Mud (Chromatic Mages #1)

Chapter 1

Rosabel La Rouge

Present day

I sleep like the dead. On my back, limbs straight, mind empty and dark—so dark not a single color can exist to paint dreams for me when I’m sleeping. At least not in the past few months.

But even so, I was always half awake. Always listening to the silence of my bedroom. Always aware, even when I wasn’t.

The vibration of my phone was perfectly familiar to me. I could tell whether it was a text or a call, an email or another app notification by the intensity and length of the vibrations alone.

That’s how I knew that this one at this hour was…wrong.

Consciousness pulled at me, like a drop of water falling in the middle of an abyss, making the darkness ripple. I heard the sound of it in my mind—a bell ringing for my ears only .

My eyes opened, and though they were directed at the ceiling, I still saw my room—the nightstand lamps that were still on, the dark sky outside my window, the half-moon just visible in the far-right corner, which meant it wasn’t even two in the morning yet.

Two in the morning was not a time when I received texts—which was what the vibration of my phone just now announced. Phone calls, yes—I’d been called in for emergencies plenty of times before. Never by text, though. Not ever by text.

I didn’t allow myself to think. My mind was still dark, still processing my surroundings through my ears and my magic as I reached for the phone on my nightstand. I focused on the feel of the soft silk of the red sheets against my skin instead of the way my hand was shaking. My body knew something was wrong even if my mind didn’t want to catch up yet.

Until the phone, cold and lifeless, was between my fingers. Until I, with my breath still held, brought the screen in front of me and looked.

A text, indeed. And once my phone recognized my face, it showed me the name of the sender— Private Number. It showed me the text, too.

Two words. Only two words, but they were so big . So intense. So…final.

he escaped

My eyes closed. I put the phone against my chest and forced air into my lungs. Held it there. Let it go slowly .

He escaped.

As absurd as it sounds, I always knew I was going to read those words on a screen one day. It’s the reason why I had that prison guard on a payroll—to send me this very text.

But I thought I’d have more time. I thought I’d have more years. It hadn’t even been two — I thought I’d have five.

Except life didn’t give a shit about what I thought or didn’t. Nobody cared about how much time I thought I’d have before my end. This was really happening, and I was almost surprised to realize it when I jumped off the bed and scanned my bedroom to make sure I was alone.

When I rushed to the closet, put on a pair of jeans and a shirt, my favorite leather boots that stopped just below my knees, and my thickest leather jacket to match.

When I grabbed a backpack hidden deep behind the fancy dresses my grandmother had had made for me in the past two years to attend events she didn’t even want me in, but had to tolerate to put up the perfect appearance for the people.

Almost surprised.

There was a tiny compartment underneath my jewelry box—again, filled with silver and gold pieces I despised with my whole being, but my grandmother decided that I needed to own and wear whenever she pleased. In that compartment I’d hidden a creme-colored envelope that had only one word written on the back— Poppy, my cousin. The only person in the world I considered family , even if we hated each other just as much as we sometimes loved and sometimes tolerated one another’s company.

Her name was on the envelope because the letter inside was for her .

One year and eight months ago I’d written down every word, right after I’d prepared the run-away bag.

One year and eight months ago, when I knew for a fact that this day was going to come. My past was going to catch up with me, and I would no longer be safe even in my grandmother’s mansion.

There were no tears in my eyes, though the feeling of impending doom hung over my head and my heart beat loudly in my ears, the mix of fear and excitement so thick it coated my throat like honey. But my face remained perfectly neutral through it all. No expression on it whatsoever when I caught my reflection in the tall mirror I kept next to my door—as per Poppy’s instructions, so I could always see what I looked like just before going out.

I saw now—I looked exactly like I taught myself to look when showing emotions got me into more trouble than I could handle with my grandmother. Perfectly neutral on the outside until I sorted out the chaos in my head.

He escaped.

After one year, eight months, eleven days. He escaped, and I was so afraid, so excited, so incredibly anxious that I’d have suspected I was dreaming if my dreams ever dared to be so realistic.

Even so, when I strapped on my backpack and stopped at the end of the hallway in front of Poppy’s room, I read that text one more time.

Not a dream.

Taking in a deep breath to calm my heartbeat, I grabbed the golden handle of Poppy’s door and pulled it down. For a moment, I feared she’d locked herself in there, but then I remembered that Madeline Rogan would never in a million years allow either of us actual keys to our doors—or any kind of wards to keep others out, for that matter. Because privacy was important, yes, but not from her.

I entered Poppy’s room on my tiptoes. She was a light sleeper, but only right after she fell asleep or in the early hours of dawn. It was two in the morning, and she was snoring lightly, though she’d never admit it if I ever brought it up. Poppy Rogan— snoring?

“Sounds like somebody’s a little bit obsessed with me,” she’d tell me with that little devilish grin and her wiggling brows. “Why else would you be there watching me when I’m sleeping?”

Good thing I knew better than to tell her truths. That’s why the letter in my envelope contained everything but.

Poppy’s room was the same size as mine—probably bigger than a standard studio apartment, with a walk-in closet and a gigantic bathroom attached, big windows overlooking the acres and acres of land that surrounded Madeline’s mansion, as well as the edge of the hills at its back. It was as fancy as everything else my grandmother owned, but at least Poppy appreciated all of it in a way that I never could. Even now, she slept in a silk nightgown the color of blood, and her golden-brown curls were covered in a pretty red bonnet, and her phone was peeking from under her pillow, coming to life with vibrations every minute—app notifications that were so normal for her they didn’t even wake her up.

She didn’t stir, didn’t move, didn’t breathe faster. She just slept peacefully, sprawled in the middle of the king-size, perfectly comfortable. And just like always, whenever I was looking at her and she didn’t know it, I felt sorry for her. For me. For us.

We were born only two months apart. Our mothers were sisters, and they married on the same day .

They died on the same day, on the same plane crash, too, together with our fathers.

Then it was just us two and Madeline—and that’s why I felt sorry for her. For me. For us.

I left the envelope on her nightstand, and I slowly retreated, walking on my tiptoes, perfectly silent. I was an agent of the Iridian Department of Defense—the highest security organization that pretty much governed all magical beings on earth—after all.

Only when I walked out the door and I was all alone in the massive hallway surrounded by marble, did I realize where the excitement, where all that thrill mixed with the fear was coming from.

It wasn’t just because of him, the man I was warned about.

It was because of Madeline as well. Because of me. Because finally, after two years, I had a reason to run away from this place, even if it would be for only a couple of days. I had a reason to gather some fucking balls and walk out of here because I had no other option. No overthinking and overanalyzing and over- anything —I just walked out.

Down the main set of stairs, through the kitchen and out the backdoor to avoid the guards that watched after us at night, as if anybody would dare to attack a Rogan estate. As if anybody would even consider it.

But the guards didn’t see me. Nobody saw me except the moon and the stars—but I liked to think they were my friends. I didn’t even rush my steps up the lowest hill on the south of the mansion and to the small woods at the edge of it.

There, I found my bike covered by a thick piece of protective fabric exactly as I’d left it—maybe four months ago? The tank was full, and the engine roared to life effortlessly, and that’s when I allowed myself to smile that smile that had been trying to creep up on me all the way out of here, even in this situation.

Because even though I’d received that text and I was walking away from the mansion, from my grandmother, and even though there was a very, very good chance that I was going to die soon, in those moments I was alive.

In those moments, I was free.

Dear Poppy,

I met a guy and I fell in love. It was quick and painless, just like you said.

Mad Mad would never let me go on a trip with him for a few days, so I’m asking you to distract her and pick your best lie to cover for me today. I know you’ll make me regret this and I expect nothing less. In return, you may ask whatever you want from me when I come back (yes, even the dirtiest details of this trip).

Forever your nemesis,

Rora