Wickedest Witch Read Online Free Page A

women were weak creatures who would drop their panties with any crude pickup line. Not her. She preferred a man with manners, grooming, and if he wasn’t model good-looking, at least a modicum of sense so they could converse without her wanting to rip out his tongue and shove it where the sun didn’t shine. Of course, what she wanted and what she got were two different things. A reputation like hers was a great thing, except when it came to dating. Who wanted to claim a wicked witch as a girlfriend? Who wanted to date someone who could turn them into a roach if they pissed her off? Who wanted to love a woman who could not only take care of herself, but would do so with an evil cackle and true pleasure?
    Wicked or not , though, don’t I deserve love too?
    Weak of her, she knew, yet she couldn’t help the stray thought, a thought she’d pondered more and more lately , especially as plans for her sister’s wedding snowballed. Seeing her younger sibling so happy—bleh—so in love—gag—roused something in her. She wouldn’t exactly call it jealousy, but it was close. She envied what Isobel found. Will I ever find someone who accepts me for who I am?
    Once upon a time, she’d thought Derek might. Sure, he didn’t exactly provide her with intellectual conversation, but he’d at least given her companionship. Usually in her bed or his, away from curious eyes. They didn’t really date, or go out for dinner much. They fucked. He went home. It wasn’t the most fulfilling of relationships, but at least it was something, and better than being constantly alone.
    But I like being alone. Or so she convinced herself. Who wanted to share their space with a man who would demand half of her closet and drawers? Who would leave his socks on the floor and commandeer the remote? Or worse, expect her to cook. Of course, she chose that moment to recall the dinner at her sister’s place as Isobel and her fiancé puttered together in the kitchen, chopping and measuring, sharing laughter and conversation as Evangeline rolled her eyes—secretly hating them for their happiness.
    Could she find someone like that? Someone who would share a common interest with her and whom she could talk to with ease? Someone who will embrace my evil side instead of treat it like a flaw?
    The maudlin direction of her thoughts irritated her and as she coasted down from the sky, aiming for her building, she took her annoyance out on the couple strolling along the sidewalk. Her magic made the sidewalk icy despite the warm evening air. Feet went sliding, bodies crashing, and her lips curved in an evil smile when she heard a woman’s voice screech, “Get off me, you giant oaf.”
    Alighting on her balcony, she swiped her finger across the sliding glass door , disarming her alarm before entering. A witch never left her things unguarded.
    Evangeline parked her broom in the front hall closet —yes, the whole broom thing was cliché but practical. It didn’t take up much space, she could always find parking, and it never ran out of gas. Of course, on the down side, whipping through the air messed up her hair and was only useful on short trips given the low level of comfort that came with a hard wooden handle as a seat. For longer voyages, she tended to use a shag rug.
    Away from prying eyes, she snapped her fingers and dropped the glamor she wore whenever she went out. She’d learned years ago if she wanted people—and other supernatural beings—to take her seriously as a force to be reckoned with, she needed to look the part. Unfortunately, her real life petite and curvy frame did not make for an imposing witch, not to mention, who ever heard of a sorceress with freckles? And no amount of straightening or spells could do anything with her cork screw curls. Stupid genes.
    D raining as a magical glamor was to maintain, she used it and adopted a cold, ice queen persona that people noticed. One glacial glare and people knew to get out of her way. She quite