Chapter 30
Something was happening to Melodie.
Unable to stand not seeing a moment longer, Theo crouched down as low as he could and peered out of the broken door.
Melodie lay just beyond the white stones, curled up on the ground and unmoving.
He tensed, hunting for Marchant in the darkness, and found him rolling a white stone back into place.
The arch was closed again and he was trapped inside.
Why had Marchant closed it? Did he know Theo was here?
Theo recalled the long moments he’d been exposed to view from Marchant’s house when he’d levered the door open.
Marchant might have seen him and been chuckling to himself this whole time.
“You’re heavy.” Marchant stood over Melodie, shook his head, and hobbled toward the stables, leaving her on her own.
Theo weighed the risks of getting as close to Melodie as he could and asking her what Marchant had done to her, but he wasn’t sure if she was conscious, or how long Marchant would be, so he held.
If Marchant didn’t know he was here, now was not the time to give it away.
He was glad he had stayed put when Marchant came straight back out, pulling a cart behind him.
He maneuvered Melodie onto it, taking very little care with her, and then pulled her toward the workshop.
The spell worker had to stop a number of times to catch his breath, and each time he did, he stood with his hand in Melodie’s bag, touching something inside reverently.
The paint box, if Theo were to guess.
At last they reached the workshop door, and Marchant pulled the cart inside.
Theo collapsed back inside the prison. He rubbed a hand over his face. He had never thought Marchant would keep the barrier closed after everyone was out. He’d been counting on sneaking out.
But Marchant hadn’t once looked in Theo’s direction, and Theo didn’t think he had the self-control to play such a deep game.
So, perhaps they still had some element of surprise, but that did nothing to help Melodie—unconscious, vulnerable, and in the hands of their enemy.
Melodie came backto herself slowly, trying to ignore the annoying tapping on her cheek.
“There you are.” Marchant’s face floated above her. He didn’t look happy.
“I didn’t go anywhere,” she managed to say. She refused to cower to this despicable man. “You hit me with a spelled stick, remember?”
With a jolt she remembered the handkerchief, and slid her left hand down her sleeve.
Nothing.
Her hands clenched. It was gone.
She swallowed the bile of defeat that rose up in her throat and closed her eyes again.
“Looking for this kerchief?” He waved it in front of her face. “Clever to scoop the last of the magic from the box. Not clever to let it drop out.”
She simply shook her head, eyes still closed. Nothing she said could change what had happened.
“Come on. Get up.” He tapped her cheek a bit harder, and she jerked away, eyes squinting as she tried to focus. The light in the room was low, coming from a single sconce near the door.
She noticed the stick, though, leaning against the wall beside them. It no longer glowed, and as she shifted to get more comfortable, she realized she hurt in more places than just her side.
He’d hit her a few times after she’d fallen, it seemed.
He’d used it up.
“You were scared you’d gone too far,” she whispered. “Weren’t you, old man? You’re so out of control, you nearly killed the one thing you’ve hunted for your whole life.”
He drew back from her as if she’d struck him.
“You shouldn’t have used the paints,” he said.
“I didn’t even know who you were when I bought those paints. And I used them to work out what they did.”
“You knew later, though,” he insisted.
“Sure, later, after I spoke with the trader again, I knew he’d stolen them from you. Do you not use things because they’ve been stolen from someone else?” She glared at him from under her half-slitted eyelids.
He breathed out, as if trying to get his temper under control. “I’d been looking for these paints for years. I knew they’d been made, and I tapped every source I knew trying to track them down before someone used them up.”
“They’re not that useful,” she said, with a shrug. She wanted to ask him who had made the paints, and how he knew about them, but she didn’t think he’d answer. “The painted items only last a few minutes.”
“What?” He sounded incredulous. He shook his head. “No, no, no. That’s not what I was told.”
“Try for yourself. You’ll see.” She cautiously stretched out where she lay on the cold, hard floor. She winced at the pain, and tried to work out whether he had her chained to anything or whether she was still just tied up with the rope.
Then she wondered what Theo was doing. Was he out there right now, waiting for them to emerge?
The thought soothed her.
She wasn’t alone here. She had to remember that.
And it seemed she was still tied up in rope, but nothing else.
It was better than the alternative.
“Show me,” Marchant demanded. “Draw something. But don’t use the black.”
She waited for a moment, but when it was clear he wasn’t going to help her, she sat up and used the wall to get her feet beneath her and pushed against it to stand.
“Stop being so dramatic. You’ll recover.” Marchant tugged at the rope, drawing her toward the table.
“You going to untie me so I can use the paints?” she asked.
“No.” He looked bullish.
She wiggled her fingers. “Then you’ll have draw something. Anyone can use it.” She sat on one of the stools he’d set around his work table.
He had laid the box down and had it open.
He turned to her. “Paper?”
“In my bag.” She didn’t want him touching her things, but they were long past what she wanted.
He pulled out a page, turned it over to look at the design she’d sketched on the other side.
“Use the blank side,” she said. “I had to make do with what I could find.”
He grunted in assent, to her relief seemingly uninterested in the pencil sketch and what it might mean. If there was ever a chance she would go back to jewelry making, she didn’t want him knowing anything about it.
He dug around and found the cup and brush, and sat looking down at the blank page. “I can’t draw,” he said.
She said nothing. She wouldn’t help this man in any way.
Eventually he dipped the brush in water and dipped it in the blue. She watched with interest as he tried to paint a bird.
It was not well done, and when he was finished, he set the brush down and stared at the page expectantly. Then looked at her when nothing happened.
“It has to dry first.”
They watched paint dry, and still, nothing happened.
“This is the set, you aren’t lying,” he muttered to himself, touching the wooden box. “It glows bright enough to blind.”
He suddenly grabbed her by the jacket and yanked her closer. “What aren’t you telling me?”
She sneered at him. “Old man, I had less information than you when I got this set, and I worked it out. Try again.”
“I don’t have time for this.” He twisted her shirt at the collar, but his grip wasn’t strong. If he was trying to choke her, he didn’t succeed, other than to drag her so close, she could see the spittle on his lips.
He suddenly shoved her back, stood up, and walked to a table that held an assortment of items. He picked up a black leather pouch and hefted it in his palm, as if it were full of gold.
“I got this beauty at the same time I got the paint set,” he said, lifting it up to show her. “And it came in handy when I was attacked on my way home.”
She wondered if whatever was in the pouch was what Marchant had used against Theo to immobilize him before he turned him into a goat. She found there was room inside her for a little more fear.
“What is it?” she asked. Might as well hear the bad news.
He loosened the strings at the top, dipped his fingers in, and suddenly flicked the contents straight at her.
It felt as if ice coated her face, pushing into her nose, her mouth, sucking away all her air.
She lifted her bound hands to her throat in panic, trying to brush whatever coated her skin away, and then saw lights in front of her eyes as she crashed to the ground.
She fought for breath, trying to suck in some air, and a tiny trickle kept her from blacking out. With a high whistle she managed to drag in some more, and it got easier and easier.
When she could finally breathe normally again, she continued to lie on the ground, eyes closed, just happy that her lungs worked.
“How many times can you use it?” she managed to pant out.
He suddenly went still, and came to stand beside her. “It never runs out.”
She smiled at the lie, which she could hear in his voice.
“Sure it can, old man.” She coughed a little. “Just like the things you draw with the paint set last forever.”
“Tell me where the curse is.” Suddenly Marchant was crouched beside her. “Four months ago, someone sold me things that looked steeped in magic, but they faded so fast. And since I handled them, I’ve been ill. I think there was a spell on one of them to kill me off so I couldn’t come looking for him, to deal in the usual way with people who cheat me.”
“When did you work that out?” she asked, coughing again.
“A few days after I got home. I started to feel sick and then I saw the things I bought were almost completely faded.” The whites of his eyes did look yellow, now that she was this close to them. “Tell me where the spell is, little girl.”
“You want me to help you, yet you hit me, you take away my air. I’m doing nothing for you, old man.” She pushed up to sitting. “Can’t you see it yourself, anyway?”
His mouth thinned. “No. That’s clearly part of the spell. I don’t know how he did it.” He brandished the now-closed pouch in front of her face. “I don’t care if I use this up, I’ll take your breath as often as I have to to get your cooperation. Now, where is the spell?”
She hesitated. She really didn’t want to go through being suffocated again. But she wouldn’t admit there was no spell on him. “You have to draw things that have a realistic chance of being found in the world,” she said. “Not like that poor excuse for a bird you painted. Rope or string works well.”
He sat back on his heels, wanting to argue about her decision to talk about the paint set, but also very much wanting to use the paint set.
He leaned on the wall to help him stand, which told her his injuries were still bothering him, and then he went over to the table, opened the box again and drew a squiggly line on the page.
By the time Melodie had gotten to her feet and walked over, it had dried.
Marchant exclaimed in delight when a piece of green string appeared.
“Start counting,” she said.
He did, slower than she would have, and then lifted the page when it disappeared as if to check it wasn’t hiding below.
“I was lied to.” He tapped his fingers against the table. “You draw something.”
She wiggled her fingers at him again, and he stood, indicated she sit in the chair, and once she had, he loosened one of the rope loops so she could slide her right hand free.
She pulled the paper toward her, and something made her draw a knife. Something hot, and dark, and vengeful.
Theo was probably out there, waiting to pounce as soon as the door was unlocked and opened, but just in case, she would deal with Marchant now.
Maybe it was because she used blue and yellow as the colors that he didn’t realize the significance, but as soon as the knife appeared on the page she snatched it up, twisted in her seat, and stabbed him.
He screamed and threw the pouch at her.
She had already braced herself for him using it, mentally preparing herself not to panic at the lack of air, knowing if she took it slow, she would be breathing again.
But it felt like it took longer—whether it did or not, she couldn’t say. She fell from the chair, clutching her throat again, and this time, the world went dark for a bit.
When she came back to herself Marchant was busy retying her hand through the loop.
“You will pay, you will pay.” He was muttering it under his breath to himself, almost rocking back and forth.
She kept herself lax, and even when he shook her shoulder with a bloody hand, she pretended to be unconscious, until he slapped her, hard.
She groaned and looked up at him, saw he was holding a hand to his stomach, and blood was oozing from the wound.
“You do that again, I’ll kill you. Doesn’t matter how long I’ve been looking for someone like you. It isn’t worth it if this is how you’re going to behave.”
She took a careful, full breath of air, and pushed away from him. “You’re saying you wouldn’t try to do everything you could to escape if someone took you? Someone who behaved the way you behave?”
He seemed utterly confounded by her question.
Self-awareness was not Marchant’s strong suit.
“I need to heal up.” He backed away, his face showing the strain, but instead of moving to the door, he went to the table and upended her bag. She got herself up to a seated position, and watched him paw through her things. “Let’s see what you’ve got for me in here, and then I’ll lock you down for the night.”
He sorted her spare clothes to the side, and then lifted up first the remedies book and then the brooch. “This is it?”
“This is just what I found in the last few days of my hunt for you.” She kept her tone derisory. “You think I haul valuable magical items around me while I’m on a mission?”
He grunted. “The book should fetch something. The brooch?” He flicked it away, and it skittered across the table and fell off it. “Useless.”
“Maybe, but I always take everything I find. Sometimes things have a way of surprising you.”
He slanted her a look. “Very seldom.”
She shrugged. She hoped Theo had a nice surprise for him when they got out.
He pushed his chair back, and caught her watching him.
“What do you see?” he asked. “Where is the spell?”
She shrugged. “Why would I tell you?”
He gritted his teeth. “Because if I leave you in the prison, and whatever is eating me up gets its way, you’ll be stuck there, with no one to feed you or get you out.”
“And if I tell you, I give up my one advantage,” she said. Might as well spin this out as long as possible. “And I’m the one with time, old man. Not you.”
He stood, swaying a little. If his skin hadn’t looked gray before she’d stabbed him, it definitely looked gray now. “We’ll see what you say when you’re starving and thirsty. I have some time, and despite your best efforts, I’m not going to keel over tonight.” He sent her a nasty smile. “And if that doesn’t convince you . . .” He put a hand on the table as if to steady himself, and then snatched up the pouch. “There’s always this. Try anything while I walk you back to the prison and I’ll put you down on the ground again.”
She gave a tight nod and he grabbed the rope and pulled her to the door.
He stepped out, pulling her behind him, and as soon as she was out of the workshop she wondered where Theo was. He would have attacked by now if he could.
Her gaze went straight to the prison, and she suddenly noticed that the stones of the magical barrier were back in place. He hadn’t left the gap open.
He must have done it while she was down on the ground after he hit her with the stick. Which meant Theo hadn’t been able to get out.
She was suddenly short of breath again.
“Why did you close the stones again?” she asked, suddenly worried he’d done it because he knew Theo was in there.
He turned to smile at her. “As long as I keep them in their box or in line, they’ll never lose power.”
“So the barrier lost some power when you opened it to let the others go?” she asked.
He gave a laugh. “Sorry to dash your hopes, but no. I moved the last stone in the arch to let them out, so I break the arch and then reset it when I put it back, with minimal power loss. The stones keep up a strong barrier as long as they’re in alignment. I’ve had them for years. They’ve kept many, many prisoners in. So think about that.” He brought her round to the side of the building, and moved the stone with his shoe.
He waggled the pouch at her as he backed up, and she obediently stepped through. He rolled the stone back in place and sent her a nasty smile.
“You hurt me, and I’m going to take as long as I need to heal. Which means don’t count on food or water any time soon.” He turned and walked slowly back to his house.
She thought about reminding him that an army was on its way to him, that he didn’t have time to lie around and heal, but decided to keep quiet. He seemed to ignore whatever it was he didn’t like to hear.
Maybe he thought the others would become ensnared in one of his traps, or that either Gus or one of the town guards would stop them.
Or he was so far into his own reality, he simply refused to consider that his time might be coming to an end.
She turned and made for the prison door, pushing it open.
Hands grabbed her gently and pulled her in.
Arms came around her in the pitch darkness of the cell. “Are you all right?”
She buried her face in his chest, suddenly shaking. “I am now.”