I’m too far away to catch her. Julian is definitely too far away to catch her. And I can only make inanimate objects levitate, like pants—which mermaids do not wear. I summon everything else in sight—barstools shift beneath her in a mermaid-balancing dance, chairs zoom across the cafe, towels dive to her rescue—but I’m not fast enough.
Someone else’s magic is. And no, I don’t mean Julian’s. We don’t need another broken glass incident, or a second swollen ankle.
Amber’s mate lets out a surprised cry a split second after Ghost uses magic to gently lower her to the floor. To an outside observer, it would look like she’s falling in slow motion. I know he’s manipulating the very air around her. Him and his invisible magic, which is the real reason he earned the nickname Ghost.
I should be grateful that he saved my friend, but I hate him just a little more. Especially the way he stands there looking all pleased with himself. Asshole.
Julian rushes to Amber’s side, and I give them a moment of privacy. Not by choice, but because they start making out like we’re not even there. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Mates have no self-control.
I mentally roll my eyes at them and turn to Ghost.
“So, how’s the agency treating you?” I ask. Like he didn’t—well, he knows exactly what he did. And the way he grimaces is proof enough.
“I resigned two weeks ago.”
“Resigned?” I suddenly feel like a Yeti punched me in the chest. Or like Ghost just ripped my heart out, crushed it to a pulp, and ate it for dinner.
Okay, fine, if that really happened, I’d be dead. But his words make me feel like I’m dying. On the inside.
That agency he resigned from? It’s the reason we broke up. Because Terence wanted to be recruited more than anything. More than us. More than me. So much that he stabbed me in the back just to get ahead.
At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. That he cared for me, he just cared about the agency more. But if he resigned, maybe I was wrong. Maybe working for the agency never meant all that much to him. And I meant even less. I meant nothing at all.
“Wyn, don’t,” he whispers, and I realize that my eyes are watering.
“Allergies,” I tell him. Definitely allergies.
Ghost takes a small step toward me, and I feel his magic gently caressing my cheek. It’s a soft breeze. Gentle. Caring. Just like I remember.
For a split second, I feel myself starting to thaw. Like I’d been frozen for all these years and Terence is warming me up from the inside. Except I don’t want to be thawed. Not by a selfish Ghost who only looks out for himself.
“Stop.” I wipe my cheek with my sleeve. Not because I can remove the traces of his magical touch, but so he knows I find it distasteful. Find him distasteful.
It wasn’t always the case. There was a time when I longed for Terence to touch and caress me with magic. To tease me in public and turn me into a quivering mess in private. He’d make me shiver while we were hanging out with friends. Make it impossible to pay attention in class. Leave me counting down the seconds until the bell so we could finally be alone.
Desire courses through me, and he knows, damn him. Even after all this time—even after what he did—he still has this effect on me. But I’m no longer the girl he once knew.
“Leave me alone!” I snap. He doesn’t.
I need to fight back, but Ghost controls air. Manipulates it. Makes it do his bidding. Try punching or kicking air, and your limbs go right through it. Unless he doesn’t want them to. Then, you hit a wall, and it hurts. Because when it comes to invisible magic, there’s just no fighting it. But there is fighting Ghost.
I flick my wrist—so he knows he’s about to pay—and strike back. Except instead of caressing his cheek, I go straight for his crotch. And not in that way.
Unlike Ghost’s magic, mine is very, very visible. I grab the nearest Jewels Cafe mug. Lift it with my powers and whip it below the belt.
The mug slams into a pair of Ghostly nuts. Terence lets out a Ghostly wail. And his Ghostly magic vanishes into thin air. Wynter 2, Ghost 0. Plus an extra point for hitting his Family Jewels with a Jewels mug at Jewels Cafe.
Except, a second later, that same mug is flying back at me. It slams into my stomach and I double over with a grunt. Wynter 3, Ghost 1. The Asshole.
Ghost gasps, like maybe the retaliation wasn’t intentional, or maybe I’m giving him far too much credit. Either way, it’s still going to bruise. Kind of makes me wish Amber had left some painkiller in that vial, but too late for that.
Too late for the Jewels Cafe mug, too. It crashes to the floor and shatters. And since whipping the broken pieces at Ghost’s jugular might land me in prison, I decide to pummel him with the milk and cream instead.
I pick up the two full metal pitchers—thank you, Amber, for always keeping them restocked—and send them at Ghost like twin fists. He blocks the milk with an invisible shield and scrambles to his knees. The cream almost hits the side of his head. Almost. But his magic intervenes, and this time it’s not a shield.
Ghost spent his first semester at St. Vincent’s learning to weave a net out of thin air. Got so good at it that he could fashion a hammock for us to cuddle inside of and make out. And for his final project, he turned it into a trampoline, so our class could do back flips when we trained to fight.
Now, he uses that same weave to deflect the cream and send it flying back at me. I have plenty of time to duck, but it would leave Amber and Julian defenseless. Wonky Magic Julian and Crazy Shifter Amber, neither of whom is prepared to fight back.
I am. I flick my wrist, and my barstool levitates and swings like a bat. It slams into the cream head-on, and the metal pitcher goes flying. Not at Ghost but right at the—
“Not the door!” Amber screams a second before glass shatters and the pitcher clutters onto the sidewalk.
“Wasn’t me,” Julian adds. And, to be fair, usually it is him. So I can see why he’d want to clear that up.
I’m about to blame Ghost but yelp instead. Because cold winter air rushes inside the cafe and coils around my wrists. It binds my hands behind my back and keeps me from flicking my wrist. Keeps me from fighting back.
The Wyn that Ghost knew would be at his mercy. That Wyn needed one hand free to cast. Zoe Wynter—Cleanly Den witch extraordinaire—only flicks her wrist for show.
Okay, fine, I didn’t learn that trick as a maid. It was back at the agency, which was good for something, at least. Like making sure my attackers are unprepared for… well… this.
I send my magic out to feel for objects. Solid objects. Objects that obey my command as one and zoom toward Ghost. Mugs, tables, chairs. And Ghost is completely unprepared.
A chair slams into him and sends him sprawling. Amber’s iced cappuccino flies off the bar, stops above his head, and tips upside down. Ghost yelps as cold liquid pours onto his head, but somehow manages to deflect the mug I aim at his crotch.
I throw a barstool at him next, but he deflects it, too, and it clatters out the broken door. A chair follows suit and takes down the Pumpkin Spice Latte sign. A table shatters the floor to ceiling window and slams into the side of the Cleanly Den van.
“Zoe, stop!” an old man shouts, his voice partially drowned out by the complete chaos around us. No, wait, not an old man. Amber.