Page 49 of The Wolfing Hour
“Of course it is,” Maya said, “Betty, this is ridiculous?—”
“No,” Bronwyn huffed out. “It’s not.”
“What?” I’d never before seen the word crestfallen acted out in real life. Maya’s shoulders drooped and she shook her head reflexively. “No. No. That can’t be true.”
“Sure it can,” I said. “People lie all the time.”
“No.” Maya kept shaking her head. “Not to friends.”
Bronwyn’s body slumped. Sorrow exuded from her. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you.”
Maya sniffed, obviously on the verge of tears. She looked like a kicked dog. “It was all a lie? Our friendship? Everything you told me about yourself?”
“No. Not everything. Most of it was true.”
“Most of it,” Maya said dully.
“The important parts. Only the names were changed, I swear.”
Ouch. I was the most flippantly obtuse person I knew, and even I could see that was a step too far. Maya had been repeatedly lied to by her jackass of a husband. She wasn’t going to take being lied to lightly.
“Jokes? Really, Bronwyn—or whatever your name is?” Maya turned her back on Bronwyn and went behind the counter. She picked up her phone and purse and brushed past Margaux on her way into the storeroom. “Thank you both for saving my life. Goodbye.”
“Maya. I’m sorry.” Bronwyn’s breath hitched.
The back door slammed so hard the front windows shuddered in their panes. Bronwyn cursed, her eyes dampening.
I let a couple of seconds tick by so her pain could really soak in. Normally, I wasn’t one to revel in the misery of others. Then again, I wasn’t normally being betrayed by someone I considered a friend.
“Two friends down,” I said. “One to go.”
She glared at me, her irises rimmed in pink, the color of her magic. She chanted under her breath, lips barely moving.
“How are you connected to Mason Hartman and my current misery?”
Her eyes glowed, and the air between us charged with magic.
As a learned witch, Bronwyn hadn’t been born with magic. It didn’t make her any less of a witch—it often made her more resourceful than those of us who leaned primarily on our element—but right now, with the full weight of my power gripping her by the throat, she was at a severe disadvantage.
“Are you doing this on purpose, or is this the secrecy spell?” I asked.
Her lips picked up speed; the chant grew louder.
Margaux watched attentively but didn’t offer any help to either of us. That suited me fine. I’d rather she stayed out of it.
“I’m guessing it’s the latter,” I said. “Look, I don’t want to kill you, but if you cast that spell—I don’t care if it’s something as benign as you conjuring the scent of a rose garden to hide the smell of a fart—Iwillhurt you. You need to believe that I’m not screwing around here, Bronwyn.”
She stopped chanting. Swallowed. “I believe.”
“You’ve been lying to me since the second we met. Now’s your chance to tell me everything. If you hold back, even a little, I’ll kill you. I’ll have to. The lives of my people are at stake.”
“Ibelieveyou might hurt me.” Bronwyn gave me a hard look. “But you won’t kill me.”
I twirled my fingers and yanked. She flew forward, her arms still pinned to her sides, feet hovering inches off the ground. I pushed magic at her, turning up the heat, so that it felt like hot oil splashed on her skin.
She hissed in pain. “Still … don’t believe … you’ll kill me.”
Anger swelled, slamming against a wall of frustration. Damn her, she was right—I couldn’t kill her. She was lying, and those lies were preventing me from protecting my people. All the same, killing her—even if she deserved it—was a step too far. Which made sense, because I thought ofheras one of my people.
