There’s a rustling in the brush, and Aemon swings the gun around, aiming for it. “I’ll find you.” Then he shouts, “Go!.Now!” and fires.
And I run.
I run as fast as I can, trees and bushes whizzing by in my periphery. My heart crashes against my ribcage, and my throat and eyes are frozen from the biting cold. More gunshots.
I’m not looking back. I’m not looking back.
I look back.
Aemon is surrounded by at least ten people, wrapped head to toe in black. Even the lower half of their faces are covered, leaving only their eyes visible—their pink eyes. My mouth goes dry. What are they? I turn my attention back to the woods in front of me, narrowly avoiding running face-first into a huge pine. They’re going to kill him. I could help him if I knew how I’d gotten the magic to work before, but I can’t. My lungs burn and my legs ache. I’m breathing so hard, I can’t hear what’s happening behind me anymore. I move to dodge a mess of brambles littering the forest floor, but my dress gets caught.
Dammit. I tug at my skirt, trying to dislodge the thorns or tear the skirt—whatever will get me free. Finally, the fabric rips, taking the entire lower half of my dress and a chunk of my petticoat, but I’m too terrified to care about my modesty at the moment. I start to run again when a dark figure steps into my path. I pivot left and double my efforts. Remembering the gun, I twist around to aim at the figure, but it’s gone. My boot snags on something and I crash to the ground, the gun flying from my hands.
Fuck.
I lunge for the pistol, but another dark figure steps between me and the gun, blocking me. I scuttle away on my backside then shove to my feet and dart the other way, narrowly avoiding another shadowy figure that seemingly came out of nowhere. More bodies appear in front of me, cutting off my escape. I whirl around togo back the other way, but there are even more behind me and to my right and left. Sliding to a stop, I spin around again and again, but I’m surrounded by the same black-clad figures I saw around Aemon. They’re closing in and there’s nothing I can do, no escape.
“Stop,” I scream, but the magic doesn’t come. I shout and beg, tears blurring my vision and turning the figures into dark smears. Ignoring my pleas, they continue to close ranks around me. I fall to my knees in defeat. “Please.”
Then the world goes black.
26
Everything hurts—my head, face, stomach, even my big toe. I feel like a thoroughly tenderized piece of beef, but I’m alive.
I think.
Katya.
I spring up, then curse myself for moving too quickly when my head starts pounding and my stomach roils. I hold still and breathe until the nausea passes. Once I’m fairly certain I won’t throw up, I open one eye, and when that doesn’t result in knife-like pain shooting through my skull, I open the other. Katya’s laid out on the floor in front of me. I might have thought she was asleep if it weren’t for the blood dampening the hair above her temple. Glancing around, I realize we’re in some sort of cell. The walls and floor are stone, but smooth as though the space had been cut out of the rock. On one end, iron bars look out into another cell—that one empty—carved out of the same stone. We’ve obviously beentaken prisoner, but my head is too fuzzy to recall exactly who it was that attacked us.
Fighting the dizziness that accompanies every damn move I make, I crawl to her, careful to avoid the bits of gravel littering the stone floor. My knees are one of the few parts of my body that don’t hurt right now, and I’d like to keep it that way. Katya’s forearm and wrist are swollen and the spot on her head is definitely blood, but she appears unscathed otherwise.
“Katya,” I whisper, shaking her gently.
Her eyes flutter open. “Aemon?”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. “Hey there, witchling. You’re looking rough.”
She starts to sit up, then yelps when she tries to use her injured hand.
“Shh.” I slip my arm under her shoulders and help her the rest of the way. “I’ve got you.” She scoots back to lean against the wall, cradling her arm to her chest.
She has that sleepy, glassy-eyed look of someone just waking up, but I suspect her dazed expression has more to do with that hit she took.
“You alright?” I ask.
She swallows hard. “I think so. Where are we?” she asks, her head rolling against the stone as she takes in our surroundings.
“I was hoping you could help me with that. Do you remember what the people who attacked us looked like?”
“They were—” She reaches up to touch her temple and winces. Her fingers come away coated in blood, and she winces again, then rubs them clean on her skirt. “They wore black—all over—I couldn’t see their faces.”
Fuck. That does not sound good. “Did you see their eyes? What color were they?”
She straightens and blinks a few times, like she’s trying to clear her head. “They were… pink?” She says it as though it’s a question, which is understandable because pink eyes are definitely not the norm. At least not where we come from.
“Fuck.” I drop my head back against the wall. “Are you sure?”
