Chapter 5 #2
A rush of angry heat washes away my fear and I see red.
In the back of my head, I am utterly terrified, but I’m also too reckless to care.
I’ve tipped over into madness. I don’t cower like a normal person.
No, when I am frightened, I get mad in a psycho way.
It’s another weird Tuesday thing, one that I presume is hereditary. Thanks, Mum.
I can feel my temper bubbling. It’s warm in my chest and it spills out of my mouth with a vomit of words. “What?” I scoff as I narrow my eyes and lift my chin. “Are you nuts? Has your magic fried your brain?”
I hold my hand up and wiggle my index finger. “One, you and a bunch of mercenaries broke into my home and trashed it. Two”—a second finger joins the first—“you chased me across the city and forced your way into my hotel room.” My hands go on my hips and I glare at him.
Shut up, Tuesday, a small voice in the back of my head begs. But I ignore it as I’m on a roll. My nostrils flare. At least my angry rant makes me feel like I am in control. “As if I would believe a single thing you say, sausage head.”
Or not.
I meant dickhead. Dickhead. I groan.
He smirks and takes another menacing stride toward me. His bright blue eyes shine with mirth. “Yeah, that sounds about right,” he drawls.
“You are delusional.” I clench my fists. I’ve never hit anybody before, yet I’m struggling to tamp down the urge to punch him in his smug face.
Thumb out, right? Hit with the first two knuckles and twist your hips… I glance down at my small, balled fists then back at his smug face. I wince. It looks kind of hard.
“You’re coming with me.”
“Oh, heck no.” I shuffle back and glance around wildly.
There must be something in this room to brain him with.
I’m not a victim. Mournfully, I glance at my heavy boots that are now behind his bulk.
They would have made a fine weapon. The helmet would have also come in handy, but there’s no way I can get past him to grab it.
I tilt my head. He’s a big bugger for an elf.
He must be well over six feet, towering over my five-foot-four frame.
Lamp? I want to smack my forehead. Magic.
Bloody heck, Tuesday. I have a knockout ball in the hidden pocket of my thermal trousers.
It’s a close contact spell and, well, we can’t get any closer than this.
One second, I’m about to grab it and the next, his weight is crushing me into the bed.
Oof. I groan as his body knocks the breath out of me.
His weight pushes me into the soft white covers.
’Ecky thump, this guy is built like a shifter. Crap, I wish I had listened to my dad about those self-defence lessons. He’d be snoring on the floor now if I’d used the potion sooner.
One hand grapples both my wrists together and slams them above my head.
He reaches down between us… I panic. Is he…
is he reaching for his zipper? A frightened whine escapes my throat, and I do my best to wiggle out of his hold.
Before I can scream bloody murder, he pulls his hand back out, and in it is a nullifying band.
It is made to remove every spell and shut down every trace of magic.
It works on every creature but is mainly used on criminals.
Why does he want to use that on me? Why bother? My magic is non-existent. I try again to wiggle away, but his hand presses my wrists harder into the bed with bruising force and the clunky ring on his finger digs into my skin painfully. The damn thing is hot, and I wince as it burns me.
With a flick of his hand, the nulling band snaps out and wraps around my wrist. Something inside of me crashes. Disappears. Ouch.
What the heck? I don’t have magic, but the jolt of the band hurts me down to my very bones.
“I don’t feel well,” I mumble.
“You’ll get used to it,” he says. His fingers sweep my tangled, dark purple hair away from my face.
He tugs at a strand. “Huh. Not magic. I didn’t expect that.
” The nulling band is making me batty. He didn’t expect what?
Did he expect me to turn into a frog? I hate magic.
Why would I use a potion to change the colour of my hair? Everything is me.
“I can’t breathe,” I whisper. The elf smirks and digs his elbow into my ribs. I groan. Yeah, that helps. What an arsehole. Thinking I have been appropriately cowed, he lets go of my wrists.
With a scowl, I slowly lower my hand, the one without the null band, to rub my ribs.
Inch by torturous inch, I work my hand down until I slip my fingers into my waistband.
With my thumb and forefinger, I pull the potion ball out.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, bring my hand back up, and I aim for the skin on his neck.
He jolts when there is a crash behind us, and the room’s door is unceremoniously kicked in.
“Hey, welcome to the party,” my voice slurs. “Ahh, here comes the cavalry.” I hope.
He grunts, and his weight is yanked off me. There is a slap of a fist meeting skin—I hope it’s his face—and the bed shunts to the side. The sharp movement of the bed whips me sideways and the potion ball flies from my fingertips and rolls off the side of the mattress.
Gah, for fuck’s sake.
I try to move so I can find where the potion has landed.
But I can’t. What the heck? My head swims. Without his weight on me, I should be able to breathe, right?
Yet each breath is getting harder. Like I am breathing through a twisted straw.
It’s too much… It is way too much. Why can’t I bloody breathe? Did the bloody elf break something?
A body thuds to the floor. I hope that’s the bad guy. My thoughts are fuzzy, and I can no longer open my eyes.
Come on, Tuesday, get up… darkness.