said and looked down at her own generous helping of cleavage. She wondered why Brody would prefer a female with negative A cups to her own overabundance.
“Maybe Brody’s into blokes. That would explain it,” Coriander replied thoughtfully.
Caraway sighed again as she considered the possibility, as well as myriad ways to make Brody pay for breaking up with her at the Samhain mixer so everyone could see her humiliation in high def.
She turned her head to look across the courtyard— anywhere but at Brody and Clarabelle—but regretted it instantly. There, in all his satanic and well-bred glory, was Alexander Morningstar, crossing the courtyard with his crew of fledgeling warlocks. He was, unfortunately, the TA in her Advanced Hexacology class and on the High Council of UMM— which made him a constant pain in her ass.
Yes, he was hot, too. Hot as Hell, to be precise, the son of the Devil and a female warlock. His hair was as black as sin.
He had a lush, pre-Raphaelite mouth, sharp cheekbones and a nose that had been broken—most likely on purpose so he wouldn’t be so damn pretty. His shoulders were as wide as Brody’s and he was an inch taller. Caraway blamed his handmade Italian shoes and GQ. It was probably a charm.
She’d bet anything he didn’t really look like that. All those white, straight teeth were probably rotten and green. It was what she hoped for, anyway. She’d also decided it was a sin for any man to look that good in a polo shirt and jeans. Even if they were designer.
“Don’t look now, Cous. Here comes Captain Cock and his crew of knoblings.” Coriander tugged on her shoulder.
“I see them.” Caraway wanted to turn and run screaming in the other direction. She didn’t have the energy to deal with Morningstar today. He was always such a bastard and, for some reason, his favourite pastime was goading her . His disciples didn’t generally bother with her, but they all took great amusement in watching the verbal sparring matches.
“Wormwood,” he said cheerfully as he approached.
Damn it. No chance he would move on to other prey. He was disgustingly cheerful. “Morningstar,” she acknowledged.
“I see your footballer troll has moved on to greener and leaner pastures,” he replied in a pleasant tone.
“I don’t know about greener,” Coriander interjected. “That would imply less experience, as opposed to the drive-thru lane she has in her cunny.”
He raised a black brow and smirked. “You have a wicked tongue, Coriander.”
Leaner? Had he just called her fat? He insulted her constantly for her witch heritage, but he’d never stooped to insulting her shape. She could admit she was curvier than the average UMM co-ed, but Caraway thought it looked good on her. And why was he calling her cousin by her first name when all he ever called her was ‘Wormwood’?
Not that she cared.
Her power gathered and crackled in green light around her fingers.
“Just
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