Page 19 of Just a Little Wicked (Wicked Sisters #2)

He swallowed. He’d studiously avoided thinking about her in that way for the last few hours, but her innocent words had awakened in him something decidedly not innocent.

For a moment, he’d imagined how Winter would look finding her release.

The sharp lines of her face would soften, and her gaze would go hazy with lust. She’d throw her head back, bliss melting away all the tension in her body.

She’d be soft and vulnerable with her partner for a few precious moments, and the man responsible for it would feel like a god.

Erikson scraped his palm over his chin, banishing the image with frustration. “Right.” Shit, his voice sounded rougher. “So ah, what do you mean?”

She was studying him curiously, a slight flush to her cheeks. “I haven’t played the violin in a while. I use it to release some of the evil compulsion I feel. The longer I go without releasing, the more tempted I feel to use my powers as intended.”

Of course that was what she meant, Erikson. You idiot.

“Where do you want to play?”

“I don’t like to play where people can hear. If we find a stretch of deserted coast along the way, I’ll have you pull over.”

His imagination, more defiant than he cared for, pictured her standing at the edge of the ocean, the wind blowing back her red curls while she played a mournful song under the moon.

Something stirred in him at the vision, wild and familiar, like he was actually recalling a memory rather than creating a fantasy, which was impossible.

Apart from one memorable instance, he’d only heard snippets of Winter’s music before.

When he’d been filming at the orchard, notes would occasionally drift through the apple trees at unexpected times, tangling in his bloodstream and leaving him standing in place, slack and moved in a way that made chills appear on his skin.

She was good at playing the violin. Really good.

But apart from what he’d overheard among the apple trees, he’d never seen her play outlined by the ocean.

He cleared his throat again. “All right. Let’s get our stuff.”

Winter was unusually docile as they collected their belongings and chalked up the night they’d already paid for as a loss.

Back in the truck, she scratched her thighs through her jeans as dark scenery flashed by: the outlines of firs, the bare branches of November trees that had already shed their leaves, and a moon that flickered between them all.

“How does music help?” Erikson asked, intensely curious to know the details of her Wickedness, and not just because he was a nosy storyteller.

Winter was an enigma. Every time he thought he had her pegged, she’d show a new facet to her personality that threw his entire understanding of her out the window.

Just when he thought her shell was titanium, she’d reveal the barest fissure, and he’d know there was a wealth of secrets sunken beneath that still water.

She blew out a breath. “My family has a way of coping with the evil compulsions. For Holly, the universe plants horrific scenes of weather-related disasters in her head: droughts, avalanches, hurricanes. They stick in her brain, increasing in urgency, until she fulfills the visions. I guess it’s a failsafe to make sure we comply with the curse.

But we’ve found ways around it. Holly paints the scenes she sees, and so they technically come into existence and that fulfills the compulsion. ”

Of course the Celestes had found a way around the compulsions. He’d never met anyone as resourceful as a Wicked.

“What about you? How does music help with your visions?”

“The longer I go without facilitating a vision, the itchier I feel. Have you ever had poison ivy?”

He nodded.

“Think of that type of itch, but blooming under your skin, until if feels like you’re going to scratch yourself bloody and go mad.

When I was a child, I did scratch myself until I bled.

My family didn’t understand why: we hadn’t had a seer in the family that they could remember, and as you know, we have very few texts about what we are and how to deal with our powers.

It wasn’t until I acted on one of my more harmless visions—I was mad at Holly and hid her homework because I knew she’d get detention—and the itching instantly disappeared, that I understood.

“The next time the itching started, I wanted to cry. I was either going to suffer horribly, or I was going to do evil.” She paused and absently scratched her wrist. “I discovered music by accident. My grandfather had played the violin, and I found it in the attic. I began eeking out notes, these horrific screeches, and I . . .” She grimaced and fell silent.

“I won’t think any less of you, Winter.”

“Won’t you? It’s pretty sick.”

“I’m a ghosthunter. I’ve seen plenty of evil.” Bright headlights swept past them from a car traveling east. “You’re not evil, Winter. Whatever you do in your head is preventing evil.”

Her throat worked. “I imagined the screeching sounds as the screams of the people who were going to have a building collapse on them. And . . . the itchiness went away. For a while that worked, but then I actually got better at the violin and it didn’t make those horrid noises anymore.

So instead, I started thinking up my own music.

That’s why my compositions are so tragic.

Holly says it’s like hearing her own heart break in two.

It’s because I’m translating the tragedies I foresee into song. I don’t really know how to explain it.”

“It makes sense.”

“It does?”

“Yeah, of course. All music is an expression of feeling, memories, or history.”

She flashed him a tiny grin. “When I play, it might sound pretty, but while my bow is moving across the strings, I’m living a nightmare. The itchiness goes away, though, and the compulsion is fulfilled. I’ve facilitated the vision in a tangible way.”

He let her words settle into him and turned them over.

These women—Holly, Winter, and Missy—had been born with a terrible burden; a curse that kept multiple checks and balances on them.

Rather than let it consume them or control them, they’d found ways to subvert their gruesome legacies.

Erikson had had a shitty childhood of psychologists and brain scans while everyone tried to figure out why he and his brother “thought” they were seeing ghosts, but he’d never had to struggle with the knowledge that he was witnessing a wicked future that he not only couldn’t do anything to stop, but that the universe wanted him to facilitate .

No wonder Winter had ended up so fierce and unyielding: she had to be the rock against the storm of her own mind.

“So you’ve got the Evil Itches because you haven’t facilitated a vision in a while.”

She groaned. “Do not make Evil Itches a thing; it makes me sound like a demon.”

“Yeah, but a hot demon.”

He couldn’t parse the look she gave him in the dark, but he assumed it was ripe with scorn.

Half an hour into their drive, he found a deserted stretch of coastline that curved between two towns.

There were a few house lights glowing across the water in the distance, but he doubted they’d be able to hear her music.

He and Winter, her violin case in hand, made their way through the tall brown grass, skidding down the bluff to the rocky shoreline.

At their back was scooped-out earth, where waves had carved into the shore; to their front stretched the vast, cold Maine sea.

A half-moon hung in the sky, clouds drifting over it as soft and silent as ships in the night.

Winter flicked open her violin case, and with her back to him muttered, “It’s cold. You should go wait in the truck.”

“You, Winter. Me, Shadow.” At her flat look he sighed. “I’ll go if you really want me to, but I don’t want to. Let me hear you make music. I promise you won’t even know I’m here.”

She looked ready to deny him, so he was caught off guard when instead she turned her shoulder and stripped out of her coat, throwing it at him.

He caught it and balled it under his arm while she removed the bow from the case and set about tightening the horsehairs and rubbing what looked like an amber-colored bar of soap over them.

Erikson thought it was probably resin, but he didn’t exactly know a lot about the violin.

When she finished, she lifted the polished-smooth violin from the velvet and brought it gracefully to her chin.

Erikson stepped back, until he was leaning against the bluff with his arms crossed over his chest, her coat caught against his body.

He nudged his chin into the collar of his black jacket.

The temperature hovered just above freezing, but thankfully there wasn’t much wind.

Winter shivered, and his jaw clenched. He didn’t like seeing her cold.

In the silence, the ocean lapped softly at the rocks. He was about to suggest he run to the truck to grab a sweatshirt for her if her coat was too bulky to play in, but then all of his worries and thoughts drifted away, because she brought the bow to the violin, and she began to play.

The music started out soft and reminiscent, like mournful memories being dragged from a dying man’s mouth.

Strings of notes drifted into the air, weightless ribbons fluttering on the breeze before dissolving into the darkness.

The moon slid over Winter’s hair and arms, lending her an otherworldly glow, as if the celestial body were costuming her for the concert.