“You don’t talk to my daughter,” she said. “You talk to me.” She looked from Archer to Bridget to the old woman cooing at the snake. “Is this how your coven operates? You send a child out to issue your threats? You torture teenagers and play mind games with little girls?”
I hadn’t been a little girl in a very long time, but Aly on a rampage was a thing to behold, and far be it from me to interrupt.
“You make me sick.” Aly spat out the words, and Archer faltered, his smile replaced by something uncertain, some measure of loathing for himself and what he was doing, but as quickly as the emotion had come, something else replaced it.
Anger.
Bloodthirstiness.
Disgust.
The same expression overtook the whistler’s face and the old lady’s, as potent as the fear they’d shown at Selena’s name.
