The scent of magic hangs in the air—ours. Zorakkov’s. Brian’s.
“We can… talk,” she suggests.
“Talk,” I repeat.
The delusional hope shining in her eyes warms my soul, and I suppress a grin.
I can’t wait to see it flame out.
Taking my silence as an invitation to continue, she says, “Yes! Talk! Like we used to? Maybe… maybe have some tea, or… do a Tarot reading?”
I let out a dry laugh. “You said my Tarot interpretations were as trite and meaningless as my whining.”
Her face falls. “Well, that was… extenuating circumstances. I was under a lot of stress with the wedding planning, and—”
“You’re not even a real witch,” I continue. “That’s what you said to me.”
I cup my hand, watching the magic dance across my palm.
Then I arc back and slap her hard across the face, gripping her cheek and sending a shock of pain through her skull.
My fae rune burns bright. I don’t have to see it to know it’s there. I can feel it searing the back of my neck. Marking me. Claiming me.
The others stand around us, watching me close. If I’m freaking them out, they don’t show it.
I’m pretty sure there’s no one here who doesn’t know what it’s like to want vengeance.
“Stop!” my stepmother screams. “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!”
I remove my hand, and she gasps for breath.
“Beg me for your life,” I say.
“W-what?”
I grit my teeth. Lift my hand once more, the magic more than happy to dance for me. “Beg. Me.”
Tears fall freely down her face, each one plopping into the snow.
Eloise meets my gaze. Terror clouds her eyes.
She sucks in a shuddering breath.
And then?
Oh, how the wretched bitch begs.
I hate the sound of her pathetic voice. Her mewling.
But I love the fact that she has no more power over me.
Finally, when I can’t take another minute of her insipid whining, I hold up a hand to shut her up.
“Does… does this mean you’ll let me go?” she whispers, that faint glimmer of hope returning to her eyes. “Oh, Westlyn! It really is the best outcome. I’m—”
I lean in close and grip her jaw, nails digging into her skin. In a soft whisper only she can hear, I say, “Your pleading is as trite and meaningless as your life. You’re not even a real witch.”
Then I shove a dagger into her gut.
