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Playing the Witch's Game

A Keepers of the Veil Novel

Entangled Publishing, LLC

This guy couldn't be the product of her find-me-a-fake-boyfriend spell.

Jennifer Marcos resisted an eye roll. Another lame pickup line. The glow in her propositioner's dark eyes suggested, should she accept his offer, he wanted far more than dirty dancing under the East Village club's strobes. Aside from the three bars pierced into each eyebrow and the hoop through his nose, he ranked okay on the hotness scale, but recruiting him to be on a couples edition reality TV show with her? Definite no. Pretending to be into him for five days on national television? Impossible.

"She's not interested." Shannon leaned her slim body in front of the propositioner to slide a rum and Coke across the table. He leered, clearly on board with both of them joining him.

"Neither of us is interested," Shannon said in an unmistakable buzz-off tone.

"Your loss." The guy wandered away in search of his next victim.

"Thanks," Jen said to Shannon. She sipped rum and Coke through a red mini straw, letting the alcohol slide through her system.

Shannon tucked her shoulder-length wavy blonde hair behind an ear and claimed the seat across the scratched metal table. She yelled to be heard over the pulsating bass beat, "I'd love to see you finally do a hookup, but that guy had asshole tattooed across his forehead." She scooted her chair closer to Jen and pretended to scan the crowd, but lowered her voice to say, "His aura was all kinds of bad news."

She should tell Shannon the real reason she agreed to go clubbing tonight. Images of the dangerous wilderness scenarios she would be subjected to on Extreme Survivor drifted through her mind. Shannon would flip out.

As she'd done dozens of times in the past day, Jen scanned her cell phone contacts for fake boyfriend potentials, dismissing all druids, art museum coworkers, and a handful of dead-end first dates.

She clicked off her phone with a frustrated sigh and shoved it inside her mini purse. None of her contacts were worth asking. The be-my-fake-boyfriend-on-TV spiel would earn her a giant crazy-girl check mark next to her name. The guys who might understand her motive to get chosen for the show, the Sentry druids who protected all seven of the witches like her, would never allow her to audition. They'd consider the danger risk too high. If the extreme conditions of the reality TV show didn't kill her, then witch hunters might take advantage of her lack of a bodyguard.

A druid would have the skills to succeed on Extreme Survivor. Her quick mental flip-through of druid possibilities yielded a big zilch. She didn't want to spend five days in intimate proximity to any one of them.

"Why do I get the feeling your agreeing to go out tonight has nothing to do with bestie support and everything to do with whatever you're searching for on your phone?" Shannon sipped her fruity drink, something most would assume high on octane, but Shannon didn't do alcohol.

With a quick twist, Jen secured her dark hair into a loose knot on her neck. She chewed her lower lip, ready to dish truth. "I need to find a fake boyfriend for a reality TV show audition tomorrow morning."

Shannon's eyebrows drooped low. "TV? Does this have to do with your PR job at the art museum?"

"No. It's personal." She checked out the guys around them, still hopeful. Her spells always worked in some fashion. Maybe she should've been more specific on the time frame for her fake boyfriend to show up when she cast the spell a few hours ago.

"How personal? Is this about" — she lowered her voice — "witch business?"

Jen nodded. "It's about finding my destined guy. I think I found him. At least I keep bumping into him."

"Who? That reality TV host, Owen Campbell?"

Jen bypassed the mini straw to gulp the rum and Coke. "He's superhot. We even went on a date yesterday for coffee."

"This is about him. Did he actually ask you to go out or did you bump into him again like the other two times this month?"

"I was shopping near NYU and ran into him outside Starbucks. It was random. I swear. He was suddenly there and asked me to have coffee. He paid, which I think makes it a date," she rushed to add. "That's three times I've run into him. It's got to be fate or something pushing us together." A snapshot of Owen's choppy blond hair blasted into her mind. Something propelled her toward him. He just might be it for her. If her it demanded she get on a reality TV show, then he must have a darn good reason.

"I've seen him on TV, and I don't trust his smile. It makes me think he'd suck in the sack," Shannon said.

"You aren't listening. He could be the one for me. He gave me this necklace and told me to never take it off." She stroked the vintage silver pendant around her neck. "Isn't that romantic?"

Shannon gazed at the necklace. "There's something about the necklace that seems off. It's pretty, but ... I don't know. You sure you trust this guy? I don't get settling-down type from him. Mom did say you should've met your forever guy by now."

"I can't believe you talked with your mom about me. She might be the oldest Pleiades witch, and she might feel the need to be in my business, but still. Best friend support?"

"This is Mom. She does and talks about whatever she wants. She's known you since before you were born."

"Did this conversation come up as part of a discussion on you inheriting her, uh ..." She glanced around for eavesdroppers and continued, "... powers and stuff if she ever dies?"

"Something like that." Shannon's eyes darted to the side as if seeking a distraction from her inevitable future. Dead mother led to instant inheriting of the Pleiades witch title to the eldest daughter, and everything that entailed — dimension hopping, magic, destined mates, and for Shannon, being leader to the seven other witches. Inheriting happened to Jen five years ago.

Shannon's gaze bounced back to her. "Did you want to jump Owen right there at the coffeehouse?"

Jen's swallow of rum and Coke caught in her throat. She coughed and pressed a finger into the corner of each eye to stop the reactive tearing. "Leave it to you to reduce this to getting it on in the bedroom. I thought he was ... attractive. Maybe in the future we might —"

"Jennifer Ashlyn Marcos." Shannon leaned forward and lowered her voice. "When it comes to finding the guy the gods want you to be with forever, according to my mom, it's all about sex."

"I'll bet that was a super-fun mother-daughter chitchat."

Shannon fake-shivered. "The gods want us to pop out babies like Pez dispensers once we find our destined guy, just in case, you know, we die. That means the sex better be eyes-rolling-in-the-back-of-your-head incredible. I've been trying to get you to do some test drives of your own to learn how to know when it's good, but you're so uptight."

"I am not uptight. I've been with a guy before."

Shannon rolled her eyes. "But not in a really long time. Maybe not since college?"

Her face heated. Owen might be attractive, but hot sex? Maybe. Of course it would be. It had to be. The fault of not getting him turned on had to be hers. The last guy she'd forayed into bed with, the only guy, had told her she was frigid.

"You graduated five years ago. That's a serious dry spell." Shannon shook her head, baffled. "Did Owen at least stick his tongue down your throat yesterday?"

"I'm attracted to him. But he didn't try anything."

"Nothing at all? Not even a little something during a goodbye hug?"

Her face scorched. She shook her head.

"If you two are meant to be together, then you won't be able to keep your hands off each other. It's some sort of cosmic chemistry thing. Look at my parents. Their PDAs are epic." Shannon chuckled. "Relax. You're acting like a frigging virgin over there talking about this. I think some anonymous sex with someone experienced might open your eyes to how good it can be. Just don't experiment with Owen. I don't like him on TV. He comes off as a jerk."

"I can't do a random hookup, especially with someone who's got metal on his face. I really like Owen. He's just being frustrating."

Shannon squinty-eyed her. "In what way is he frustrating other than not having the balls to start something with you?"

"He wants me to get chosen for his next reality TV show. If I go on the show, then when it's over, he will take me out on an official date. Then we can start our happily ever after." She fingered the necklace Owen had given her when they first met at the farmer's market several weeks ago.

"Why do you need a fake boyfriend? Can't Owen do this with you?"

"He's hosting the show. His next show is a Couples Edition." A wilderness survival show. She dreaded Shannon's are-you-crazy screech when she found out. Jen wasn't an outdoorsy person. At all. "I think he doesn't want us to be separated for the few weeks of the show's filming. Isn't that sweet?"

"Yeah, it's positively saccharine." Shannon's eyes narrowed. "This doesn't make any sense to me. Why would he want you to pretend to be into another guy if he's interested in you?"

"It's show business. Nothing's real on TV."

"I don't like this." Shannon frowned, her eyebrows lowering even as her lip curled up.

Even if she might disagree with Owen's tactics, Jen had to get on this show. Choosing I-don't-think-so wasn't an option when it came to her forever guy. Twenty-seven loomed ominously in a few months. If her witch line ended without an heir ... not worth contemplating. Her death would lead to her goddess ancestors' rage and world destruction. Owen had to be it for her. "Please help me."

"I could ask my druid bodyguard to volunteer. He's pretty hot and the right age. I think he's got a crush on you."

"I don't want to pretend to be into him. Even if he is attractive, the thought of kissing him makes me want to puke." She glanced around, recognizing their vulnerability at this club. "We probably shouldn't have ditched our druid protection tonight."

"Live a little. There are no witch hunters hiding in the shadows here."

"How do you know? They're pros at hiding."

"Auras, honey." Shannon drained the remaining half of her drink as if it were a shot. "Let's say you do get on the show with a pretend boyfriend. What could possibly go wrong with faking love with a stranger on national TV?"

"That does sound stupid. But I have to try." Owen had to be it.

"Do you think Owen has magical skills? And he'd be okay with you being a witch?"

"I'm pretty sure he's got some sort of special ability. I don't know what."

"It's dangerous not to know his full capabilities. What if he's on the witch-killer side of magic wielders? Lure you in and then he goes all Michael Myers from Halloween on you."

"I never got that vibe from him."

"The best killers are charming."

"Michael Myers was not charming. I think you're confusing him with Patrick Bateman from American Psycho. I don't think Owen wants to kill me." She took a gulp of her drink to hide her uncertainty.

"I don't like his aura. Not that I've met him in person. I did see him at a distance when we were meeting for lunch a few weeks ago. Remember? That was the last time you said you bumped into him."

"I feel drawn to him. He's so ..." She sighed, remembering Owen's beautiful eyes. "Please help me."

"Okay. If you believe in your gut Owen is it, then I'll help."

Minutes later, she watched Shannon flip her hair over a shoulder and lead a very hot tattooed, tastefully pierced guy onto the dance floor. Shannon's "help" plan involved dancing and then introducing Jen to her dance partner's friends. Two strikeouts so far.

Alone and bored, she decided on a bathroom trip. She hopped off the uncomfortably tall barstool and wove her way through the dancers. A crowd of rough guys milled in the bathroom hallway. She pressed through toward the women's restroom. A lanky guy with stringy brown hair leered at her chest.

"Let me show you some real fun." The lanky guy crowded her. His breath reeked of alcohol and cigarettes.

She retreated until her back hit the wall.

He leaned into her, locking her arms against the wall with his hands. The dilation of his eyes and jittery movements suggested he was intoxicated with something more than alcohol. "I can clear a stall for us." He rolled his hard-on against her. Bile singed the back of her throat.

Did he mean do it in a bathroom stall? Gross.

She struggled for freedom. Why had she listened to Shannon and ditched her druid bodyguard? Now she'd have to resort to one of the moves she'd learned in self-defense class. Or cast a spell.

Suddenly her attacker went airborne and landed hard enough against the emergency exit door to render him unconscious. She stared up at her savior, expecting the bar's bouncer. Her gratitude died on the tip of her tongue.

Holy Toledo. Him?

Nikolai Jovec.

Her stomach did a small, crazy flip. Relief and fury seesawed in her brain.

"Trouble, Angel?" Nikolai's gaze slid from hers and turned ice cold. Complete and utter confidence surrounded him as he evaluated the men around them. His gaze promised pain to any challenger. All the guys vacated the hallway in a comical rush.

She glared upward at the six-foot-something of gorgeous pissed off guy and nervously adjusted the strap of her mini purse. Now would be the perfect moment for the man her spell conjured to appear.

The only male in sight was Nikolai. Her spell couldn't have drawn him to her. Magic didn't work well on him. And he wasn't interested in her by his own admission last year. She glanced around again, still not sighting any male prospects for her fake boyfriend, and released an agitated snort.

Nikolai's blond hair was loose, brushing his shoulders, which seemed so much wider than she remembered from last year. His nose appeared different — straighter, narrower, and without the distinctive kink of a previous break at the midpoint. A new scar rested over his left eyebrow. Had he been injured and gotten facial work? The thought of him hurt, especially severely enough to warrant surgery, bothered her.

"What are you doing here?" The low timbre of his voice with that hint of an Eastern European accent washed heat down her spine and settled into a craving deep in her lower abdomen.

Her instant reaction to him hadn't changed. She resented it. "Why don't you tell me why you're here?"

"Saving your ass."

"I'm positive that's not why you're here. Were you searching for a hookup tonight?"

"This isn't your kind of club." His gaze traveled down her throat to the designer spaghetti strap tank top and lingered on her breasts. His expressive lips tipped upward into an annoying grin.

"But it might be your kind of club." She'd forgotten she'd chosen her newest skimpy top. She crossed her arms over her chest. "How do you know this isn't where I come every Friday night?" Her mind replayed images of when he'd saved her life last year from witch hunters in a wrong-place, wrong-time life collision. She recalled being pressed tight to all those hard contours while bullets tore into him. The memory of their far-from-chaste kiss after she'd cared for his bullet wounds warmed her body. But his words following their overwhelming kiss seared her mind like pouring alcohol on a fresh cut: I'm not interested.

"You like to party? Here?" His eyebrows rose, and his voice dripped sarcasm.

She fought the urge to smack him.

"We need to talk," he announced.

She uncrossed her arms. "How did you know I was here?"

"I arrived at your apartment right as you were leaving."

"What could the world's greatest Russian FSB agent, at least according to you, possibly want to talk to me about enough to follow me?"

His brows snapped into a terrifying scowl. He gripped her hand, dragged her around her unconscious attacker, and out the emergency exit into the deserted alley. No alarms sounded. He wheeled her around to face him. "How do you know what I used to do?"

Oops. "You told me. Remember?" What did he mean used to? Had he retired?

"I don't recall revealing any such thing." His eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Did you slip me something last year, or use a spell?"

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Excerpted from Playing the Witch's Game by Zoe Forward, Allison Collins. Copyright © 2016 Zoe Forward. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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