Page 9 of Wicked Ends

Helena’s face goes from smug satisfaction to pure, pants-wetting terror. Her grip on my hair loosens. The knife wobbles.

“No. Not you.”

The woman smiles. It’s not a very nice smile. Not at all.

“Hello, sister,” the woman says in a soft, almost sweet tone.

Jasmine Wickersly. The third sister.

Helena staggers back a step, eyes wide. “You’re supposed to be?—”

“Locked up?” Jasmine finishes for her, strolling forward, a panther stalking a deer. “Oh, sister. You should know me better than that.”

She doesn’t slow down. She doesn’t raise her voice. She just keeps coming.

Helena tries to recover, raising her hands, the knife shaking in her grip. “You can’t.”

But Jasmine is already in the circle.

The next three seconds are a blur. One second Helena’s got the knife, the next it’s spinning across the floor, and Jasmine’s hands are wrapped around Helena’s throat.

Helena struggles, but Jasmine’s grip is unbreakable. Her yellow eyes gleam, and I swear I see a flash of excitement. Of glee.

There’s a sickening crack.

Helena’s body drops like a sack of bricks, right at my feet. Her head lolls at an angle that’s not even remotely survivable.

For a second, no one moves.

Then the screaming starts.

The witches who are Helena’s loyalists, her little murder squad, lose their shit completely. They run for the doors, nearly trampling each other in their desperation to get away from Jasmine.

Jasmine doesn’t seem to care. She stands over Helena’s body, head cocked as if she’s trying to figure out how she ended up there.

Within thirty seconds, the Great Hall is empty except for me, Jasmine, and the corpse of Helena Wickersly.

And I’m not sure if I should try to run or just drop dead from shock and save Jasmine the trouble.

Jasmine stoops, picks up the bloody knife Helena dropped, and wipes it on her skirts. Then she looks at me, with eyes that are too bright and terribly unhinged.

“Well,” she says, “aren’t you going to say thank you?”

I can’t form words.

So I just stare. Because what else do you do when a legendary psycho has just saved your life by murdering her own sister in front of you? There’s not really a script for this.

Jasmine’s smile grows a little too wide. “You’re taller than I thought you’d be,” she muses. “You remind me of myself.” She twirls the knife in her fingers, casual as flipping a coin. “That’s a compliment.”

I swallow, my mouth dry. “Thank you?”

Jasmine throws her head back and laughs. It’s a crazy, shrieking sound that bounces off the walls as if it’s coming from everywhere at once, surrounding me.

She lightly steps over Helena’s body and offers me a hand. I hesitate, but refusing seems unwise at this particular moment.

I take her hand, and it’s freezing, and her grip is way too strong. My bones feel like they’re about to be crushed.

“Let’s go, Rose Smith. We have things to do.”