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"Mind-reading?"
Soren's lips curled in a cold smirk.
To become the Supreme, a witch had to master the Seven Wonders—telekinesis, mind control, pyrokinesis, divination, teleportation, resurrection, and communion with the dead. What Fiona had just tried on him was a classic parlor trick from the mind-control branch.
He didn't fight it. Let the bitch poke around. The second her psychic probe brushed his thoughts, raw demonic power leaked from his pores and swallowed it whole.
The energy vanished like a mouse in a lion's mouth.
Fiona's face went a shade paler. She recovered fast, shoving the shock down where Soren couldn't see it.
"Pleasure to meet you, Headmistress Fiona."
He nodded like nothing had happened.
Fiona plastered on her silky smile again. "If I'm right—and I usually am—you're headed to New Orleans to meet someone."
Her tone turned sharp, laced with open venom. "What the hell do you want with that old bitch?"
"You just tried to crawl inside my head and still don't know?" Soren raised an eyebrow. "Want to give it another shot?"
Fiona's smile flickered. She caught herself, the politician in her kicking in. Better to make a powerful friend than an enemy—especially one whose mental defenses could eat her magic for breakfast.
"Anything she can do, I can do better," she said, leaning in just enough to let the neckline of her blouse dip. "And some things she wouldn't even dare touch."
Soren lounged back in his seat, fingers drumming the armrest.
The witch coven had a shitty reputation, but it was still a centuries-old organization sitting on real power and ancient grimoires. If he played this right, he could get inside their circle, maybe score some actual magic texts for Patty and Carrie. They needed real training if the world kept getting more fucked.
Too bad witch magic ran on bloodline bullshit he couldn't use himself.
Still… Patty carried old sorcerer blood. Carrie was a walking telekinetic bomb. A couple of real spellbooks could turn them into actual assets instead of liabilities.
The plane sliced through clouds. Hours later they touched down in New Orleans.
Southern heat hit like a wet slap the second they stepped outside.
A black Mercedes waited at the VIP curb. Fiona led the way, the quiet teenage girl trailing behind them like a lost puppy.
They slid into the back seat. Fiona pulled a slim silver case from her purse and offered Soren a thin ladies' cigarette.
He waved it off. "I'm good."
She hesitated, then tucked the cigarette away without lighting it.
Fiona nodded toward the girl in the front passenger seat. "This is Zoe Benson. New student."
Zoe turned at her name, forcing a nervous smile at Soren.
He gave her a short nod back.
Black Widow curse. Any guy who fucked her bled out in minutes—pleasure and pain all the way to the grave. That's why her family had shipped her here in secret.
Soren almost laughed. Death by orgasm. Not the worst way to go, I guess.
The car rolled through the humid streets and into a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. Big old houses. Normal-looking. The kind of place where neighbors watered their lawns and pretended nothing weird ever happened.
Miss Robichaux's Academy sat behind tall iron gates like it had every right to be there.
Fiona pressed the buzzer. The gates swung open.
"I've got a doctor's appointment this afternoon," she told Soren. "You and Zoe can wait inside. I won't be long."
Soren nodded. Still chasing immortality. Some things never change.
The front door opened on its own.
Zoe hovered on the threshold, staring at the old mansion like it might bite. She edged closer to Soren without realizing it.
He stepped through first.
The entrance hall was a long, narrow white corridor with zero personality—no pictures, no furniture, just blank walls. It felt like walking into a hospital wing that had given up on patients.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Zoe jumped. "Hello?"
Nobody answered.
They kept walking. The hallway opened into a wide parlor. A big fireplace. A grand piano in the corner. Portraits of past Supremes lined the walls, all of them staring down with dead eyes.
At least this room looked normal.
Zoe drifted toward the piano, eyes wide, still jumpy.
A pitch-black shadow flashed past behind her.
"Who the fuck—?!"