Page 27 of Her Dreadful Will
Achan was out of the booth in half a second, offering his hand. “Are you all right, miss?”
The server snarled at him through clenched teeth and fled to the kitchen. Angry male yells issued between the swinging doors. Clearly she was being verbally flayed for her clumsiness.
“Not a nice place to work.” Achan slid back into his side of the booth. “Crabby waitress, screaming boss, dirty tableware—I’m sorry. I swear this place had decent reviews.”
“It’s fine.” Soleil waved off his apology even as her heart sank. She’d had high hopes for this date, but everything was going so wrong. She had been acting weird and distant, distracted by her own attempts to figure him out or to influence the server. Achan’s memories of their dinner would be forever tarnished by conflict, confusion, and disappointment. He would never ask her out again, and the certainty pained her more deeply than it should have.
A thin hand slid across the table, fingertips brushing hers. “At least we’ll have a story to tell. Chaos is always so much more interesting than order, don’t you think?”
Surprised, she lifted her eyes to his. “I’m not sure I agree.”
“No?” He grinned wider. “I suppose I’ll have to prove it to you then.”
He began to eat, and Soleil followed his example. Her steak was tough, and the squash was basically mush, but the risotto wasn’t too bad. She was halfway through her portion when a cry from a corner table attracted her attention.
The water stain she’d noticed earlier had spread dramatically, a double ring of brown residue with a swollen, blackening bulge at its center. Dark water dripped from the bulge onto the table beneath, sending the three customers scattering from their booth, disgust painting their faces. The pustule on the ceiling burst with a pop, disgorging a flood of foul water all over the diners’ meals.
“Oh my gosh!” Soleil gaped. “Should we—should we leave?”
Before Achan could respond, a concussive blast from the kitchen sent all the fire alarms into a shrill panic, and a billow of bitter smoke surged between the swinging doors along with several fleeing kitchen staff.
“Yeah, let’s go.” Slapping some cash onto the table, Achan leaped from the bench and caught her hand, drawing her with him out the side emergency exit. The alarm jangled in Soleil’s ears, and mixed with its blaring she thought she heard Achan laugh, wild and gleeful. Maybe it was her imagination. She was busy shoving her magical sense deep down, into the center of herself, where she couldn’t be buffeted by the panic of so many wills suddenly galvanized into action.
Besides, what kind of maniac would laugh at such a wreck of an evening?
11
Achan led her around the corner of the building to the back parking lot. The chilly night drew them into itself, and Soleil yielded to the blessed embrace of the dark. She breathed deep, erasing the reek of the smoke and the foul brown water, bathing her lungs with the scent of night, of damp loam and fresh leaves. In the shadowed corner of the lot, the trees leaned over Soleil’s car, their leaves shivering and whispering with secrets.
She should go back and use her power to soothe the terrified customers and staff. But there was a tall dark-haired dentist at her side, with brilliant green eyes and a smile made of midnight and stars.
He laid a hand on her VW’s fender. “Here you are.”
Her eyes drifted to his hand, splayed against the car. Again she noticed the lines peeking out from under the frayed finger-ends of his gloves. She took in his easy stance, the tilt of his hips, the wolf in his smile, and finally the alertness waking in his eyes, as if he could follow her thoughts. As if he suspected thatshesuspected—something.
No volisphere.
On impulse she stepped forward, tucked her fingers into the open collar of his shirt, and yanked it down until three buttons popped.
And there, emblazoned on his chest, was a tattooed mandala woven with alchemical symbols.
“Iknewit.” She shoved him, her palm flat against the mandala on his chest. He stumbled, catching himself against the car.
Through the brief contact she had felt the hum of the mandala’s concealing power, hiding his volisphere from her. Guarding him against her influence. “What are you? Some kind of self-made antigen? A Highwitch?”
“Awhat?”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.” She tugged on the chain around her neck, dangling the hyacle in front of her.
Achan quirked an eyebrow. “You make jewelry?”
“Quit playing dumb,” she growled, and with all the strength of her mind she attacked him, throwing herself mentally against the shield of the mandala. His eyes widened, and he pressed a hand over his heart, hissing with pain.
“Okay, you can stop now. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Hurtmyself?” She laughed. “I don’t think so.”
“Clearly you’re very powerful. Too powerful for me to resist.” With a wink, he drew off his gloves, revealing tattooed fingers.
