Witchy Boys: The Complete Collection

by Katey Hawthorne

  What had my life even become?

  And what the hell was wrong with Kentucky?

  "He got drenched," Murph said. "Get over here and help me with their clothes. If these fuckers don’t wake up for a hundred years I’m in trouble."

  I wasn’t so sure about stripping random homeless people, but he seemed to think it was life or death—for them and him—so I complied. At first I was too overwhelmed and confused to have a lucid thought. Then I thought maybe I should let him know, "I’ve seen them before. They’re the hobos I bought drinks in exchange for information."

  "This guy is wearing brand new Timberlands and his coat is L.L. Bean," Murph said. "It’s possible someone donated some good stuff to a shelter—and they decided to clean up right before burgling a magical rackhouse. But something tells me you got fuckin’ hoodwinked, Yankee."

  Funny. Something told me that, too.

  Pulling off one of the previously mentioned Timberlands, he added, "Also, don’t call them hobos. The word is ‘indigent’. Jesus, dude, have some compassion."

  Under my breath I muttered, "I spent more on their drinks than mine."

  "Cry me a river," he mumbled.

  But it was easy to feel the difference in his attitude toward me even without the Hippie Juice. Maybe he really had liked whatever he’d seen while we were high on so-called magic. (I wasn’t saying it hadn’t been magic. I was just saying I needed more info.) His previously sharp words were filed down, dulled into gentle pokes more than blood-drawing barbs.

  I smiled at him as I divested the woman of her flannel. Thankfully, the sweater underneath didn’t seem wet. The pants, on the other hand… I stopped smiling. "What can we do with them? You have an antidote for this, too?"

  He shook his head. "That’s why it’s hard to get—and why I don’t keep much of it in stock. Shit is powerful and unstoppable."

  "Maybe keep it in smaller barrels?"

  "Maybe mind your business?" He rolled his eyes and threw the second Timberland. "We gotta figure how much they were exposed to. Then I can tell how long they’ll be dreaming."

  "What about the Dreamtime on the floor?"

  "The ground is enchanted in case of spills—it won’t go into the water or anything. Leave it for the fairies."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Still not convinced?" He cocked an eyebrow.

  "I’m not convinced of anything but your dick," I admitted. "Which is, by the way, incredibly convincing."

  "It’s been called many things, but that’s a first." He cracked a smile. "I could say the same of yours though. And your ass. But we’re not getting a repeat until we figure this shit out, so let’s crack open that barrel."

  Intruders dried off and mostly naked in a far, safe corner, and more lights up so we could see inside the keg, we figured they’d been exposed to about a quarter-barrel of Dreamtime. Murph frowned, staring into it like he might start scrying and reciting Shakespeare in a redneck accent. "It’s hard to figure without knowing how much was directly ingested, but it can’t have been too much before they passed out. They’re definitely not waking up for a few days."

  "Can they die from that?" I had to ask.

  He shot me a dirty look. So obviously he’d been thinking it too. "It’s possible. Sometimes people go into a magical stasis, but that’s not supposed to be a thing. It just happens. We don’t know why."

  "Who’s we?"

  "The others who make it. There are only three, before you ask. And no, I won’t give you their names. I might be strung up for talking to you in the first place." He snorted. "This is exactly what I want to avoid."

  "Being strung up, or—?"

  "People using this shit irresponsibly. Obviously." He sighed at me. Hard. "Maybe this is a mistake."

  "... I’m so confused."

  "Your article," he said, shoulders drooping. "My book. All of it. Once it gets started, this will probably just get worse."

  "It’s not the first time someone’s broken in," I guessed, glancing nervously at the pile of intruder.

  He shook his head.

  Though it was inappropriate as fuck, I couldn’t help but smile. "You knew before we finished."

  "What?"

  "That there were intruders. I was like sixty seconds from getting off and you said ‘shit!’ But you kept going." I smirked.

  He flushed but looked me in the eye. The icy blue was startling in the strange light, and there was something intense behind them… something I recognized, now. He said, "I knew how much it meant to you." Then smiled slightly. "Told you we’d get there."

  My face heated to match his. But I couldn’t help smiling back. For just a second, I remembered the sensation of his hand on the small of my back, pressing me gently into the rug, anchoring me to the earth. His lips on mine. His tongue tracing my ass crack.

  "To be continued." He turned for the door. "Blankets and pillows for these idiots. I got their IDs, so we’ll do a search and find out who’s gonna be missing them. Hopefully I’m not completely fucked."

  I followed him with one last glance over my shoulder at the comatose couple. I had a feeling that hope wasn’t going to get Murph far but I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

  I’d just found him. I really didn’t want him to end up in jail. Or strung up by hillbilly wizards.

  Especially that second thing.

  Shit. I fucking hated the woods.

  ***

  We got our guests tucked up in some blankets but left them in the rackhouse. Their faces were pale, but both were breathing easily, steadily, deeply. No fairies had cleaned up the Dreamtime on the floor, but I didn’t mention it.

  Yet.

  An internet search (thanks, generator power and reliable cell networks) satisfied us that the intruders were actually roommates from Louisville and didn’t have any jobs we could find. If someone knew where they’d gone, we’d hear from them soon. If not… they’d wake up eventually, and we’d just have to look after them until then.

  All this so they could find out lottery numbers or something. Who knew.

  This much established, Murph opened a bottle of wine and flopped onto the raggedy faux-leather couch in front of the fireplace. My cum had dried into a semi-sticky patch in the fake fur rug. His discarded condom still lay deflated and tied off on the end table. If he noticed or cared, he didn’t comment. He poured two glasses of wine and handed me one without a word, then curled both legs under him, making himself as small as possible.

  Nothing in our previous moments of sincere and deep connection helped me figure out what he needed right then. The whole night felt like a dream, surreal and spectacular. So all I could do was sit next to him and say, "What can I do?"

  "Help me figure out how to explain to their friends and/or relatives who may or may not come looking that they’re not dead, just dreaming. Of the future."

  "And that they followed me here?" I added.

  "Don’t bother feeling bad. If it wasn’t you it’d be someone else, something else to distract me. They clearly lurked and waited until we were—busy."

  "Why didn’t they just hit the rackhouse when we were asleep?" I asked.

  He chuckled. "Because I would’ve gotten there faster. They clearly know their wards and spells… and witches."

  I laughed quietly. Shared a knowing look with him, like a secret, something sweet between the two of us that would always be there. Then laughed harder.

  Within moments we were both giggling uncontrollably. Whether he was also picturing us naked on that rug fucking like bunnies while some idiots burgled his magical stash, I don’t know, but I sure as hell was.

  ***

  We spent the rest of the evening discussing what he really wanted to happen if he wrote his book. While Murph was fully aware it would be written off by the majority of people, he claimed there was a niche market—of not inconsiderable size—of people who'd been raised with stories of Appalachian folk magic. Even if their families weren't involved, anyone from the lower eastern quarter of the co
untry could be aware of Murph's world, the world inhabited by magic and potions and the fae. Then there were the people with old world sensibilities, be their origins northern European or western African, who'd recognize something true in Murph's world, even if they didn't know it for themselves.

  He wanted to reach them all and let them know that this was for real. That a whole world of opportunity existed just beneath the surface, ridiculed as old wives' tales by old men who couldn't control their powerful, witchy wives any other way.

  As pitches went, it was a good one. It was way beyond the weirdo piece I'd wanted to do on him originally: Hermit in the Woods Brews Barrel Aged Superstition.

  I went to sleep that night thinking of his Hippie Juice and his lips, not of the slumbering thieves in the rack house. It made me wonder when I got so invested in his story. Not even mine. His.

  The next morning our sleeping beauties were still out, but otherwise fine. And the Dreamtime that had been pooling near them was gone. Murph caught me looking for it and smiled. Okay, smirked. I couldn’t even muster a smart remark.

  As we wandered back to the house for breakfast, I said, "What if I helped you write your book?"

  He looked surprised and shrugged. "I could use an actual writer. I'd like it to be readable. But I doubt it works for your ambition."

  He wasn't wrong, but I didn't need to tell him that. He knew. Just like I knew he was driven to spread the word, he knew I was driven to forward my career.

  But by the same token, he must also have some idea I didn't want to lose him yet. As much as my ambition drove me, there was still room for more in my life.

  And hell. I could get used to the woods. Probably. Eventually.

  "Can I try the Dreamtime?" I asked.

  "Seriously? After seeing what it did to them?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  "Administered in the right dosage, it just works overnight, right?"

  He nodded. "It's totally safe, yeah. You just… surprise me."

  "I don't know if that Hippie Juice was just some kind of weird ex, but I know you think it's magic. And I've seen things since I came here that I can't explain. So let me see what the future holds, and then I'll decide if I should help you."

  "Are you inviting yourself to stay?" He smiled but cocked an eyebrow.

  "I'm saying maybe you can invite me. Once I go home to get some more stuff. And a lot of bug spray."

  "It's October," he said with a snort.

  "I have twenty bug bites around my ankles."

  "Climate change."

  "For real."

  We walked the rest of the way in silence, and then he said, "What's this really about?"

  "You," I replied without missing a beat. "I'm too old to pass up a good thing."

  "You're like thirty."

  "I'm a very tired thirty." I opened the door for him. "If we work on this project together, maybe we also figure out if there's… something here."

  "There's something here." He walked past me and straight to the kettle. "So the Dreamtime decides?"

  I said, "If we've got the cheat code, might as well plug it in, right?"

  "Tonight, then."

  "Tonight."

  So we spent the day working with his huge copper pot still, making the clear stuff that’d eventually be his own home brewed bourbon. At night, he kissed me on the forehead and handed me a copper mule cup. It was freezing, full of crushed ice and smoky blue Dreamtime.

  I accepted and drank. And then I slept.

  ***

  Murph had gray in his hair and wrinkles around his eyes. He rolled over in bed, bathed in a pool of sunlight. The smell of lavender came from the sheets and his skin, mingled with faint but sweet sweat and something green wafting from the next room. "What are you working on today?" he asked.

  I yawned and stretched, naked, and then rolled into his light. Warming myself in his sunbeam and against his bare skin. "Interviewing someone in Lexington."

  "Will you be gone all night?" he asked.

  "No. I'll drive back for the party."

  "Do we have to go?"

  "Do you want to be a leader of witches or not?" I asked.

  He smiled. I didn't need Hippie Juice with him anymore. He didn't just want to lead, he didn't just want to bring them all into the light, into the real world. He needed it like he needed air.

  Like he needed me.

  He smiled and I kissed at his neck. Then his chest. Then his navel.

  "Where you going?" he asked with a chuckle.

  "Lexington, remember?" I dipped my tongue into his navel.

  He arched and laughed again, belly tightening under my lips. "That doesn't look like Lexington."

  "Shut up or I'll turn right back around," I said.

  "Shutting up."

  ***

  When I woke, I expected him to be there, in our room that smelled like lavender and sex. Instead, I was alone in his guest room.

  I rolled out of bed and wandered into the living room in my shorts and bare feet, the faint fall chill nipping at my skin until I neared the fire.

  Murph looked up and cocked his head in a silent question. He was… so young. His hair was all dark and punk rock, his eyes the same ice blue but smooth at the corners.

  How much older had he been in that dream? 15 years? 20? 30?

  "I want to do the book," I said.

  Murph smiled. I pictured him naked in a beam of sunlight with gray in his hair.

  And I believed in magic.

  Tattoo You

  Matt pushed me against the door with a thud and kissed my neck. Goosebumps raced up my spine and then down again. He slipped a thigh between mine, holding my bulkier body in place through sheer force of will and sex appeal. He reached into the pocket of my trench coat and grabbed the medallion he'd crafted for me last year. "Put it on."

  In my head, I heard: Don't you fucking dare. I'm warning you, Thackeray, if you keep—

  I slipped the silvery charm around my neck. It burned against my chest, and Seir, my demonic haunting, quieted instantly. Matt's magic was like that, protective and insulating, even against personal hauntings.

  That's what Seir was: a haunting, not a possession. I should know the difference. I'd been hunting demons for years, and more than a few of them with Seir's help.

  Matt pushed my coat off my shoulders, and I arched to help. It didn't go far with my ass still pinned to the door, but enough for him to start prying my shirt up. He flattened his palms against my abs, working his way toward my pecs. He hummed in appreciation, then said, "You're so fine when you're banishing evil spirits. When you flicked that tar water at that ghost's face, I swear I almost nutted in my pants."

  I chuckled and let him paw at me, going loose and relaxed. When we were on a demon-hunting job, I was calling the shots. When we were home, alone, it was all him. He might be half my size, but he knew how to manhandle.

  "What do you want?" he whispered into my ear.

  "Tie me up," I said, barely a breath.

  "My favorite three words." He pushed off me and pulled me away from the door. Directly to the bedroom.

  My restraints were always in place at the four posts of our bed. It was part of that sweet, sweet homecoming feeling we rarely got, returning to Matt's house in Huntington between long stretches of jobs or when we were close enough to make it a day trip. The smell of his laundry soap and the hand-tooled leather cuffs meant warmth and comfort and relaxation—the kind I'd never known anywhere but here, alone, with Matt.

  Without Seir. Not that he was gone, but he was deaf, dumb, and blind so long as I wore Matt's medallion. Much to his demonic annoyance, I wore it any time we so much as kissed, let alone fucked.

  "All mine," Matt whispered as he dropped my slacks to the floor.

  I stepped out of them, and he tossed my coat and shirt over the nearest chair. "Always," I said.

  "Yes and no." He smiled gently, but there was a seriousness in his dark gaze. He had to share me with Seir. That had been the deal when w
e'd hooked up, when he'd helped me stop his then-coven from summoning some nasty evil last Hallowe'en.

  Didn't make it fair. Wasn't fair. But in my extensive experience, most of life wasn't.

  "Let's make the most of the yes moments, then," I suggested, stepping out of my shorts.

  That chased some of the serious from his eyes. "I mean to. Get your fine ass up on that bed."

  As I obliged, he pulled off his shirt, revealing his wiry-muscled torso. The recent nipple piercings glittered in the low light, begging to be pulled at, taunted, teased. My cock had been filling out, but watching him get naked made it stand up straight. I rolled onto my back, and it touched my belly. I spread-eagled, presenting my wrists and ankles for cuffing.

  When he secured my right wrist, my dick jumped with a mind of its own. He saw and smiled but pretended to ignore it. Right ankle, tight and cozy. Left ankle, safely moored. Left wrist, the slide of leather, the clink of the buckle, clasped and locked and kept.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. No demons. No judgment. No work. Nothing but Matt making me his, human to human, man to man. Always felt as if a calming, golden haze settled over me when we were alone, like a fog that obscured everything but him. The cuffs weren't necessary, but their reality, their sensation, their restraint, was a physical reminder of my peace.

  After undressing, he crawled on top of me and straddled my thighs. I opened my eyes, taking in the sight. His whole, hard body on top of me, his divine cock dipping heavily to brush against mine, his thighs flexing as he settled. A few dreads from his pseudo-mohawk fell over his face, giving him a divine-yet-impish look as he smirked down at me.

  He left his glasses on. He always left his glasses on.

  I loved it. I loved everything about him.

  He spit on his hand and grabbed his own dick, giving it a few pulls and slicking it up. His knuckles rubbed the underside of my erection, making it jump again. My balls tightened, and I arched to rub them against his.

  He smiled, all sugar and light like sweet tea in the summer sun. "Shh, big boy. You let me handle this."