1. AURORA
Motherfuckers.
Mother, mother, mother.
Fuckers.
This situation is beyond fucked up. The only thing that calms me is the memory of sliding a steak knife into Thomas Crankshawe’s gut.
Disgusting creep.
My failure to kill him is a double-edged sword, and both sides are bloody.
On one edge, I’ll only be trapped in a hellhole “correctional facility” for a year, instead of for life. On the flip side, when I get out, I’ll nearly be eighteen, and that’s when Thomas Crankshawe’s marriage contract becomes a legal reality.
A life sentence of a different kind, one very much against my fucking will.
Mother, obviously, doesn’t care and won’t lift a finger to help me. Nope.
And Father is basically the reason I’m here; after all, he’s the one who sold me to the highest bidder.
So my only vague hope is that my brother, Cosmo, can do something.
If he’s not too busy with his new, awful fiancée, “Jordan-fake-ass-Singleton-Smith”.
Fuck.
I’m still wearing the stupid, babyish white dress I’d been forced into for last night’s “festivities”. Though now it’s splattered with blood and smeared with black oil from the shackles around my wrists.
I’d only been present for thirty minutes of Cosmo’s ridiculous engagement party before everything went to shit.
I don’t know Cosmo very well, but one thing I do know is that he didn’t step in to help me. Asshole.
He’ll go back to his cool academy life while I’m locked away in a pit.
Though, I’ve basically been a prisoner all my life, with tutors as “guards” and round-the-clock surveillance. I guess that has conditioned me somewhat for where I’m headed: Quo Reformare Correctional Facility.
Most screw-ups of my status don’t get sent here. Daddy can write a check to the right judge and one gets “rehabilitation” at a spa in the mountains.
You only get sent to this place if your parents really want you gone—or they’re really trying to break you.
Still, no regrets.
No regrets, no regrets, no regrets.
If I tell myself that often enough, maybe I’ll believe it.
Gods, the air in this van smells of stale sweat and exhaust fumes, and I’m bolted to the bench like an animal off to the slaughterhouse. At least they’ve turned the interior lights off now so it’s too dark for the guards to keep leering. Fucking pathetic creeps.
“I need water,” the boy sitting across the aisle says, talking of pathetic.
The guards don’t respond.
I cut a sideways glance at him. I’d heard the guards mention his name—Julian Walters. He doesn’t have the effortless, predatory glow of an Elite, so I’m guessing he’s an Ordinarii. A “middle of the road” magical.
Not a Basic witch though. They’d know better than to open their mouths in this situation. And Elites like me? We are bred to expect service. It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask for a drink. Surely someone will just supply it?
Guess not.
Yep, I’m definitely not in my ivory tower any longer.
This Julian guy is trying his best to play it cool, but the panicked sweat soaking through the striped button-down tells a different story. In truth, I imagine we are both close to fucking losing it.
And both trying desperately to act like we’re not.
What did he do to get himself a spot in Quo? He hardly looks like a criminal mastermind.
“I said, I want some water,” he repeats, raising his voice. “Hydration is a basic right.”
Even with my extremely limited knowledge of the world, I don’t think that attitude is going to fly right now.
A guard with a bushy beard laughs and spits on the floor. “Think any of us give a shit? Shut the fuck up, boy.”
Called it.
Julian glances in my direction again. I’m sure he knows exactly who I am. Headlines of a disgraced Drakeward undoubtedly hit the news within minutes of my “incident”. I’m probably already a cautionary tale for every Elite debutante.
Don’t fuck with the system, or the system will fuck you back, and harder.
The transport continues to barrel along the dark roads heading north. I stare out the window and instead of thinking about the destination, I think about all the simple families out there in the countryside.
Are they sitting down to eat dinner together? I think that’s something normal people do.
I rarely ate with my parents. Usually, I just got wheeled out to dance or play piano when they were entertaining—a doll in tulle to impress the guests. Then I’d be sent back to my quarters for a plain salad, the tantalizing scent of their roasted meats and rich gravies making my stomach twist.
The road gets darker now; the distant lights have vanished. If I’d paid more attention to my tutors, maybe I’d know the geography of Havengard, but as it is, I’m lost.
Lost indeed.
Fuck.
I prod at my split lip with my tongue. It hurts.
Thomas had managed to wobble to his feet, knife still embedded, then backhand me. How was that possible, you may well ask.
Because his fucking son held me in place. Yeah, old Thomas’s son, Francois, had appeared out of nowhere. He’d wrapped his arms around me, tight as iron bands, and pinned my elbows to my ribs.
“Yield, chéri. Drop the knife and I’ll make this all go away. Please, ma petite. Let it go.”
Fucker.
Francois de Vaux may use his mother’s “de Vaux” last name to seem refined, but he’s still a Crankshawe in the ways that matter.
“Peacekeeper station coming up,” the fat guard grunts. Tony.
I’d very much like to slide a blade into his gut, too, though I’d need something longer than a steak knife to get through all that blubber. The creepy shithead took the opportunity to squeeze my chest while he was shackling me earlier.
Actually, maybe I could just cut his dick off and make him eat it, slice by slice.
The only problem with that plan is the fact I’d have to touch his revolting penis to do it. Ugh. Gag.
“I need a rest stop,” Julian calls out.
Idiot. He really doesn’t read the room. As predicted, the guards ignore him.
I decide it’s time to go back to work. I’m trying—and failing—to twist my wrists through these bastard cuffs.
Fat Tony told me they were carbon-steel, which I guess means they’re unbreakable, but we’ll see.
If I had my magic, I’d be fine, but the dicks injected me with something that extinguished my spark.
The feeling is hollow and awful. I’d rather have a limb missing.
Come on. Fucking do it. Stop being a pussy, Aurora.
I collapse my thumbs, folding my palms until the bones feel like they’re on the verge of snapping, searching for that one impossible angle that will let the cuffs slide over my knuckles. The metal rubs my skin raw; a wet slick of blood coats my palms.
Keep going. It doesn’t matter if I break.
My slight frame makes people think I’m fragile. Crushable. I usually hate that, but maybe, for once, my spindly limbs will come to my aid. And then, if I get out of here, I’ll use my long legs to run. Run, run and run and somehow make a new life with a new name.
Tug. Squeeze. Scrape. Ow. Fucking. Ow.
The armored minivan runs over a pothole, jarring my bloody wrists and making me swallow a scream. Blinking away some stupid tears, I realize we’re pulling to a stop. Not the prison, but some other country facility.
A few floodlights flicker on, then the door of the one-story building flies open. Two Peacekeepers march out first. In their matte-black helmets and weird heavy body armor, they don’t even look human. They are robots who don’t care about anyone or anything.
Next, two more guards exit, and between them? A man in a stained orange jumpsuit with a bag over his head.
Seems like me and Julian are going to have company. And if they’re occupied with the new guy, this could be my best chance to run.
If I can get out of these motherfucking handcuffs.
I watch through the reinforced windows as he’s hauled toward us. His bare feet drag behind him, leaving dark streaks on the asphalt.
My own feet are also bare—and freezing. I rub them together, trying to get my circulation working, then once more I contort my palm.
Godsdammit. It’s no good. Think, Aurora, what else can I try?
The cuffs are attached to a chain that hooks onto the metal bench frame.
Undo the bolts?
Stretching down, I try to turn the nearest one. It’s stupidly tight, but I’ve got lubrication. It’s called the congealing lifeblood of Aurora Destiny Drakeward.
Smear it on and let’s go.
Twist. Twist. Twist. My fingers are starting to cramp, but did it move?
No. It was just the slick of the blood making it seem so.
Just keep trying, Rory.
Huh. The orange-jumpsuit-man must have been faking unconsciousness, because he’s suddenly bolt upright and yelling like a banshee.
Whoa. He slams his head back and forth with amazing precision, taking down one guard, then the other.
Even though I should be working on my own escape, I’m mesmerized. He moves with an organic sort of grace. Like a dancer.
Like me.
“Fucking taze him!” Piggy Tony shrieks, his face turning purple.
In the blink of an eye, the prisoner rams Tony in the gut, using his own skull as a battering ram. The impact sends the canvas bag flying, and for a moment, all I see is a waterfall of long, matted hair as he lunges over the fallen guard.
It’s impressive. It’s inspiring. It’s the exact kind of chaos I need.
Still watching the carnage, I put my weight into the bolt again, my bloody fingers finally finding a grip. But then a high-pitched, wet scream echoes through the night. The convict snaps his head up toward the floodlights and I finally see his face—sharp, beautiful, and absolutely feral.
And he has a bloody ear clamped between his teeth.
What the fuck!
Orange-jumpsuit executes some kind of capoeira move. Circling, spinning, and kicking, and manages to dodge all the stun guns and heavy batons. Over the shouting and yelling, I think I hear him giggling.
It’s like he’s enjoying this.
He dives into a forward roll, then lunges upward, biting down on a metal chain around another guard’s neck. As he straightens, the ear is gone. In his mouth dangles a set of keys and an ID badge.
Amazing.
“Just shoot the fucker!” the driver screams, his voice cracking with panic.
The bearded guard stumbles forward, drawing his sidearm. Time seems to slow as the barrel levels at the wanna-be-escapee’s back.
Fuck.
So I scream.
“BEHIND YOU! GUN!”
I beat my bloody hands against the reinforced glass, leaving smeared, red palm-prints in my wake as the convict lurches to one side.
The bullet must miss him by millimeters.
Yes!
Now he has the keys. He has the opening. “RUN!” I yell again. “RUN, YOU IDIOT!”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he stops, twisting around to look at the bus.
At me.
Two glowing green eyes meet mine through the glass. The corner of his mouth twitches into a grin, and then, he fucking winks.
Winks.
What is he doing?
The fool is dropping to his knees now. My heart sinks as he spits the keys into the dirt and puts his shackled hands behind his head, a wide, manic grin splitting his face.
A skinny guard with glasses hobbles over and lights him up with the taser. The electricity crackles, his spine snaps rigid, and he collapses, head bouncing hard on the parking lot.
“Did you see that?” Julian’s voice is trembling a little. “He had the keys and then he just… he gave up. It looked like he was smiling at you. Do you know that madman?”
“Of course not,” I snap, pulling my bloody hands away from the glass.
I don’t know him, but for a second there, it felt like I should.
The guards drag the fighter into the van, adding heavy leg irons and a thick choke-chain to his unconscious body.
I twist around to stare at him. He’s slumped over, his chest heaving under a jumpsuit torn in several places, exposing pale, bruised skin and a strange tattoo.
It’s a series of red ink digits—like a telephone number or the bottom of a bar code.
His long hair is matted with parking lot grit, blood and… is that Tony’s ear?
The driver slams the door, and the engine roars to life.
“Magicals should not be transported with desperate humans,” Julian hisses, his eyes darting at the man behind us. “I’m going to talk to the Guild about this.”
“You do that,” I mutter under my breath.
The Guild.
My father allowed me a few newspapers and magazines to “keep up with current events”. Last year I read a feature about gang culture at Quo Reformare. Basically, there are two rival groups: The Guild—made up of witches used to the privileges of their bloodlines—and the Diggers.
Short for Gravediggers.
That’s where the humans get thrown.
Prisoners pledge to one or the other, kind of like fucked up sororities for the incarcerated. I’d rather keep out of both, but I’ll probably have no choice but to join The Guild.
My name might cut me a few breaks, even if I’ll still have to put up with Julian and dozens more assholes like him.
Ideally though, I’ll just get the fuck out of here right now and my potential gang-choice will be moot.
But.
My heart sinks as the reality sets in. Escape appears to be impossible. If the maniac-whirlwind behind me couldn’t break free, I’ve got no hope.
No hope, no hope, no hope.
My future really is going to be inside the walls of Quo Reformare.
Fuck.
My.
Life.