Hex Magic: Hex'd Book One

By Andrew Forrest Baker

Darragh Cullen was not expecting to find love. He wasn't expecting to reveal true witchcraft to the entire world either, but here he is: flying over the moon for Cernun Murphy and under scrutiny from the Moral Authority of Witches.

Being the Guy Who Exposed Magic does have its advantages though. His shop, HEX, is busier than it's ever been

• Language: English
• Publisher: Parlyaree Press
• Release date: Feb 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9781961206069

Book preview

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HEX MAGIC

Also by Andrew Forrest Baker

HEX'D SERIES

HEXUAL AWAKENING : BOOK TWO

GREAT HEX : BOOK THREE (COMING SOON)

NOVELS

The House That Wasn't There

Lesser Gods & Demons

Short Story Collections

We Tremble As We Sink

Roast

HEX MAGIC

ANDREW FORREST BAKER

Parlyaree Press

Atlanta, Georgia

www.parlyaree.com

Copyright © 2023 by Andrew Forrest Baker

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition, 2024

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Baker, Andrew Forrest, 1980, author.

Title: HEX MAGIC / Andrew Forrest Baker

Description: First Edition | Atlanta : Parlyaree Press, 2024

Identifiers: LCCN: 2023916020| ISBN 9781961206052 (paperback)

Subjects: LCGFT: Novels

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023916020

Design by Parlyaree Press

Imagery liscened from Adobe Stock.

Front Cover/Title Typeface is Rosella Solid.

Interior Text Typeface is Baskerville, designed in the 1750s by John Baskerville and cut by punchcutter John Handy.

Interior Ornaments from Espiritu, LTC Flourons, & Bodoni Ornaments.

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-961206-05-2

Ebook ISBN: 987-1-961206-06-9

To all the queer writers who brought their sex to the forefront

& let their sexuality sing across the page.

To accepting who we are and how we love.

To telling the story uncensored.

PROLOGUE

You supposed to be some kind of warlock or something?

It was a common question, especially on the weekends. I could have told him that witch was the word he was looking for—that the term itself was gender neutral—but looking at him, fresh off a Friday night of frat parties at the nearby college and filled with more machismo than brain cells, I just decided to smile and ask:

Do I look like a warlock?

He froze. Even a few years prior, I would have admired the broadness of his shoulders, the blondness of his hair. I’d been more bite than brains back then too. Now I had a few years in the city under my belt, not to mention a couple years as a business owner leaving dark circles under my eyes. Even the poultices I conjured couldn’t completely conceal them. It was odd. Just a few years between us, and yet experience had changed so much of my view. I could still see the beauty underneath his ignorance, but he reeked of immaturity nonetheless, and that was way less sexy than it used to be. I watched him stumble over his words as he searched for an answer. He hadn’t expected me to speak even though he’d asked me a question. Those who got off on bullying others rarely expected a response.

I don’t know, man, he said, falling back into the circle of his buddies for comfort. You’re just selling all these herbs and rocks and shit. That’s like wizard crap.

Again, the word was witch.

I am.

I smiled broadly as a wash of bewilderment clouded his face. I watched him try to figure out if I was answering his original question or simply confirming his statement. Strangely, his confusion served to make him even cuter. There was something to that dumb jock persona that still sort of did it for me. At least he had that going for him. I shook it off and gestured to the dried barrenwort he was manhandling. That one is for erectile aid. Did you need help getting hard?

His hand recoiled as his friends laughed, drowning out the fucker! he mumbled under his breath. His face was bright red—no problem with blood flow there!— as they tumbled from the store, and I shrugged as I followed them to the door. I wasn’t going to make a sale off of them anyway, even though I desperately needed it. Running HEX—the Herbal Emporium Xpress—was not as magical as I’d imagined it to be when I inherited it from my uncle. Still, it was a way for me to practice my craft in the open. Sort of. Even if most humans didn’t believe witchcraft was real.

HEX was located a little to the east of downtown Atlanta, nestled in a row of hip stores and local bars. It was one of the few true old school shops still present amongst the Ye Olde Shoppes designed and manned by hipsters springing up in the rapidly gentrifying neighborhood. If I’m honest, I kind of enjoyed the retro artisan style of the new stores that were opening. Folks working with their hands, buying local, and caring about things like who grew their potatoes or where their meat came from; it reminded me a lot of life back home.

I grew up forty miles south of everywhere in a little town wrapped in the farmlands of South Georgia. With the earth at my feet and birds on every nearby branch, I’d been happy, if a little lonely, with the idyllic Norman Rockwell-ness of it all. Youthful me, I’d drive up to Atlanta some weekends to stay with Uncle Gardner. We’d hit up the gay bars and dance to the whomp whomp whomp of electronic music all night long. But, no matter how many trees there were springing up through the pavement, I was always eager to get back to where the soil dirtied my knees and the grass tickled my toes. Still, when Uncle Gardner retired to Key West with his husband and left the shop and its upstairs apartment to me, I gladly accepted.

The street had changed a lot in the three years since I’d moved here, and though it was sometimes tough, I was proud that HEX was still here and still in the family.

So this one’s for getting it up, huh?

Surprised, I turned to face the voice. I must have been more tired than I realized. I hadn’t even heard anyone else enter the shop.

His thick hand, firm and rugged, hovered a few inches above the colloquially known Horny Goat’s Weed. My eyes traced the colorful tattoos up his muscle-toned arm to the ink-adorned collarbone protruding from beneath his black tank top. His smile, more of a smirk really as his lips stretched across his stubbled cheeks, was the perfect counterpart to the mischief present in his pale blue eyes. They sparkled as he moved his arm, flexing as he paused above another bowl of dried plant matter.

And this one? he asked.

The dehydrated leaves had taken on a deep mossy color and there were still flecks of yellow petals mixed through the tea. I found my voice and huffed humorously as I returned his gaze.

Damiana, I said, is said to be quite the aphrodisiac. Its use can deepen the psychic connection you have with your partner, making the physical all the more erotic.

Is that so? He bit his lower lip and refused to break his gaze on mine. What else you got?

His voice had a gravelly roughness to it I found exhilarating when mixed with the casual coolness with which he spoke.

I took a step forward but kept my eyes trained on his. His jet black hair had a slight curl that emulated wicked little horns on his head. His grin was both endearing and a warning. There was something fascinating about this man. Sure, he was sexy as hell, but something else was starting to capture me. I could feel its tendrils twisting around the edges of my consciousness. I wanted to see what that could mean.

To your left there is marshmallow root. It’s for that line between love and death, pleasure and pain. That place where passion lives right on the edge. Drink it as a tea. Carry it in a sachet. It’s also known to make a pretty stellar lubricant.

So it does more than vegan jello? he quipped, and I laughed.

Most things have more than one use in them.

If you’re lucky, he purred.

He turned quickly to the display of polished rocks lining the table behind him and peered coyly over his shoulder. Dark denim, cut off halfway up his thigh, clung to the curve of his ass in all the right ways. He lifted a glowing red stone flecked through with fire-orange streaks. Carnelian. It was obvious he knew this stuff as well as I did. Too, the vines poking at the edges of my subconscious told me he was a witch by blood, not just by practice. He seemed to enjoy playing with me as he tested my edges to see if I, too, had the power.

I let his aura explore the space around me. I’d always found the practice somewhat erotic, the push and pull of two auras as they figured out the safety, the soul, the power of one another. Like a lingering handshake or a deep kiss hello. But when consent was given, when trust was formed and the tendrils were allowed to push deeper, that’s when the real pleasure began.

For non-magical folk, the probing tended to produce a euphoric feeling. It made them feel safe around us. Secure. If taken too far, it could lead to an addiction, a hypnosis. Because of that, every real witch I’d ever met was wary to use it on mortals and would catch and cut off their reach if not met with that of another powered individual. Plus it was strictly forbidden by the Moral Authority. This guy, though, didn’t seem to want to stop.

I squinted as I let my own subconscious pulse against his for the first time. I figured it only fair to let him know I was the real deal too. And that I knew very well what he was up to.

He laughed as he turned once more to face me. He tossed the stone gently into the air before palming it and circling the display to stand before me. The ink on his forearms seemed to glow as the muscles twisted beneath his skin with each toss of the carnelian. His black tank top fit snugly across his pecs, showcasing the shape of his nipples as his chest heaved. His tight denim shorts flaunted the outline of his bulge as it throbbed in time with each throw of the stone.

And what does this one do? he asked.

I glanced at the contour of his throbbing member and caught his eyes in a wicked grin.

I think you already know.

He chuckled again and bit his lip seductively. He had a musical laugh. Like a spell reaching out to form a melody. I could tell he understood its power, even if he was still trying to figure out mine.

Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, he said, taking another step toward me. You might have to show me how to work it.

I held my hand up as he took another step toward me. Electricity sizzled when my fingers made contact with his chest. His tendrils were tight around me now, working their way across my aura like he wanted to consume me. I pulsed again, letting him feel a bit of what I was holding back. The breadth of a witch’s power could be felt within their aura. Because of that, as a true southern gentleman, I’d always been taught it was rude to reveal too much too soon. This guy, though, seemed to get off on showing his power. He let his tendrils slam against the shell of my aura, begging to be let inside.

I think you already know how to work it too, I smirked.

It was hard—fuck, it was hard!—but I stayed firm in my stance. My hand still pressed against his chest, I felt his breath tremble beneath the tight, flexing muscles of his pecs. Power and promise sparked between my fingertips and his skin. He pushed once more against my aura. I almost gave in, but this was not the time or the place. A sly grin formed on his lips as he brought the stone between us.

What do I owe you for this?

The tendrils of his aura pulled back as he spoke, and I felt suddenly cold and alone. I shivered as the last of his magic resided. I focused on the carnelian.

Stone that size? I said, unexpectedly getting an idea. I’d let it go for dinner. Later tonight.

His smile widened as he slipped the rock into his pocket, making sure my eyes followed as he accentuated the bulge of his cock.

Sold, he said.

He winked, then let the weight of his body brush against mine as he made his way to the door.

We close up at six, I said.

I know that, Darragh Cullen, he called, not even looking back as he pushed into the sunlit afternoon and tapped the shop hours emblazoned there.

How did he know my name? I still didn’t even know his.

Wait! I called, breaking my gaze and striding to the still closing door. What’s your—?

He was gone. A few locals were out window-shopping or walking their dogs, but his stubbled jaw and deep black hair were nowhere to be seen.

—Name? I finished as I let the door swing closed.

I laughed and shook my head. It wasn’t as rare as I thought it would be to meet other witches in the city, but to meet one so forward—and so handsome—didn’t happen too often. My aura still bristled in anticipation with the memory of his pressure. I inhaled sharply as I made my way back toward the cash register. My brain flashed a picture show of his features in close up: the sharp angle of his nose; the curve of his waist beneath the dark fabric of his tank top, the way bright tattoo ink contrasted with the negative space of skin to become a sensual peepshow beckoning me closer… I didn’t even know his name! That would have to be my first question at dinner. If he even showed back up.

A black business card caught my eye against the pale wood of the countertop. On it, gold foiled lettering spelled out a single name beside a pentagram: Cernun.

So now I had a name. And four hours to figure out what to wear.

jZ!zk

Cernun arrived at HEX right as I was locking up for the day. Still in the tight black tank top, he’d changed his denim shorts to a pair of slim black chinos that hugged his body in all the perfect places. I was glad I’d chosen a forest green tee-shirt over a pair of khaki trousers for the evening. It paired well with his ensemble. He smiled brightly as he approached and stopped a few feet back on the sidewalk to take me in.

You look hot, Darragh, he said. It’s a shame you’ve already locked up.

I clicked my tongue against the back of my smile as I slipped my keys into my pocket.

Come on now. Dinner first, Cernun. One name. Like Cher, I teased.

You found my card, he laughed stepping closer in but still undressing me with his eyes. And pronounced my name correctly. Most people don’t.

I shrugged. Generations of southern heritage didn’t take the Irish names out of my family’s mouth.

My folks actually named me Kieran, he winced. A cool name. But I changed it back to the Gaelic when I discovered my power.

At the mention of his power, I shuddered and glanced around us. Even in front of my witch-themed store, speaking so openly about true witchcraft gave me the willies. It wasn’t so long ago, in the grand scheme of things, when those suspected of having power were tossed into freezing rivers or burned alive at the stake. In fairness, those tossed or flamed were rarely true witches—unless their covens turned on them—but the stories were still cautionary tales passed down through the generations. But the Moral Authority was said to still discreetly flame any witch who stepped out of line.

Oh, I’m sorry, Cernun said, quieter this time as he stepped even closer. I thought you were out.

His pale blue eyes sparkled with the flames of the sun as it approached the western horizon. And there was that mischief again, playing inside his irises like water sprites. This man was going to be trouble. I just knew it.

I am. Out, I said. But most humans, they believe people claiming to be a witches have just read one too many fantasy novels. And most witches are happy to let them go on thinking that way. Discussing our actual power in public… It just throws me a bit.

Cernun reached out and let his fingertips graze my arm before he took my hand.

I get that, he said. But isn’t there a part of you that wishes the truth were just out there? That we didn’t have to hide who were are to make others feel more comfortable?

I hadn’t really thought about it before. Especially growing up in the middle of nowhere, it was just sort of how things were. I was free—in other ways. And I was authentic when it came to me. I never considered that shielding my power from public view was also a form of containment. A cage. The way it could have been and the way it should have been clashed in my mind.

It must have shown on my face because Cernun squeezed my hand and smiled, breaking my spiral and bringing me back to the sunset evening in front of my shop.

How about that dinner I owe you? he asked.

I nodded and met his smile.

You ever been to Aunt Paulina’s? I asked, gesturing to the bar and grill a little down the street. Best fries in the city.

Do I look like I eat french fries? he laughed and pulled me in the direction of the bar.

jZ!zk

Aunt Paulina’s was a favorite of locals and passers-through alike. Known for its burgers and fries, the place boasted an eclectic menu to hold up the mirrored wall of fermented beverages most people stopped in for. There were pinball machines and upright arcade games in the backroom, a quarter-to-play jukebox nestled among the booths, and two always-muted flat screen televisions flanking the bar that played more retro sitcoms than they did sports games. When we walked in, a few folks dotted the vinyl barstools and an out-of-place family—kids gawking at the pin-up girl and local art decor—sat at one of the floating four tops. By 7:30, the place would be filled with derelicts made rowdier than normal by the bar’s libations. The best kind of people. They, and the bar’s proximity to my apartment, made Aunt Paulina’s one of my favorite haunts.

Paul, the proprietor and namesake, pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows at me when he saw Cernun on my arm. I shrugged, and Paul nodded his approval with a wicked glean in his eye. Paul was mortal and queer as a three dollar bill he liked to say. He was nearing sixty the first time I met him when Uncle Gardner had brought me in on one of my visits. Over a decade later and he still like his skirts short, his fishnets tight, and a little bit of rouge over his stubbled cheekbones. He grabbed a couple laminated menus and swung around the bar to meet us at the booth in the far back corner. I slipped in first and was surprised when Cernun joined me on the red vinyl bench instead of sitting on the other side of the table.

You boys keep your hands where I can see ’em now, Paul joked as he tossed the menus down. Cernun made a big show of folding his hands together on the tabletop. I don’t know how you do it, Darragh. This one got a brother?

I may have brought a date or two to Aunt Paulina’s before. It was convenient, after all. Plus, witch or not, I trusted Paul’s keen sense of character.

I’m an only child, ma’am, as far as I know, Cernun answered, winking slyly to showcase the pale blue of his eyes. But there’s plenty of me to go around.

I bet there is, Paul laughed. I’ll get started on your Old Fashioned, Darragh. What you drinking, sug?

Cernun pressed his thigh tightly against mine as Paul