Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They leave me with all of that.
Right.
Okay.
My family—no, my relatives—have been killing their own children for generations. The unwanted ones. The sacrifices.
It is a vast amount to unpack, and I shall have to do it later. Right now, I need to escape this basement.
I wait for the boxer and his colleagues to return.
They do not.
I sit in the silence, listening to the faint hum of the wards. Are they guarding the door from outside? Have they gone back to whatever goons do between assignments?
Either way, I am alone.
I take stock.
My mother said my magic is exceptionally strong.
Let us find out.
The cuffs suppress magic, which ought to be a problem, but ‘ought’ is working rather hard. I should have died years ago, yet here I sit.
I shift in the chair and test the metal around my wrists. It gives a little. I lean forwards and jam my hands against the chair back until the left cuff lifts away from my skin.
There.
The suppression spell runs in a circuit through both cuffs. The instant the metal loses contact with my skin, the circuit stutters.
It is not my imagination.
I can feel more of my magic.
I focus on the sigils scattered across my body. One of them must be useful. I should have examined them more carefully from the beginning.
My second finger. Right hand.
I am almost certain it bears a key-shaped sigil.
A small, slightly hysterical laugh escapes me.
Who would have thought I would be laughing in this situation? There is a key on my blasted finger.
I am sure of it.
I reach for the sigil, and the magic responds sluggishly, like something waking from a drugged sleep. Guided by hope and imagination, I pour power into that finger.
I do not need a weapon.
Not a shield.
Simply a key.
I tell the sigil what I need and push.
Key. Key. Key.
Pain blooms behind my eyes. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and dizziness creeps through me. I am almost grateful to be secured to the chair; otherwise, I would be on the floor.
The sigil throbs and itches, then thickens, growing heavy against the bone. A faint metallic scrape sounds as it presses against the inside of the cuff.
The suppression spell fights back.
I push harder.
Unlock. Unlock. Unlock.
Pressure builds behind my forehead. I press my finger against the bracelet, work it around the mechanism and feel the faintest give—
Click.
The cuff falls into my palm.
I catch it before it can rattle against the chair.
The door opens.
Three guards enter: the boxer first, with two reluctant colleagues behind him.
I keep my hands still, the loose cuff hidden against my palm, and begin working on the second bracelet while he speaks.
He leans close and drops his voice so the others can’t hear. “You choked me out,” he says.
“I did.”
“Do you know what it looks like when the Fade takes someone quickly?” His smile stretches thin. “Thirty seconds. Skin like paper. Teeth falling out. Drowning in your own blood.”
Gone is the professional veneer.
This is the real man beneath it, and he is delighted.
His colleagues shuffle uncomfortably behind him.
“I can’t wait to watch you die like that.”
“Fascinating,” I reply.
“Deborah is coming to watch.”
Deborah?
Ah. Blondie.
“She can’t wait. Not after you punched her.”
“I didn’t punch her,” I say pleasantly. “You did. Knocked her unconscious.”
“You made me.”
“I did, yes.”
“You broke her nose and her wrist.” He draws back his fist.
One of his colleagues mutters, “Don’t,” but neither moves to stop him.
Click.
The second cuff releases.
“Enough of that,” I say. I wrench my hands forwards, my shoulders screaming, and hurl the cuffs into his face. As he recoils, I pivot and put everything I have into a boot to his chest—including, on pure instinct, the magic.
It goes through him like a wall coming down.
Shock widens his eyes.
He crashes onto his back and slides.
Timber.
The next guard takes a head-high kick the same way and hits the wall hard enough to mark the plaster.
The last charges me. I meet him halfway, plant my palm across his face and ride him down to the concrete.
My sleep mark presses against his skin.
He slumps beneath me.
I scramble up and tap the mark against the other fallen guard. Only the boxer remains conscious and dazed.
I crouch beside him, still catching my breath. “You’re not very good at this,” I tell him. “A mere hunter has beaten you twice. If I were you, I’d consider a change of career.” I press the sleep mark against his skin.
Then he, too, is asleep.
I chain the boxer and one accomplice to the chair with the restraints looped tightly through the metal frame. I roll the third guard onto his side so he will not choke if he vomits.
Head wounds are unforgiving, and I am not entirely without conscience.
I have to leave. I cross to the heavy door and press my palm against the ward. Soundproofing. Protection. Layers of old, expensive magic. The ward tastes my blood and settles beneath my hand.
Whatever my parents think of me, the house still recognises a Morris.
I try the handle.
It opens.
I brace myself, listening for footsteps.
Nothing.
I look left, then right.
The corridor is empty.
Interesting.
The invisibility sigil flares across my skin. I know I have vanished when a headache blooms at the base of my skull. Forcing magic through the cuffs’ suppression field has drained me more than I expected. I am relearning how to wield my power, but the consequences remain unpleasant.
My mother was right about one thing: the strength of my magic is, by all accounts, unprecedented.
I move quickly towards the stairs. Cameras line the walls. Their tiny lights glow in the dim corridor, and I can’t disable them. Even if they record something anomalous, what are they going to do about it?
I simply need to be gone before anyone checks the feed.
I keep moving.
Up the stairs.
Through the utility entrance.
Outside.
Cold air strikes my face.
Freedom.
Behind me, a door slams. Footsteps follow, then the distant murmur of several voices, all of it moving away towards the front of the house. Something has drawn every pair of boots in this building to the other end of it.
They do not expect the sacrifice, restrained by suppression cuffs and guarded by three men, to escape a bloodline-warded house.
Neither of my parents mentioned that I can see the runes. Only the trouble I caused. The destabilisation.
They do not know what I am.
The front gates are locked, and the walls are warded. Like the basement door, they should recognise me and allow me through.
I am weighing my options when the sigil over my sternum pulses once, unexpectedly warm.
I press a hand against it.
Then the gates swing open.
A car turns in.