Chapter 1
Convicts OF QUO REFORMARE
Book One: Break In The Girl
AURORA
CHAPTER ONE
Motherfuckers.
Mother, mother, mother.
Fuckers.
This is a fucked up situation. The only thing that calms me is the memory of sliding a steak knife into Thomas Crankshawe’s gut.
Disgusting creep.
The fact I didn’t kill him is a two-edged, bloody sword.
Edge one: I won’t be imprisoned for life, just until I’m eighteen, in fifty-six weeks
Flip side: He still vows to marry me, very much against my fucking will, once I’m a legal adult.
Mother, obviously, doesn’t care and won’t lift a finger to help me out of the Godsawful mess. Nope.
And Father is basically the reason I’m here. He sold me to Crankshawe in the first place.
So my only vague hope is that my brother, Cosmo, can do something.
If he’s not too busy with his new, awful fiancee.
Fuck. I’m still wearing the stupid, babyish white dress I’d been forced into for his engagement party last night. Though now it’s covered in blood—and oil stains from the shackles around my wrists.
Cosmo is alright, I guess, as brothers go, but I don’t know him very well. He’s always been away at school or college while I’m locked up at home with tutors and round-the-clock surveillance.
I guess that has conditioned me somewhat for my new home; Quo Reformare Correctional Facility.
Quo is a dumping ground for unwanted young people, aged sixteen to twenty-one. Most screw-ups of my age and class don’t get sent to Quo, oh no. Daddy can write a check to the right judge and you get ‘rehabilitation’ at a spa in the mountains.
You only get sent to this hellhole if your parents really want you gone—like, if you're a stain on the family name and they’re tired of trying to bleach out.
Or if you stab your finance-to-be.
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 sweat and exhaust fumes, and I’m bolted to the bench like an animal off to the slaughter house.
At least they’ve turned the interior lights off now, so it’s too dark for the guards to leer at me.
Fucking creeps got all gropey earlier, and there was nothing I could do about it other than spit and curse.
Pathetic, Aurora.
“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 Wallace. He doesn't have the effortless, predatory glow of an Elite; so I’m guessing he’s an Ordinarii.
Mediocre Magical, like the majority of witches.
Definitely too arrogant to be a basic, though—those weak witches with barely enough power to light a candle would know better than to open their mouths in this situation.
And Elites, like me, are bred to just expect service.
It hadn’t even occurred to me to ask for a drink.
Surely there would be someone who’d just supply it?
Guess not.
Yep, I’m definitely not in my ivory tower any longer.
And though this Julian guy is trying his best to play it cool, the damp patches of panicked sweat soaking through the striped button-down tell a different story. We are both fucking panicking, and both trying to act like we’re not.
I wonder what he did to get himself a spot in Quo.
“I said, I want some water,” he repeats, raising his voice. “Hydration is a basic right.”
Somehow, 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, proving me right. “Think any of us give a shit about your rights? Grow up and shut up, little boy.”
Called it.
I’m sure Julian knows exactly who I am. It’s not surprising. News of a disgraced Drakeward undoubtedly hit the newsstreams within minutes of my ‘incident’.
The transport continues to barrel along the dark roads that head north. I stare out of the window and try not to think about what’s to come. Out there are families probably sitting down to eat dinner together, I think that’s something normal families do.
I’ve only had dinner with my parents when I’ve been wheeled out to dance or play piano when they’ve been entertaining.
Huh, I guess that’s not true, because I’d never been invited to ever actually eat at the table with them, just entertain the guests then head back to my quarters for an undressed salad, the tantalizing scent of rich gravies and roasted meats making my stomach twist.
Are there families out there eating roast meats? It’s something I spend a lot of time fantasizing about; food. Mother and Father have never allowed me anything remotely tasty, it’s just steamed fish and vegetables twice a day.
The road gets darker and now no lights show in the distance. If I’d paid more attention to my tutors, maybe I’d know the geography of Havengard, but as it is, I’ve no idea where we are.
But, sadly, I know where we’re heading.
I prod at my split lip with my tongue. Motherfucker that hurts. Fucking Crankshawe got me good. Maybe he’ll change his mind about making me his wife now he’s seen how disagreeable I can be.
Please Gods.
“Peacekeeper station coming,” the fat guard called Tony grunts.
Tony.
I’d very much like to stab him in the guts too, though I’d need a blade longer than a steak knife. The creepy bastard took the opportunity to squeeze my boobs while shackling me.
Actually, maybe instead of a gut stab, I could cut his dick off, then make him eat it, slice by slice. The only problem with that plan is the fact I’d actually have to touch his revolting…thing. Ugh.
“I need a rest stop,” Julian calls out. Idiot. He really doesn’t read the room.
As predicted, the guards ignore him.
OK, I can’t put it off any longer. Back to the work of trying to twist my wrists through these bastard cuffs.
Fat Tony told me they were carbon-steel, I guess that means they’re strong and unbreakable, but we’ll see.
If I had my magic I’d be OK, but the dicks injected me with something and it’s extinguished my fucking spark.
The feeling is awful. My sixth sense is completely gone. 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 felt like they were on the verge of snapping, trying to find that one impossible angle that would let the cuffs slide over my knuckles. The metal cuffs rub my skin raw and I can feel the wet slickness of blood beginning to coat my palms.
Keep going. 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 bird bones will come to my aid.
Tug, squeeze, scrape. Ow, fucking, ow.
Then 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.
A few floodlights come on, then the door of a one-story building flies open. First out are a couple of peacekeepers, looking like idiots in their black helmets and BDSM straps. Whoever designed their uniform either had a sense of irony, or no sense at all.
Next, two more guards, 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.
I watch through the reinforced windows as he’s hauled across the hardtop towards us. His bare feet drag behind him, making me think he’s unconscious.
I rub my own cold, bare feet together, trying to get my circulation working.
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.
Once more I contort my palm, really fucking trying as hard as I can.
Godsdammit. It’s no good, I have to give up.
But not completely. Think, Aurora, what else is there?
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 some 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 just move a little?
No, it was just my slippy blood making it seem so. Fuck it. I’m about to go on with the unbolting-effort when shouting outside makes me pause.
Huh. The orange-jumpsuit-guy must have been faking unconsciousness, because now he’s upright, yelling like a banshee, and slamming his head back and forth, taking down one guard, then the other.
Even though I should be working on my own escape, I’m mesmerized. He moves like a dancer. Like me.
“Fucking taze him!” Piggy Tony shouts, his face purple.
In the blink of an eye, Jumpsuit-man rams the guard in the gut, using his own skull as the weapon.
The action makes the bag over his head fall off, and for a moment, all I see is a waterfall of long, matted hair as he crouches over Tony, teeth bared.
It’s all very impressive—and inspiring. Still watching the action, I work again on getting the bench bolt loosened.
A high-pitched scream echoes through the night, making me pause again. The convict looks up and I see his face—sharp, beautiful, and absolutely feral—and with Tony’s bloody ear between his teeth. What the!
Orange-jumpsuit executes some kind of capoeira move, circling, spinning, and kicking, and somehow manages to dodge the stun guns and heavy batons. Over the shouting and screaming, I think I hear laughter. The lunatic is enjoying himself!
He executes a forward roll, and bites down on a metal chain around another guard’s neck. He yanks hard, coming up with a set of keys and an ID badge in his mouth.
Fuck.
Amazing.
“Just shoot the fucker!” the driver screams.
The bearded guard stumbles forward drawing a gun. Time slows as the barrel is leveled at the jumpsuit-guy’s back.
Fuck. I scream, beating my bloody hands on the window. “BEHIND YOU! GUN!”
He hears me, thank fuck, and lurches to one side, the bullet missing him by millimeters.
Yes!
Now he has the keys and the opening. “RUN!” I yell again.
But he doesn't run.
Instead, he stops, twisting around to look at the bus.
At me.
Two glowing green eyes meet mine…and then he winks at me.
What is he doing? The idiot 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 says, his voice trembling a little. “He had the keys and then just gave up. It looked like he was smiling at you. Do you know that madman?”
“Of course not.”
The guards drag the recaptured fighter into the van and decide to add leg irons and a heavy choke-chain to his unconscious body.
I twist around to stare at the new inmate.
He’s slumped over, his chest heaving under the stained orange fabric, long hair matted with blood, parking lot grit and. .. is that Tony's ear?
The driver slams the door, and the engine roars to life.
“Elites and Ordinarii should not be transported with desperate humans,” Julian hisses. “I’m going to talk to the Guild about this.”
“You do that,” I mutter under my breath.
My only contact with the world outside my father’s mansion has for the most part been limited to a few newspapers and magazines I was allowed to read, to ‘keep up with current events’.
There was a feature about Quo Reformare a few months ago.
It mentioned the gang culture there. Basically there are two rival groups, The Guild, which is made up of witches who actually have an ignited spark and are used to having the privileges that come with that, and then there are the Diggers.
Diggers.
Short for Gravediggers. That’s where the ‘dregs’ get thrown—the purely humans and the low-spark duds who couldn't light a match with their minds if their lives depended on it.
Prisoners pledge to one or the other, kind of like fucked up sororities for the incarcerated.
I guess I’d rather keep out of both, but if I’ve no choice, I’ll go with The Guild. My name might cut me a few breaks, even if I’ll still have to put up with Julian and dozens more like him.
Ideally though, I’ll just get the fuck out of here right now and not end up at Quo at all.
But that appears to be impossible. If the maniac-whirlwind behind me couldn’t break out of this transport, I’ve got no hope.
My future really is going to be inside the walls of Quo Reformare.
Fuck.
My.
Life.