I left his office without acknowledging the rest. It made no difference. I was going to find Leland with or without Jaxan’s command.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
EMBER
Dark Witches cannot be Siphoned and are difficult to imprison, complicating the means by which we are able to punish them.
— Jaxan D’Oron, Echelon to the
School of Dark Magic
Highgrave Avenue, the street the portstop spit me out on, was cold, gloomy, and rain-drenched. I dodged puddle after puddle, but the wet and cold seeped through my shoes anyway. Streetlamps flickered as a howling wind blew through the overhanging tree cover. Branches rattled, casting eerie, lurching shadows over the street. Who knew how many more shadows lurked behind windows?
Gnarlton was all Gothic architecture, made up of stories upon stories of tall, pointy cast-iron structures, the antithesis of welcoming, the atmosphere oppressive. Monochrome. Sharpened spires. And — there were children here. Groups of them. A child waving a wooden stick in the air like a tiny ringmaster. Others splashing in puddles, stomping their muddy tracks across the concrete, giggling, free, and happy. So out of place, given the city’s general appearance of winter’s starvation.
Withered trees leaned ominously. Long, bare branches lurched in the gray gloom. Frail branches, yet somehow they were sturdy enough to support an occupation of crows. Loitering black bodies perched on thin branch strips. A murder, a group of crows was called. I tried not to read into it as I turned east, away from the portstop and toward the catacombs.
I didn’t recognize any of the several sets of footsteps in the background, but I knew it in my bones. I was being followed. Sounds jabbed, the hairs on the back of my neck raising at the multiple low, male voices, whispering in the background. I sped up. So did they. I crossed the street, splashing through mud to get to the uneven sidewalk. They splashed through the same section of street, crossing after me.
My focus had been on getting to the catacombs, but I hadn’t really considered the logistics of being in Gnarlton now that I was living in Creatus, staying at the Creation Academy, aligned with a school of light magic. Dark Witches wouldn’t want a wannabe light witch here, wandering through their safe haven. My shoulders were tight as I fixed my gaze straight ahead. My one hope was that, maybe, these weren’t the type of Dark Witches who went into the catacombs, and possibly I could lose them there.
“Grab her,” their leader ordered.
He circled around to my front, and the first thing I noticed was his eyes, flickering with vengeance. I thought he was in his mid-twenties, but the lower half of his face was covered by a black neck gaiter, so it was hard to tell.
And while his covered-up appearancewasthreatening, I couldn’t feel fear through my rage. He was standing between me and Leland, and was currently in the way of me finding out why Leland’s bloodied footprints had been identified in the catacombs. Where Leland was — it was the only threat I was capable of processing until I found him.
From behind, someone apprehended me.
“Let me go,” I said firmly, trying to jostle out of their grip. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just looking for the Truth-Teller.”
“That’s funny,” said the leader. “We also happen to be looking for the prince. As it happens” — rough hands on my hips jerked me back — “it’s why we’ll be taking you.”
I knew then that I had to attempt to get free and run. I jabbed my elbows backward, but I was outnumbered. I let out a yelp as I was wrenched painfully backward.
“Go ahead and scream. Something tells me it won’t be long before your prince appears to collect you.”
They hoisted me off my feet, and in the next instant, the rainy streets disappeared in a spiral of swirling shadows, chaotic Shadowcurrents coming at me from every angle.
By the end of the dark journey, I was limp and weakened. And when the tumbling smoke of shadows at last cleared, I crashed to my knees in a dark and narrow corridor, where only a thin shaft of light flickered from a long distance away. My lungs gasped out for air.
I scanned the long path to the exit as my satchel was torn from me, then they tossed me into a hard chair. I kicked and twisted, but a Dark Witch bore down on me and drilled his hands forcefully into my shoulders, restraining me from twisting out of the chair.
Was this the catacombs? I didn’t feel Leland here.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“Catacombs,” he said. “That’s why no one’s coming to help.”
“Who are you?” I asked. “Why do you want the Truth-Teller?”
“Rye Cackrin.” He retrieved a figure eight of rope from a shadowy crevice with his gloved hands. The fingerless kind, the worn knit cut off below the top knuckle to expose the tips of his brutal fingers. “We lost him around four this morning. But don’t worry, half witch. Your prince will return as soon as he hearsfrom his spies all about how we’re torturing you. Not that we’ll stop.” He chuckled darkly, sending his Shadowcurrent rushing into my mouth to make me gag. “Your pretty little tongue will be the last thing we take. So there’ll be plenty of time for you to say goodbye, while he watches me get even with him.”
I jerked my face away from the Shadowcurrent. “What does that mean?”
“Means dead,” someone said, and the coven erupted in heartless laughter.
