Page 48 of Her Dreadful Will
“No?” He lowered his head so his eyes gleamed at her through black lashes.
“No,” she said. “A few tricks with insects are nothing compared to the power I wield over people—their wills, their lives.”
A wicked smile curved his mouth. “Careful. Someone might think you actually relish that power.”
His words crawled into Soleil’s brain and burrowed there. Suddenly his gaze was too sharp, too painful. She turned away and slid off the picnic table. “I’ve had enough of you for one night. I’ll take you home, or you can wait for Lindsey. Doesn’t matter to me.”
“Why does it scare you so much to be honest with yourself about who you are and what you want?”
She whirled, eyes burning. “You laugh at me, judge me, criticize my teachers, question me—and you expect me to be fine with that? I thoughtIwas supposed to be questioningyou!”
He tilted his head, tapping his chin with his tattooed fingers. “Funny how that whole interrogation got flipped around.”
“I don’t like being manipulated and ridiculed.”
“I’m only trying to show you—”
“I don’t need you to mansplain magic to me, okay? You’re not a Highwitch, or a mentor, or an ordained Witchlord. You’re just a guy with a bunch of sparkly bugs and an inflated sense of his own power.” She snatched her bag and stalked to the pavilion’s entrance. “Find your own way home.”
18
When she got home, Soleil took Carebear out. He was sleepy, and apparently offended at being tugged outdoors and ordered to do his business. He peed, then gave her his best lordly glare as he stalked back inside, without even begging for a walk.
It was after midnight, but Soleil couldn’t sleep. As she brushed her teeth, she was buzzing with energy, nerves alight, her brain firing off rapid sentences, floods of angry words sheshouldhave said to Achan. Had she really considered inviting him into her home, letting him touch her? That smug, self-satisfied, condescendingbastard.
She needed to talk to someone.
Diving onto her bed, she opened the Institute chat app on her phone and selected the message chain she shared with Lucibae and Uzigothgirl. She typed in a quick line: “Anybody still up?” and waited, chewing her nails. They were both probably in bed already. Damn.
And then a blinking orange skull showed up—Uzigothgirl was typing. “Still awake. Binging Sabrina again. ’Sup, Starburst?”
Soleil decided not to comment on the TV show’s inaccuracies. Suspending disbelief—and rational thought—was the only way to enjoy most human shows about the supernatural. “Met a witch in my town,” she typed.
“What!?”
“Yup. A super annoying witch who thinks he knows everything.”
“Wait, that’s so weird. Lucibae encountered another witch at her location, too. She tell you about that?”
Soleil’s eyes widened as she typed a response. “Yeah, but I forgot. So weird. The Institute makes us submit our locations for approval so that doesn’t happen.”
“That’s what they say.”
“Have you met any other witches where you are?”
“Nope. Not one. You’d think Toronto would have a few, right? Or at least a couple sensitives to make things interesting. But the magic scene is dead here.”
Uzigoth’s affinity was spectral magic—playing with light, splitting it into its components and colors, crafting illusions. She’d finished a degree in cinematography and was working as a freelance photographer while trying to break into the production side of movies in Ontario’s capital, the so-called “Hollywood North.” But so far, she hadn’t had much success.
“No news on the thing with that movie?” Soleil asked.
“It’s a job as a grip, on the set of an actual thriller movie. And no, I didn’t get it.”
Soleil winced. “Sorry.” She wanted to ask Uzigoth to explain again what a “grip” did on set, but refrained. She could always Google it later.
Another cursor popped up—the blinking pink snowflake that indicated Lucibae entering the group chat.
“Hey, Luci!” Soleil typed in quickly.
