Page 12 of Wicked Court

I take a tiny step back in confusion. My family couldn’t be more anti-spirit, anti-magic, anti-good luck charms, even if they actually believed in it enough to try.

“The Nightshades held the first ritual of blood sacrifice to witches over two centuries ago,” Cav adds.

I spin to face him, heavily aware of the circle of skulls closing in on me. “I don’t need any lessons from you.”

Cav angles his head. “Why not? We have such ... history together, your family and mine.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sasha? Do you need help?”

I move toward her, but I’m forced to a stop when another skull cuts in front of me.

“Sasha’s fine,” this one says, this voice sounding less like velvet and more like gravel under my feet.

Axe.

I struggle to keep my composure, though I’m being treated like a caged animal.

“I have no idea what twisted game you’re playing, but I want no part of it,” I say, glaring at each mask in turn.

I catch a glimpse of Sasha, still obliviously waiting for her bandage.

One thing about a super social best friend? She assumes the best in everybody and completely ignores danger radar.

“Sasha,” I hiss, hoping she has enough sense to turn around and kick Axe between the legs, offering me a getaway.

But no, she’s struck up a conversation with the sophomore guy tending to her.

Cav steps around the cauldron, the four of them circling me like wolves. “No need to be scared, butterfly. We’re all friends here.”

Cav’s tone is mocking, almost cruel.

Standing tall, I refuse to show fear. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I have nothing to offer.”

Another mask, the plastic moving with his grin. Either Kaspian or Wilder say, “Oh, I think you have a great deal to offer. If only you would share.”

His hand reaches out, brushing along my arm. I shiver at the unwelcome touch.

The one beside him steps even closer, invading my space. I recoil, but he catches my wrist in an iron grip. “Don’t play coy. You know exactly why we’re interested in you. Or should I say, your ancestry.”

This close, I’m able to match the throaty voice to Wilder.

I yank against his hold, but he won’t let go. He doesn’t shift from my struggles. His attention doesn’t stray. I’m burning under his stare.

Like a witch.

My pulse races. He can probably feel it under his gloved hand. But I keep my voice steady. “Let go of me.”

Wilder tightens his hold painfully.

By process of elimination, the one I dub Kaspian cracks his knuckles next to Wilder. “Time to stop playing nice.”

He moves to grab my other arm.

Thinking fast, I stomp my heel down on Wilder’s foot. He curses and loosens his grip just enough for me to wrench free. I dart between him and Kaspian, breaking through their predatory circle and past the line of first years and groups of upperclassmen who did nothing but watch these guys’ intimidation tactics against me.

I choose the protective shadows of the woods over their entertained bystander approach.

They all love you until they get to see you fall.

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