Page 5 of Wings and Shadowthief

She snorted in disbelief. “Oh, now you want to talk?”

Jack seemed honestly taken aback, as though he didn’t understand her ire. Which was so very typical of a man.

Last Halloween, they'd spent the entire night getting to know each and every crevice of each other's bodies, screaming each other's names, whispering sweet nothings. The day after, she’d smiled and waved at him. She wasn’t stupid—she didn’t think their night signaled the start of a budding romance. They’d had sex because their emotions had been high after the battle. Fighting for your life could have that effect on you. Still, she’d assumed they’d remain friends after that.

Jack had ignored her. He’d seemed to look through her, walking right past her.

The guy couldn't even say hi back?

And now he didn’t even get why she had a problem with him. Unbelievable.

“Look, it’s obvious I’ve done something to piss you off. I’d just like to know what, so I can do something about it. And, I don’t know, apologize.”

Gwen could only laugh in disbelief. “No, thank you. You’re about five months too late for that.”

“You don’t understand. I genuinely have no idea what I did wrong.” He dragged a hand through his wavy blond hair, sighing in frustration. “I get blackouts and forget what I do. The only reason I’m not caged is because I don’t seem to hurt people when I’m out of it.”

Was he for real? “How convenient.”

“You can ask around—several witches are looking into it. Blair’s clan in Salem, for one. They’ll back me up.”

That made her hesitate. Seconds ago, she would have called major bullshit, but if he invited her to check his story out, there might have some truth to it.

Not that it made any difference. If he’d forgotten fucking her—and fucking her over—it was his problem, not hers. Her feelings were valid, no matter his.

“I don’t care, Hunter.” She started to move away, eager to put as much distance as possible between them.

He made her uneasy, always had. There was something in the depths of his cold gray eyes that made it impossible to look at him without repressing a shiver. She didn’t like to smell him, or feel him. To witches such as her, sups had a specific aura, a distinctive presence. His used to thrill her. Now, when she was near him, she wanted to lash out, scream, hit something.

She’d only taken one step when his fingers circled her wrist, pulling her back.

Oh, hell no.

She didn’t even think. Power gathered in her palm and pushed back at him with a virulence she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of. Not against feral vampires, not against an army of werewolves, not against anything. He turned her into something she wasn’t.

A threat.

Jack was at least five yards away, and dozens of sharp ice spikes separated them.

Usually, Gwen wasn’t even winded when she used her power, regardless of what her teachers asked her to do. Make it snow? No problem. Call the rain? Piece of cake. Gather water in her palm? The only issue was that she summoned too much of it.

She’d never materialized anything like those spikes, though. They looked like blades, each one as dangerous as a sword. And for the very first time, she could feel it.

Her magic. Its shape, its desires, its bounds. It was like a cocoon enveloping her, moving along her skin like a silk dress.

This was what it was meant to do.

Attack.

Hurt her enemies.

Protect her.

She blinked, at a loss for words.

As far as she knew, her family had only included water witches—weather witches—for the last several centuries. This was something else entirely.

Yet she couldn’t deny it. Those strange weapons, those spikes? They were hers. The kind of conjuring that her soul craved.

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