Chapter 3
Three
Any moment now, guards would burst into the corridor and drag Emmy back to hell. The certainty of capture was almost preferable
to the possibility of freedom dangling over her like a guillotine. They would be caught. It was only a matter of when.
And yet, in all her eighteen years, Emmy had never run so quickly.
As she reached for the stairwell door, the other prisoner yanked her into an empty cell. Emmy’s instincts roared to life,
and she made use of her sharp elbows, the fists Jimmy had taught her to wield. But the madman held her tightly against him,
covering her mouth. What a damn fool she’d been, turning her back to him, even for a—
The hallway exploded with shouting as guards poured through the stairwell door. Emmy froze. One more second out there, and
they would have run right into her.
How could he have heard them coming?
As the guards flooded the hallway, Emmy choked at the bitter taste of the madman’s filthy hand. But the rush of guards ceased,
though their shouting continued down the hall.
“When I say go,” he murmured in her ear as he uncovered her mouth, “take these stairs to the bottom.”
“You first.” She would not be his bait.
His chest trembled as if he’d bitten back a laugh. “Get ready.”
He released her, and Emmy shook out her arms, gathering her courage. Judging by the distant shouting, the hall had to be full
of guards. If one of them turned away from the fire at the wrong moment, they’d be caught, that guillotine of dashed hopes
delivering its final blow.
“Now.”
He burst into the hall, and Emmy waited two agonizing seconds to ensure he hadn’t been spotted before she followed. The commotion
was louder here, but she did not spare a glance toward the guards, slipping into the stairwell as quickly as she could. Then
the two of them were off, barreling down the steps, their dirty feet thundering against the uneven stone. Emmy was delirious
with impatience, nearly tripping as they spun, spun down the spiral of the stairs.
Reaching the bottom first, the other prisoner lunged for the next door but staggered away, tugging Emmy into the darkness
beneath the stairs. This time, she did not fight him, not even as he trapped her between his back and the wall.
The door swung open, unleashing a stampede of boots and a gust of air so fresh, Emmy nearly choked on it. She was so close.
So painfully close.
The guards grumbled to each other as they took the stairs one at a time. If they noticed the shadows beneath the stairwell,
or the drips Emmy’s wet gown had left on the stairs, she would never set foot beneath the vast sky that beckoned just beyond
that door.
After an eternity, the footsteps overhead quieted, then ceased.
“Let’s go.” Releasing her, the madman smoothed his tattered lapels and opened the door the guards hadn’t bothered to lock.
Before it could shut again, Emmy slipped through it.
She sprinted into the night, greedily inhaling the sudden scent of pine and spring and woodsmoke. The air was alive. She was alive, some dormant part of her roaring to life.
But not free. Not yet. It had been the middle of the night when they’d dragged her here, but she was fairly certain that Grimsbane
Tower was hidden among the private buildings on Randall’s Island, not far from the ordinary prison. To escape, she’d need
to cross the Harlem River undetected.
The other prisoner half crouched, half ran along a crumbled stone wall before disappearing into a dark copse of trees.
Emmy scampered after him, glancing over her shoulder every few seconds.
Here, the darkness was nearly impenetrable.
But her eyes adjusted quickly, courtesy of two years without so much as a candle.
“My friend is here with a boat,” he whispered. “We just have to find it.”
A dozen questions rose to her lips, most important among them Are you prone to hallucinations? But he was off, slipping between the trees.
She could follow him. After all, he’d gotten them this far without being caught, and he seemed to possess an uncanny sense
of the guards’ whereabouts. But even if the boat were real, it’d be far too easy to spot a vessel crossing the channel in
the moonlight.
Hunched low to the ground, Emmy kept walking underneath the trees near the embankment, careful to make as little noise as
possible. The river narrowed as she turned northward. Though the dark silhouette of trees still lined the opposite shore,
flickering lamps broke the black night beyond them. Harlem, hardly two hundred yards away. All this time.
The novelty of the brisk spring air faded as Emmy slipped out of her decrepit ball gown, hiding the damned thing in the hollow
roots of a weeping willow. Her underdress offered little protection from the wind, but at least it wouldn’t drown her.
“Have something against boats?”
Emmy nearly slipped off the rocks by the river’s edge.
Arms crossed, the other prisoner sauntered toward her like a disapproving prince rather than a filthy prisoner.
He was tall—not as tall as Jimmy Li, but no one was as tall as Jimmy—with a broadness to his chest, despite his wiry limbs.
He might have been thirteen or thirty; she hadn’t the faintest idea.
But he held her gaze with bone-chilling intensity.
For someone who had freed her on a whim, he was far too invested in keeping her near.
He inched closer. “I’m not going to—”
Before he could grab her, she jumped.
Christ, it was shockingly cold—it took everything she had not to climb ashore. But she waded deeper, stifling her scream as
the frigid waves splashed her bare thighs. The water was strangely slick with whatever waste had been dumped in it, and she
hadn’t an ounce of fat left on her to stave off hypothermia. Still, it was either the river or Grimsbane.
Gathering the last of her courage, Emmy dunked beneath the surface.
With numb limbs, she forced herself to keep swimming underwater, away from watchful eyes. Her pace slowed, her lungs screamed,
and the need to turn around was all-consuming. But she had to keep going. All she needed was a distraction from the cold.
Grace.
If Emmy drowned in this filthy, freezing river, Grace would think she had fooled Emmy. She’d think she had won.
Grace had pretended to be horrified when the Society guards tore Emmy’s ball gown to shreds onstage. She’d seemed as shocked
as Emmy when fool’s gold had spilled from Emmy’s skirts. And for a few minutes, Emmy had fallen for her innocent facade, just
like she’d fallen for a decade of phony friendship.
But as the guards had seized Emmy, as she’d gaped at her dearest friend, Grace had locked eyes with another young woman. The
one who’d made their gowns. And Grace’s lips had curved ever so slightly.
For most of Emmy’s life, she’d been on the receiving end of that smile. It meant mischief. It meant secrets.
All Emmy had to do now was picture that little fucking smile, and she’d never stop swimming.
Something brushed against her legs, and she jerked, splashing far too loudly. But it was only seaweed. A few yards ahead, smooth rocks glistened in the faint moonlight.
Somehow, she’d made it.
Emmy pulled herself onto the muddy rocks, her arms collapsing beneath her. The breeze on her wet skin was even crueler than
the river, and her teeth chattered so hard, she was going to break them. Walking would return a bit of feeling to her limbs—and
give her time to determine where the hell to hide.
But she could not muster the strength to stand.
Something scraped the rocks, and Emmy flailed in a pathetic attempt at self-defense.
The other prisoner stood on the shore, pulling a rowboat with a young man. His . . . friend.
Emmy tried to stand but her legs ignored her orders, so she sat and watched him conjure his dark flames and reduce the boat
to ash.
As he turned, something downriver snagged his gaze. “What is that?”
Emmy whirled. A strange white glow brightened in the distant sky. Far too brilliant to be gas lamps, yet too pale and smokeless
to be fire.
“Arc lights. Broadway’s full of them now.” Seeing the other prisoner’s blank expression, his friend added, “Electric lamps?
I thought the first one was installed before you, ah, went away.”
Emmy gaped at the strangely illuminated sky. Electric lights? What else had she missed?
“Arc lights. Right.” With a dazed expression, the other prisoner flopped onto the frozen mud and stretched his dark flames
over her.
The heat was both exquisite and brutal, sending painful prickles careening over her blue skin. As she thawed, she could not
move, not only because she wasn’t foolish enough to leave the heat, but because the black flames hovered mere inches over
her. She was trapped.
“Flames in the open?” His friend motioned to where Harlem slept behind them. “Should we also ignite fireworks to signal your return?”
“Is anyone near?”
“How should I know? I exhausted my power locating the guards.”
Another charmed person. Given his nice clothes and that he’d just broken his friend out of the Society of the Charmed’s prison,
he was likely a Society member.
Odds were he had carried enough money for ferry fare. She only needed to find it—and run.
The other prisoner tossed his friend the same strange coin he’d claimed would unblock Emmy’s magic. His blanket of black fire
extinguished, leaving her instantly cold.
With a gasp, his friend backed away from the coin. “As if I want that cursed thing!”
“Just have a listen. See if we can stay here until she can walk.”
“She’s not coming with us.”
“She is right here.” Damn her ruined voice for wavering. Still, Emmy glared at the newcomer. Neatly parted blond hair. Clean,
trimmed fingernails. If it came to blows, she’d be able to take him down far more easily than the murderous one, as long as
she landed a kick in precisely the right spot. And if she could knock the coins from his coat pocket . . .
“How ladylike,” he sighed, plucking the coin from the mud. “She’s thinking of kicking me in the groin and stealing my money.”
Her mouth fell open. “How did you—”
“Caleb’s gift is telepathy,” the other prisoner explained. “He can hear people’s thoughts and speak to them, mind to mind.
That’s how I knew the guards’ positions earlier.”
“Jack Henrick Fontaine, how dare you!” Caleb glared at the other prisoner.
Fontaine. The female guard had called him that before he’d killed her. Even stranger, the surname stirred a deeper memory, though Emmy could not place it. Not that it mattered. It was time to get as far from that prison—and the Society of the Charmed—as possible.
But where to hide? Her former flat on Baxter Street would be the first place they’d look for her. Leaving the city was far
safer, but the guards might search the ferries—and she hadn’t a nickel for a ticket. Still, she could not continue on with
two potential members of the cursed Society, especially when one continued to watch her like she was his prized rat.
She darted into the shadow of the trees, but the other prisoner—Jack, apparently—hurried after her. “Where are you going?”
“Home.” The lie struck her like a battering ram to the chest. The body cannot distinguish between physical and emotional hurts, Papa had always said. The same pain receptors fire, no matter the cause.
Emmy no longer had a home. She no longer had a family. Or friends. Not anymore.
The mind reader winced. Still eavesdropping on her thoughts, damn him.
“If you’re spotted, there’ll be a manhunt for us both.” Jack caught up with her in the trees. “Come with us. Our friend has
a carriage waiting.”
“Our friend,” muttered Caleb from behind. “That charmless bastard is not my friend.”
Someone not charmed? Had they broken the most fundamental rule of magic: Its secrecy?
Row houses lined the road beyond the trees, their windows mercifully dark. Only a single carriage stood on the empty road,
its driver but a broad silhouette. The enormous horses tethered to it certainly looked capable of delivering Emmy far away
from here. But she could not trust anyone, not for a single second.
No, she had to continue alone.
“Suit yourself.” With a knowing grin, the other prisoner jogged to the carriage, waving at the driver, who hooted and jumped from his seat. Two friends for Jack Fontaine. Two people willing to risk their necks to break him out of jail.
A long time ago, Emmy had yearned for that sort of ironclad friendship. Like the gang of girls who’d pal around the neighborhood
together, or at the very least, a sibling. When Grace had moved in across the hall, Emmy had assumed God had answered her
prayers. A girl precisely six years old, like Emmy. With magic, no less. The two of them were closer than sisters, everyone always said.
But closest friends wrought the deepest wounds.
“Emmy? Holy hell—it’s you.”
Her heart ceased beating. It couldn’t be.
As the driver walked toward her, Emmy rubbed at her eyes. He had to be an illusion.
With a smile so familiar it cut like glass, Jimmy Li threw his arms around Emmy.