Page 60 of Her Dreadful Will
There had been boys in college Soleil wanted to punish, but she had settled for a positive mind-flex instead—enhancing their respect for women, suppressing their baser instincts. But she hadn’t made hyacles for them, or checked back in. Now she wondered how long her mind-flex had lasted, and whether they had reverted to old behaviors. Perhaps a violent punishment would have left a more durable impression.
“You think I’m wicked,” said Achan. A statement of fact, no trace of guilt or apology.
“Maybe.” She tilted her head, eyeing him. “Doyouthink you’re wicked?”
“I think wickedness is subjective. It all depends on your worldview.” He cocked his own head to match the angle of hers. “You can’t tell anyone about my chaos magic, you know. If you do, I will be hunted.”
Soleil’s heart accelerated—she almost thought she could hear the slow chomp of a brown-haired witch chewing a wad of gum. She spoke too fast, too frantically, desperate to reassure herself. “No, you won’t. The Convocation might talk to you, or have you monitored, but they wouldn’thunt you down.”
They wouldn’t. Theywouldn’t.
His face darkened. “What if I told you that I’ve seen them do it? That I’ve watched them fit someone with a restraining cuff? And when that didn’t work, that I saw them kill—”
“No.” Soleil cut him off, panic spiking in her chest. “This is the twenty-first century, Achan. Stuff like that doesn’t happen to witches anymore. Not as long as we’re quiet, and careful. If it happens, it’s because someone didn’t obey the rules, didn’t follow orders. It’s their own fault.” She bit her lip, cutting off the words and hating herself for having spoken them. She didn’t even believe what she was saying any more. Not after what she had witnessed.
Achan’s words were cool and clipped. “Is it wrong to want to shake off the rules? We’re all so damn civilized and secretive nowadays. Soft, and impotent. Don’t you hate it, Sol? There’s no space in this world for real power, big power. The Institute and the Convocation have stripped us of everything that could help us be truly great. They crush us and keep us down, because the humans want them to. The Convocation is nothing but a conspiracy run by the humans. They bribe the high-tier witches, give them power and position, in return for them keeping a tight hold over the rest of us.”
He was breathing hard and fast, eyes blazing with a savagery that made Soleil shrink away, alarmed. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I’ve seen the proof.” He braced his hand against a nearby tree, tipping his head back and closing his eyes for a minute. A few calming breaths later, he looked at her again; but when he let go of the tree, there was a stain of rot on it in exactly the shape of his hand.
“I don’t know what you’ve heard or seen.” Soleil spoke shakily, more to herself than to Achan. “And I’m sure there are some bad witches in places of power within the Institute and the Convocation. But not all of them are like that. Not all of them are calculating, or mercenary, or cruel. What about my friend Tarek? He works for them, believes in them, and he’s good.”
Achan smiled sadly. “What is ‘good’? And how long would your friendship last if you challenged the institution to which he has given his life?”
“Challenged it? What are you talking about?” Soleil twisted her hands together uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t do something like that.”
He stared at her for a second before his features settled into a weary, resigned expression. “Of course you wouldn’t. Let’s leave the Convocation politics aside for a moment, and get back to more enjoyable topics. Do you still want to know more about my magic?”
Soleil drew in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of water and woods. The afternoon air was thick and heavy with humidity, and she was starting to crave a cool blast of air conditioning and maybe an icy lemonade. Or a frappuccino.
“I do want to know more,” she said. “But we can talk on the way back.”
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and toed one shoe against the rock. The shriveled leaves fluttered aside, and a couple of them blew off the edge and drifted out over the waterfall. “You want to do dinner with me?”
How did he manage to look so damnably wicked one minute, and so awkward and uncertain the next? The look he gave her was anxiety and eagerness mingled—the look of a teenage boy talking to his crush.
She was helpless against it. “Fine. You’re paying.”
Delight flashed in his eyes. “Happy to.”
22
Zillah Dean tried to scrub the prickling sensation from her eyes with the heels of her hands. She squinted at the screen of the old laptop again and flicked her index finger over the mouse wheel, scrolling through job listings. None of them looked promising. Ever since the Cheshire’s Steakhouse fiasco and the restaurant’s subsequent closing, she hadn’t been able to find another waitressing gig. Wonderland, Georgia had a limited number of jobs available. A limited number of businesses.
If Zillah were free, she would move out of town, to Savannah or Charleston where the food service industry was booming and she could have her pick of waitressing jobs. Maybe even a hostess job, though they usually picked the younger, prettier girls and guys for those roles. The cost of living would be higher, but tips would also be better, maybe. And she’d be near the ocean. Hadn’t been to the ocean in ages, never mind that it was a mere six hours’ drive away. Thanks to a nearly empty bank account and her useless lump of a grandmother, there was no time or money for travel, or even a weekend away. Zillah would kill for a weekend away. Instead of spending her entire Friday job-hunting, she’d spend it on a beach towel, under a fluttering umbrella.
She could see it now—a tiny private rental, maybe just a room in someone’s house, nothing fancy. The crinkled surface of the ocean, glittering under the sun. She would stand in its shallows while it rushed in, pooling and foaming over her bare feet. The wet sand would sink and suck away from her toes with each gentle wave. And the sea air, wild and careless, would whip her hair into a salty tangle.
Maybe there would be a man. Someone who wouldn’t mind her smoking habit, or the way parts of her were beginning to sag and wrinkle. Someone who would treat her right, not like Henry, or Burt, or Ellis—damn them all.
“Zillah?” The quavering voice issued from the bedroom. “Zillah?”
“Just a minute!” Zillah yelled. She scrolled a little further down the webpage. Still no promising jobs. If only she weren’t stuck here, chained to the old family home and its shriveled owner. If Mom hadn’t died of breast cancer,shewould be tied down here, taking care of Gran.
But Zillah always drew the short straw. Always. As a teen, she’d taken care of her sister Delia while Mom worked, after Dad left. She had taken care of GranandMom, during Mom’s cancer. And now, she worked her ass off all damn day and then took care of Gran in the evenings, after that no-good Nancy finished her shift. Nancy was cheap, the only at-home care Zillah could afford for Gran on the weekdays. Of course, cheap meant “nearly useless.” All Nancy could be counted on was doling out the pills, slapping together sandwiches, and helping Gran to the toilet. No cleaning. No reading aloud—not that Gran could tell one chapter of a book from another anymore. Though lately Gran had seemed—sharper. More alert.
Usually Gran was asleep when Zillah got home, but after losing her job, Zillah had been around the house more. She had noticed Gran paying attention to shows and actually caring when Zillah turned one off in the middle of an episode. Gran had been reading books, too, and writing notes with her swollen arthritic fingers. Zillah had even caught Gran trying to use the phone once. She put a stop to that damn quick and hustled the old woman back to bed.
