14. Leah #3
I throw my magic toward it, trying to lasso the knife into her open hand with a shadow.
My power fizzles out like a wet match.
Damn it. This isn’t like the night in the sacrificial chamber, where the whole room swelled with demonic energy.
There’s no Cyrax chants or bloody runes here.
I should’ve realized I can’t raise shadows in someone else’s body, not without something from the demon realm to channel the magic through.
Without the knife itself in my hand, there’s nothing to help my power manifest outside of her.
The thugs must think they’ve knocked her out, because they’re currently busy trying to revive their dead friend.
They’re wrong, thank the gods. She’s still conscious, which means I haven’t been thrown out of her head.
But her mind is a whirl of pain-filled, confused thoughts, her usual sharp wits shaken loose by the punch: “…have to get him out of my head…this ground is so cold…get up, Leah, get up…don’t let him kill… not again…GET UP…”
As her muscles twitch, I help her drag them into action, pulling on her arms and legs like a broken marionette. She crawls across the alley toward the knife, palms scraping against the rough ground.
“Hey! She’s awake!”
She gasps as her hand connects with the rune-etched handle and I close her fist around it.
But even armed, she can’t fight her way out of this. Not with this weak, human body. If she’s disarmed again, my magic won’t be able to save her—she’ll be dead.
“Run,” I command, even as I pulse through her arteries, propelling her muscles into action. She climbs to her feet and bursts into a sprint. I ignore the pain searing through her as I drive her forward, legs pumping back and forth, racing along the street.
I pull her around the warehouse corner, heading in the direction of the river.
“They’re behind me,” she says, gasping it even in her mind.
I’m relieved to hear her coherent again, but I already know the thugs are after her.
I can hear their boots pounding in her ears over the noise of her ragged breath.
She’s slowed down by her injuries, blood darkening the side of her tunic. She won’t be able to outrun them.
She needs to hide.
We’re retracing our route from earlier, along the riverbank, and I search for a broken pier on the mudflats, its posts exposed by the retreating tide.
It’s there, beyond the bridge ahead of us, nestled up against a crumbling stone wall which I know will have a fish’s head carved into it.
The etching is faint, almost completely worn away, but I still spotted it earlier, mapping it onto my memories.
She only has a few seconds where she’s out of their eyeline, obscured by the bridge; that’s when I move. I guide her sprinting legs down toward the riverbank.
“What are you—”
“Trust me.”
Onto the pier and over the side of it, creeping beneath the splintered wood to the section of wall half buried in mud.
There it is—a small stone arch about four feet high, invisible from the riverbank.
I bend her back and shove her through it, pushing her up against the rusted grate inside so she’s completely tucked away.
Then we wait, and I lurk in her ears, listening for some sign that the thugs might have sniffed her out.
After a few minutes, her thundering heartbeat begins to calm, and her breathing slows down.
I listen to the long inhales and steady exhales, getting lost in the rhythm of them.
It’s the loudest sound in the enclosed space, and I suddenly feel as if I were truly there, feeling her sigh across my cheek, her fingers brushing against mine instead of only pressing into the cold stone beside her.
“What is this place?” she asks eventually, staring around at the stone.
“A disused storm drain,” I reply. It looks like the river doesn’t get very high at this point anymore.
“How did you know this was here?” she presses. “I thought you never came to Strata.”
I have a strange, reckless impulse to tell her all of it—why I answered the sorcerers’ summons, why she’s so essential to me, even why her people call the river what they do, because they’ve surely forgotten the real reason. I get a grip on myself.
“I haven’t been here for a long time,” I admit. “But it appears some things haven’t changed.”
“How long?” she asks, but I ignore her. I won’t risk baring more of myself to her today. Especially not after the stupid mistakes I’ve made. Instead, I creep back into her ears and listen out for any noise above us.
“I think the coast is clear. Return to the workshop now, before they decide to double back.”
“Really?” she huffs, clasping her bleeding side. Her blood is warm beneath her fingertips. “Can’t we just find the nearest door and open a rift there?”
I’ve memorized the runes we need, and the knife helps too, but it will always be a more stable rift going back the way we came.
Back in Malice, I close my eyes and sigh.
Maintaining the possession this long is intense, and now the danger is gone, I feel my anger rising again—at her for not listening to me and leaving when I told her to, but mostly at myself.
I should’ve anticipated her physical limitations.
I should’ve seen how vulnerable she is. It can be easy to forget, when the inside of her mind is just the opposite—resilient and strong.
Of course, I could just march her back to the workshop no matter how much she complains—but I’ve done enough damage with my stubbornness today. Frustration still curls within me, but I try to soften my voice in her mind.
“We could,” I say lightly. “But you’re less likely to vomit if we use the spot in the workshop.”
She climbs to her feet as fast as her wounds will allow. “Well, why didn’t you say sooner?”