Page 97 of Gemini Wicked

That’s because I made my warlocks (even Max, especially Max who’s failing half his classes but still in rut and grumbly about leaving me), go wherever they’re all supposed to be for second period.

Me?

I’m supposed to be up in the choir loft library for study hall, boning up on the Horn of Ceres and cramming for that freaking final.

Now it doesn’t look like I’m gonna get that chance.

“Oh, Zara.” My ex-BFF tosses the glossy rope of her merlot braid over one shoulder and gives me an exasperated look. “You could have fled. You could have hidden. You could even have supported me, which would save us all a great deal of trouble. But I told him you wouldn’t.”

My gaze flickers to Xiao.

My ex-fuck toy is lurking in the Gothic doorway at Cleo’s heels like a pet poodle (same as always). So I assume he’s the him she’s talking about.

In his spiffy new Academy slacks and blazer, with his moussed-up black hair and his smoldery glare, he’s the other half of that Burberry ad she’s rocking.

Except his arm’s in a sling (an apparent souvenir of his scuffle with Lucius’ wolf). That’s a good look on him.

Now his sulky expression makes me smirk. I pop my hip out and fold my arms across my chest.

“Lemme get this straight.” I muse. “You two waltz into my birthday party without an invite, physically attack me and my warlocks, literally try to shoot me and knife Ronin, plan to steal my fucking crown on live TV, then expect me to just accept that shit and skulk off with my tail between my legs?”

I nail Cleo with my own version of the Romanov eyebrow. “Keep dreaming, Sunshine.”

That’s my old nickname for her (an ironic one, because she’s all stormy and pouty, especially early in the a.m.) I’m actually kinda proud of myself for saying it without flinching.

My ex’s long lashes fall over her violet eyes. Under a slick of nude lipstick from one of the high-end brands she pimps, her full lips tighten.

For a sec, I wonder if maybe being mortal enemies and vicious rivals for the same throne is as painful for her as it is for me.

Then her bony shoulders straighten. Her lashes lift and her eyes flash. Her gaze shoots straight to the backpack I’m schlepping.

The same backpack that holds the witching world crown V lifted right off her mom’s head last night.

Her lips part with what looks like surprise.

Deliberately she saunters into the commons with her long-legged runway stride. Xiao slinks in after her like a jackal.

The heavy church door swings shut behind them with a thud.

“Cavolo,” Cleo murmurs. “I suppose we do this the hard way.”

Sweet Jesus.

Do not even tell me that bitch is clairsentient.

I scramble to recall the Aquarius genetics from my Science of Witchcraft class and whether she’s got Valyrian telepathy (as well as Dark Fae and, apparently, sea dragon shifter) in her witchy DNA.

At the same time, I ease away from the study carrels to give myself maneuvering space and scope out the commons to see who my allies are. I deliberately sent my guys away (because one, they have classes, and two, I don’t need their hovery closeness setting off my superheat, that’s literally the last thing we need right now). Dez is off with a grouchy RT in the clinic, getting the status of Racetrack’s concussion checked.

Which means I’m pretty much alone in here except for a cluster of worried Hadrians, all friends of the absent Mallory, near the coffee nook.

Plus Skyler and her Villa Tiberius clique (who were leaving till Cleo showed up) just circled back to watch the show.

Cheese on toast.

Guess we’re doing this now.

Anticipation tightens my chest and crackles along my skin. I narrow my gaze on my approaching ex-bestie, measure the cadence of her unhurried footfalls in the suddenly silent church, and hum in the back of my throat. The echoey rumble of the lightning voice lifts my hair from my shoulders and flutters my skirt against my thigh-highs.

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