Page 38 of Which Witch is Willing?
I got this.
I don’t got this.
“Fuck!” Enraged, Lucy threw down the arm she’d been attempting to pop back into the gaping shoulder socket of the body she was wearing. The gleaming white ball of bone protruding from the wet red stump glowed in the moonlight.
Time to change.
She picked up the long, black leather duster from the hedge, shrugging one arm into the coat and draping the other over her shoulder to hide the damage while she limped toward downtown.
With any luck, people would think she was just a kinky amputee.
Luck, she sneered inwardly.
Luck was a rank twat who she hadn’t been on speaking terms with for quite a while.
Not since the devastating cyanide spell that drove her from her own crumbling carcass into more pleasing—and also intact—vessels.
Trouble was, they never stayed intact.
Her powers had been compromised right along with her face, and even a simple possession spell turned into a total fuckola.
Take this most recent body, for instance.
The taut, lithe, little boho yoga teacher she’d spotted browsing among the crystals at Phoenix Rising.
She’d chosen her.
She stalked her.
She’d deftly helped herself to the body the minute the hippie had ever so compassionately turned her back on Lucy’s veiled and putrefying face.
And less than hour later, boom.
A finger popped off.
Followed by three toes on the left foot. Still, to Lucy’s knowledge, scattered under the table where she’d been sitting at Siren’s pub. She didn’t envy whichever member of the t-shirted waitstaff found them. Just as she didn’t pity the snooty tea-shop proprietress who had driven her out the second she noticed the scattering of teeth that flew from Lucy’s mouth as she tried to order a chai latte. A dizzying act of hypocrisy, Lucy thought, from someone who sported horsey, ill-fitting dentures.
Judgy bitch.
Still, the body had lasted long enough to serve its purpose.
Which was pretty much the only purpose Lucy had these days—eavesdrop on the sisters de Moray.
From the fight she’d witnessed while lurking just beyond the de Moray house’s wards, things were getting juicy.
Remembering the sound Conquest made when the backwater swamp witch had hiked his junk up to his sternum made Lucy forget herself for a moment and she grinned.
An action she immediately realized to be a mistake when with a pop her jaw came unhinged and dangled from the top half of her skull.
“Hun of uh itch,” she growled, attempting to snap her face back together with her remaining hand. Her jaw flopped back down the second she released it. “Huck it,” she said, deciding to let it hang.
Just then, a car pulled up alongside her, the passenger side window sinking down with an automated buzz. The driver—a polite and pony-tailed man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles—ducked down to lean across the arm rest.
“Excuse me, miss. I noticed you were limping. Could you maybe use a ride somewhere?”
Lucy turned to him, forgetting herself until his eyes widened. “Dear God,” he gasped. “What’s the matter with you?”
She tried raising her eyebrows to make it seem like maybe her mouth was only gaping from perpetual surprise, but the effort stretched her eyelids just a hair too far.
