Rare Vigilance (Whitethorn Agency)

The power’s waiting just below the surface. I lift a thick tendril from the ley line and struggle to pull it higher, letting its heat spark against my palms and fingers, crawling its way up my arms. My cursed limbs may not actually move, but the ley line’s magick floods through them all the same, waiting for the strike that will allow all the power to rebound out of me. Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire—

The heat prickling my skin abruptly snuffs out with the whipping arrival of an icy wind. Snow blows past me and catches in my eyelashes. The wraith manages to look confused, but merely slows its approach. The snow thickens, grows harder, sharper. Ice flecks swirl around us and cut my cheeks; I wince when the newly drawn blood flash-freezes to my skin. The green flames licking the wraith’s body extinguish and it suddenly ices up above me, drawing up short in midair.

Grass shatters as a shining pair of Oxfords tromp across the lawn and come to a halt about a foot away from me.

My gaze travels up from the shoes to the straight, pressed lines of the wool slacks. The thin leather belt I could never afford. The buttons of the dress shirt. And there, like a freaking cherry on an evil sundae, the sharp twist of the lips that’s the closest he ever gets to smiling. Apparently, superpowered magickal villains don’t need to smile.

“Wool in this weather, Lyne? Isn’t that a bit douchey, even for you?” I snark.