How to Marry a Warlock in 10 Days Read Online Free PDF

hadn’t been easy. Neither had it been easy to summon a look intimidat-ing enough to quell their snorts of laughter with one freak-ing eye.
    He’d done it though and they’d gone about their work silently. Of course, he was sure that he’d be the topic of discussion over dinner for many weeks to come. It wasn’t anything new that he’d be the topic of discussion, but it was usually about how rich or handsome he was. Not how this idiot had strolled into Urgent Care with a cranberry sticking out of his eye. Especially when the debutante witches all seemed to titter on about his “penetrating gaze” or “piercing eyes. Not so engaging as a cyclops, he was sure.
    It had taken a very expensive potion, three charms, and a cleric’s prayer to get the swelling to go down and he’d have to wear an eye patch for a week. If he’d been a mortal with that kind of super allergy, his throat would have promptly closed and he would have been dead.
    Damned cranberries!
    At this point, it was impossible not to notice that disaster followed Middy Cherrywood wherever she went. She was a right little mess, that one. Yet, Dred was intrigued. She’d not acted like the other skirts he’d hunted. Again, he had to suppose it was good that she was going to be a challenge because after he was done with her, he’d have to start over.
    He’d shagged every witch known to the magickal world.
    Or so the tabloids said.
    Which brought him back to Midnight Cherrywood—a witch who needed a good pounding if there ever was one.
    Dred decided that he was just the warlock to give it to her.
    His Witchberry started buzzing and he looked at the screen for a moment. It was High Chancellor Godrickle.
    Fuck.
    “Shadowins.” Hubert Godrickle’s face appeared pinched and pale on the screen.
    “What’s happened?” Dred knew that the High Chancellor wouldn’t be calling him unless something serious had happened. They avoided each other like the plague, but for the appearances at social functions that were expected.
    They didn’t want to give away Dred’s secret.
    Dred Shadowins wasn’t just a billionaire playboy. He was a war hero, the kind that no one ever hears about. Not like that pompous cock, Tristan Belledare, who’d convinced the Magickal Senate that he’d saved the world from certain doom, et cetera and so forth. Dred moved in shadows and mystery; he was a secret operative, a spy. Not for the Magickal Senate either, but for his people, specifically for High Chancellor Godrickle.
    Witches and warlocks, gargoyles, fairies, dragons, and other magickal kin had their own governments, whose leaders met monthly in the Magickal Senate, which was much like the days of Rome and just as corrupt. Right now, from the look on Godrickle’s face, Rome was burning.
    “You look like someone shat in your Eye of Newt.”
    Dred raised a brow, uncertain if he even wanted to hear about this latest installment of fuckery.
    “The Gargoyle Council did. Twice,” Hubert said. “What do you know about cursed or dark objects?”
    Dred shrugged in response. What didn’t he know?
    Cursed and dark objects were items crafted in pain and suffering that often led to more of the same. They could be used to channel immense power—though that power often came with a blood price—sometimes even a life price. He’d trafficked in them briefly as a young warlock, when he’d still had his head up his own ass. Nothing too serious had crossed his palm, and for that, he was thankful. The junky rush of power that came along with the cursed and dark objects was too much to resist and many a witch and warlock had met horrible fates.
    “Someone is moving some major merchandise through the U.S. and we’re not sure how they are getting it in or out.”
    “We knew that, Hubert. Why do the gargoyles care?”
    “Their national museum was plundered and, if that’s not the worst of it, they’re sure that whoever did this is trying to resurrect a lamia.” Hubert inhaled a shaky