PART I
MILITARY L.A.W
ASHLYN CHASE
Love. Anarchy. Witchcraft.
Major Payne thought he’d seen it all—until the military loaned him to a magical task force run by a coven of fierce, sarcastic, and questionably stable witches. Welcome to L.A.W. (the League of Amazing Witches) where the spells are chaotic, the PMS is scheduled, and the team mascot might be a psychic goldfish.
When a faceless creature starts leaving cryptic graffiti and stalking the city’s magic-sensitive teens, the witches spring into action with potions, puns, and one very over-it High Priestess who doesn’t seem to have time for romance. Unfortunately for her, Payne isn’t just any soldier. He’s the only man who interests her and might just outlast her.
With magic surging, mysteries unraveling, and the mansion itself going mobile, the L.A.W. team must figure out what this thing wants, and how to stop it before the teens are replicated for Goddess knows what.
1
Her book signing event was finally here, which meant Rayna Blackstone was feeling exceptionally powerful. Her dark curls were cooperating, her eyeliner was lethal, and she was about to charm the pants off a hundred strangers. Metaphorically. Probably.
Outside the "Brooklyn Book Bodega," a line of eager fans stretched around the corner. Some clutched worn paperbacks like holy relics; others wore custom T-shirts that said,Seduce Me, Rayna!in glittery lettering. One enterprising soul had a full-size cardboard cutout of Rayna’s fictional hero, Diego the Lusty Witch, wearing nothing but strategically placed smoke.
Rayna beamed. She adored her readers. They had taste, open minds, and unhampered imaginations. Plus, they weren’t prudes.
Behind her, Michael Mann and Daniel Simmons, her man-pets, confidants, and emotional support snacks, hauled boxes of books as if it were their military duty. Because once upon a time, it had been. The Army may have taught them discipline, but Rayna had taught them joy. And how to fold fitted sheets with near-magical precision.
Michael, in his eternal cargo pants and scrupulously tight T-shirt, balanced two boxes as if they weighed nothing. “You sure this is a book signing and not a Beyoncé concert?”
“She is the Beyoncé of witch-lit,” Daniel quipped, brushing imaginary lint from his tight tank top. “Except with more sex scenes and better world-building.”
Rayna winked. “Let’s not forget the bodacious ta-tas.”
Inside, the bookstore buzzed with anticipation. Fairy lights twinkled. Scented candles gave off a mix of vanilla, sandalwood, and mild musk. Rayna took her seat at the signing table graced with a custom tablecloth, fresh gel pens, and a tiny glamor charm tucked beneath her nameplate to make sure no one left with a feeling of dismissal or buyer’s remorse.
The signing began. People laughed, cried, proposed to the cut-out of Diego the Lusty Witch, and one woman asked Rayna if she could bless her Kindle. Rayna did, mostly because the Kindle might be possessed. The woman said pages were turning by themselves.
And then, from across the street, a man stopped. He was square-jawed, broad-shouldered, and radiated Military Bearing, oroverbearing, perhaps. His buzz-cut caught the spring sunlight, making it look lighter than its medium brown.
He marched across the street, right up to the bookstore’s floor-to-ceiling windows. His name tag readA. Payne, which honestly sounded made-up, but Rayna had seen weirder names. Check out the backs of football jerseys, and your question about how they became so tough is answered.
Major Payne squinted through the bookstore window. His eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched.
Rayna’s heart pinged. “Uh-oh,” she muttered, mid-signature.
“What’s wrong?” Daniel asked, handing her the next book.
“Nothing. Just that tall drink of danger juice outside is giving me an allergic reaction.”
Michael looked. “Oh crap.”
Daniel looked. “Double crap.”
The moment the Major stepped through the door, both man-pets stood straighter than broomsticks and saluted.
The bookstore went silent.
Rayna blinked. Then, smiling like this was all part of the plan, she stood and placed a perfectly manicured hand on her hip.
“Well, this is awkward,” she said brightly. “Do I curtsy, or do we fight to the death?”
The Major’s gaze narrowed, then landed on her. “You’re Rayna Blackstone?”
